Chap 31
In the last chapter, Frank was ordered to meet with the CIA.
Joe saved Tony's pizzeria from foreclosure by selling Iola's diamond engagement ring.
FRANK - THE CIA OFFICE
I am tired of waiting.
The CIA has spent the last 74 minutes watching me. I am "alone" except for the camera in the corner. My face is a mask of false calm.
It looks like a normal conference room, but looks are deceiving. I sit in a chair built to be uncomfortable, that makes my muscles ache. I have a headache from the ceiling lights built to shine in my eyes. The CIA wants me mentally and physically exhausted before we meet.
Bad move. I have been physically and mentally exhausted since Shark kidnapped us . . . since I painted a target on Joe's back. Exhaustion has become a way of life for me. Now I am exhausted and furious.
I keep imagining Shark kidnapping Joe, while I am stuck here playing mind games with the CIA.
If they want to play games, I will play games.
I walk to the head of the conference table and sit down. The chair is comfortable and the lights don't shine in my eyes.
I pull out a computer keyboard under the table and type. A loud bump comes from behind the wall.
Sloppy. Sounds like whoever is watching me just panicked.
Let the games begin.
JOE - THE BANK
I'm tired of waiting.
Ever since we saved the pizzeria, Tony has sat in a chair with his eyes closed. It's only been ten minutes, but in "Joe" time it feels like two hours.
"Prito, you ok?"
"Sorry."
"You're sorry we saved the pizzeria?"
"No."
"Prito, back up. You're making my brain hurt. What's going on?"
"Remember last year, when you helped me build a deck on my house?"
"Yeah. Frank keeps reminding me how you sold your house to save for your retirement."
"I lied. Ever since I bought the pizzeria from my parents, it's been in the red. The first months, I just needed a few hundred dollars to keep the lights on. I pawned some stuff. Figured I'd buy it back in a few months. But things kept getting worse. I sold my plasma.
"At first, I just needed a few hundred dollars for the pizzeria. I pawned some stuff. Figured I would buy it back in a couple months. But things kept getting worse. I sold my plasma, sold my car and then I had to sell my house. "
"Prito, I'm sorry."
"Joe, you didn't do anything wrong."
"Yeah, I did. You went through hell and I didn't notice. Where are you living now?"
"Over the pizzeria."
"So we'll fix up your apartment."
"I don't have an apartment. I sleep on an air mattress in a bare room."
FRANK - CIA OFFICE
Four men and two women walk into the room. They wear dark suits with white shirts. Six agents is meant to intimidate me. It doesn't.
"Have a seat," I say and continue to type.
"Your chair is over there," a gray-haired man says and points to the uncomfortable chair where I first sat
I ignore him and study the agents. I peg the gray-haired man as the one in charge, until I look closer. He wears a black suit that has seen better days. His black shoes are scuffed. Definitely a field agent.
The agents stand together, but there is extra space around a red-haired woman. Her black suit looks professionally tailored. Her haircut looks expensive. This is the agent in charge.
"Bring me up to speed, Ms. Smith," I say to the red-haired woman.
"We are not sharing information," Ms. Smith says.
"You do not have information to share," I say, as I scan the computer screen.
"Frank, you can't bluff me. No one can hack into our computer system."
I hit a few keys. The information on my computer screen fills the white board on the left wall.
"You tracked Shark for the last three years. You assigned an agent to infiltrate Shark's drug organization last year. You found the agent dead two months later. A second agent was given the same mission. You found their body last month."
Agent Smith's eyes widen for a fraction of a second. Good. I need to keep her off balance.
"You planted bugs in Shark's condo and Ferrari. Unfortunately, he has not used either for the past three years."
"We are exploring different options," Ms. Smith says with a glare.
"Are you exploring the option of a clean up mission to scrub this five million dollar failed mission from your books?"
"You just crossed the line. Place him in protective custody."
My phone rings, as the agents walk closer.
"Hardy," I growl and put my phone on speaker.
"You gonna send me the information? My editor has a spot reserved on the front page above the fold."
"Trace it," Agent Smith barks.
"That depends. If I'm held here, you will get a text containing all the info in two minutes."
"That's illegal," Agent Smith says while she glares at me.
"So is holding me without cause."
"But it makes a great story, so what do you say?" My caller asks.
"The call is coming from The New York Times," a female agent says.
"You won this time. But I will get even," Agent Smith says.
"I am leaving the building," I say.
"I have a better chance of winning a Pulitzer if you stay," my caller says.
"If anything happens to me, all information will be forwarded to you immediately," I say in Agent Smith's hearing.
Ten minutes later, I am in my black Lexus driving home.
My secure phone rings.
"Hardy," I growl.
"Did you escape from the CIA?" Phil asks.
"Yes. How did you get into the New York Times building?"
"I delivered a plant to the front desk for the woman who writes the cooking column. I called you on a burner phone from the lobby."
"Thanks. I owe you."
We disconnect.
I don't know what scares me more - the amount of power Agent Smith has or that we outsmarted her with a plant and a burner phone.
