Street Spies (2 page)

"Okay, Hot Dog, we'll check you out by racing around the block," Lightfoot said, grinning cockily. He pulled his felt hat even lower over his eyes and took a pair of black gloves out of his hip pocket. He nodded down the street. "We start that way. First one back here wins."

A kid in a black leather jacket raised a hand. "Hey, Lightfoot, aren't you going to tell him about the shortcut?"

Lightfoot glared at the kid, then tried to look casual. "Oh, yeah, the shortcut." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "There's an alley back there, around the corner. 'Course, if you want, you can go all the way around the block." He coasted into position at the curb.

"On your mark, get set, go!" someone shouted, and they were off.

In the back of the van a couple of blocks away, Frank smiled to himself as he adjusted his headset, picturing the start of the race. He wondered how Joe was feeling. This was one time his brother might have bitten off more than he could chew.

"Come on, Hot Dog, take him!" somebody yelled. Hot Dog? It was a perfect name for Joe.

Frank leaned forward eagerly, hunched over his receiver, trying to imagine what was happening on the other end of the radio connection.

For what seemed a long time, he could hear only jumbled street noises — whistles, horns, the roar of passing trucks - together with the whir of tires and the muffled panting of Joe's heavy breathing as he pumped harder and harder. Frank knew Joe, he was giving it everything he had. More than anything in the world, Joe hated to lose.

Suddenly Frank heard the sound of skidding tires and a sharp, gasping, "Oh, no!" Then his ears were filled with a metallic crash and a solid, bone-crunching thud.

It was the sound of a bike rider totally wiping out!

In the van Frank pulled his headset closer to his ears and turned up the volume. What was crashed headlong into something? Frank's first impulse was to jump out and find his brother but he forced himself to remain still "Joe," he muttered through clenched teeth even though he knew his brother couldn't hear him. Joe, are you all right?"

Suddenly Frank's ears were filled with hoarse, raucous laughter.

"Sorry about that, Hot Dog," came Lightfoot's voice. "Guess I forgot to tell you about that loading dock at the end of the alley.

That's what you get for being in the lead." More laughter, several voices together this time.

Then there was a grunt, and Frank heard Joe say sarcastically, "Yeah, Lightfoot, I'll bet you're sorry."

Frank relaxed a little. Joe's pride would be scraped a little raw, but he sounded okay. Something about Lightfoot's tone of voice, though, made him uneasy. It sounded almost sinister. Had this been an initiation — the kind of thing a street gang does when somebody new tries to break into the group? Or were the messengers on to them?

Back in the alley, Joe picked himself up from the asphalt, feeling his ribs and wondering if he hadn't cracked one or two. Dazed, he just stared at his bike. There wasn't any real damage — only the handlebars had been twisted out of alignment. He swallowed the anger he felt at Lightfoot for the potentially deadly joke he had played on him. Joe had hit the brakes just in time to avoid racing full speed into a loading dock at the end of the alley.

"Hey, Hot Dog!" Joe looked up. A half-dozen messengers were clustered around him. A thin