JOE - Still at the Bank
"I don't have an apartment. I sleep on an air mattress in a bare room," Tony says.
I can't speak. How did I fail Tony this badly?
"Dude, I want you to hold on to this for me," I say and hand over the 26 in my wallet.
"I can't take this."
"Yeah, you can. It's your payment."
"For what?"
"For listening when I finally talk about buying Iola's wedding and engagement rings."
"Why haven't you talked about it?"
"I bought them after Iola died."
"Mr. Prito, I need you to sign some papers in my office," the bank president says.
"Joe, how are you gonna get home?"
"No worries. I called a ride before we got here."
"Who?"
Biker walks in the bank. He wears black jeans, a black t-shirt and a black leather jacket.
I see a bank clerk about to press the silent alarm button under the counter.
"It's ok! He's with me," I say.
The bank clerk looks unsure, but she doesn't press the alarm button.
"Frank is gonna kill us," Tony says.
"Only if he finds out."
"Yeah, it's not like he's a professional detective or anything. We are dead," Tony says.
I have a bad feeling Tony is right.
"Biker, you look bad," I say.
He is pale with dark circles under his eyes.
"You wanna walk home?" Biker asks.
I follow Biker out of the bank.
He stops in front of a 1998 shiny, black corvette.
I open the driver's door and climb in.
"Nobody drives my car," Biker growls.
"Dude, you're too sick to drive."
"Hardy, I've got a killer headache, my throat is raw and all I want to do is sleep," Biker growls. "Do not mess with me. Get out of the driver's seat."
"Biker, look at this," I say and give him my phone.
"What am I looking at?" Biker asks.
"A picture I just took of three bald spots in the back of your head."
"What happened to my hair?" Biker asks.
"Dude, what happened to your hands?" I ask.
Brown spots cover the palms of Biker's hands.
"You need a doctor."
"No way. I don't have insurance."
"I'll cover it."
"Hardy, I don't take charity."
"Ok. We'll go to the free clinic."
"Forget it," Biker says.
"So, say hello to bald Biker?"
"Shut up, Hardy."
I drive to the free clinic in total silence. Honestly, I'm surprised Biker let me bring me him here. He must be sick.
We walk into the free clinic.
"I'm not some loser who needs charity."
The people sitting in plastic chairs in the waiting area look at Biker angrily.
"Sorry. My friend is here for a mental evaluation," I say.
Biker glares at me.
"Look, one of my friends can't afford health insurance. He and one of his employees come here."
"Tony, right?"
Crap. He guessed right.
"No comment."
"Dude, I know it's Tony. They almost foreclosed on his pizzeria."
"Lots of people working in restaurants don't have health insurance. Karie, the hardest working waitress I know, comes here."*
"She works for Tony, right?"
Sometimes I hate Biker.
"Can we stop talking about Tony?"
"So she does work for him. I knew it."
"Katie works three jobs to make ends meet. Her mom comes here too. She takes care of her parents so she can't work a paying job."
We walk to the check-in desk.
"How much is this gonna cost?" Biker asks.
"Nothing," the nurse says. "Our doctors and nurses volunteer. The Bayport community funds the rest."
Biker fills out forms
"Hardy this is stupid. Don't know why I let you drag me here."
A nurse leads us to an examination room.
"Why aren't you home resting?" Dr. Tager asks.
"Uh…Dr. Tager. I wasn't expecting to see you."
"Clearly, since you aren't home resting."
"I'm going home as soon as Biker gets looked at."
"Biker? You only have one name? Like Elmo?" Dr. Tager asks.
I smile. This is gonna be fun.
"I don't need this," Biker says.
"No doctor, no keys," I say and put Biker's car keys in the pocket of my sweat pants.
"What's wrong with you?" Dr. Tager asks.
Biker doesn't say a word.
"You know those mysterious crop circles people find in fields? Biker has those all over his hands," I say.
"Any other symptoms, Hiker?" Dr. Tager asks as he looks at Biker's hands.
"Biker!" Biker shouts.
"Besides the crop circles, he's crankier than usual and his hair is failing out in the back," I say.
"I'm not cranky!"
"Definitely cranky. I need to run a blood test on Triker," Dr. Tager says.
"Biker!" Biker shouts.
Dr. Tager takes two vials of blood.
"When do I find out what's wrong?" Biker asks.
"Two days."
"You can't pull some strings and find out now?" Biker asks.
"I'm pulling strings to get lab results in two days," Dr. Tager growls.
Biker walks out without saying goodbye.
I run behind him.
"I'm driving," Biker says and grabs the car keys out of my
I am halfway in the passenger seat, when Biker hits the gas pedal. My door slams shut.
"Tell anybody about this, you're dead," Biker says.
"Relax. I never told anybody about your brother before he left."
"I'm glad he left."
"Cuz he's a maniac?"
"No. Cuz one of you was gonna kill the other if he stayed."
"Maybe he left cuz he was scared of me."
"Maybe he left cuz he stole drug money from the Scorpions and they put out a hit on him
Biker pulls up in front of Frank's condo.
"You good?" he asks.
"Yeah. Go home. Get some sleep," I say.
"You got a security alarm?" Biker asks.
"Frank lives here. What do you think?" I ask, as I get out of the car.
"Hardy, you forgot your phone," Biker says.
My phone rings.
"What?" Biker says and pushes the speaker button.
Silence.
"Frank?" I ask.
"Where are you?" Frank asks. Each word is cold and clipped.
"Your condo. I can explain."
Frank disconnects.
FRANK - AFTER THE CIA MEETING
I hate asking for help. It makes me feel weak and incompetent. The only thing I hate more than asking for help is when someone hurts Joe.
"Siri, call Dad," I say and swallow my pride.
I push the gas pedal down another notch.
Dad's phone rings.
He does not pick up.
Come on, Dad. I need you.
Another ring.
I hold my breath.
Dad has to be there. I need him.
Three rings.
Where is he? What good is leaving me an emergency number if I can't get him in an emergency?
"Hi..."
"Dad?"
"This is Fenton Hardy. I'm away from my office. Leave a message." BEEP
My anger boils over.
"Having you for a dad is like being an orphan. I never know if you are dead or alive. When you come home, I know two things will happen. First, you be gone in a day or two. Second, I will have to clean up your messes. You decided to rebuild Joe's beach cottage, then you left. So now I'm in charge of rebuilding the beach cottage.
I deserve better. If you get this message, don't bother calling back."
Who else can I call for backup?
"Siri, call Sam Radley."
He picks up on the first ring.
"Radley."
"Sam, I need your help. Joe's life is on the line."
It costs me a lot to say those words.
"Sorry, Frank. Your dad is deep undercover. If he needs an emergency extraction, Fenton is calling me. I have to be here."
"Forget it."
I hang up. I don't have time for excuses. I glance at the time. Joe was supposed to check in two hours ago!
"Siri, call Joe."
Joe's phone rings.
"What?" Biker shouts.
Biker? I am too shocked to say anything.
"Frank?" Joe asks.
"Where are you?" I growl.
"Your condo. I can explain…"
I disconnect.
While Joe was hospitalized, I installed a hidden security camera and microphone on my porch. The feed automatically goes to my phone. I forgot to tell Joe.
"Your brother is a real piece of work," Biker shouts and walks on the porch.
"Drop it, Biker," Joe says.
"He hung up on you."
"My brother does that before he says something he will regret."
Joe is right.
"Yeah, cuz hanging up makes you feel a lot better," Biker says.
"I messed up. I told Frank I'd check in two hours ago. He was scared I was hurt, kidnapped or dead."
I was not scared. I was terrified.
"If he hadn't hung up, you could have explained Tony's car died, you called me for a ride, and dragged me to the Bayport Free Clinic to get checked out."
What?
Biker is right. I am a piece of work.
"It doesn't matter! I didn't check in on time. It happens a lot. I don't deserve to work with him."
No. It does not mean that.
"Everybody makes mistakes," Biker says.
Listen to Biker, Joe.
"Nobody makes as many mistakes as me. I'm holding Frank back."
"Hardy, your brother does what he wants. If Frank a wanted a different job, he would get one."
That is true. I have never wanted to work with anyone but Joe. I trust him.
"Maybe Frank can't get a different job because he has to babysit me."
"Really? You just saved his life by keeping him from climbing into his burning car. Sounds like you were babysitting him."
"Biker, Frank told me to wait in the car. I didn't tell him I left. So it's my fault - again. I didn't check in."
"Whoa. Let me get this straight. You'd weren't killed in a car bomb and it's your fault?"
I step on the gas pedal. When Joe starts blaming himself for everything it is a bad sign. Keep him talking, Biker.
"Biker, you don't understand. I'm giving Frank an early Christmas gift. I'm leaving. If I vanish, Frank can live his life without me holding him back."
What? Where did that come from? I should have cancelled the CIA meeting and taken Joe back to the condo.
"Great idea, Hardy. Running away will solve all your problems."
I know Joe is hurting when I see him limp up the porch steps. Joe gets inches from Biker's face.
"I'm not running away."
Are they going to fight?
"Really? You have problems you won't face. You plan on vanishing. You are a coward, Hardy."
"Biker, go home."
Joe limps to the front door, unlocks it and slams it in Biker's face.
I see Biker get off my porch. Seconds later I hear tires squeal as Biker leaves.
"Delivery," someone shouts.
"Leave it on the porch," Joe shouts.
"Gotta sign for it."
The voice sounds familiar.
"Forget it."
"Lots of things get lost at headquarters."
"Whose name is on the package?"
"Frank Hardy."
"Yeah, take it back."
I know Joe is hurting.
I hear a metal clink and the sound of the door opening.
"What are you doing in my house?" Joe asks.
"It's called payback."
I know that voice. Shark.
I have no time, no plan and no help.
The only thing I have is the element of surprise.
I hit the gas, aim for my condo and drive through my living room wall.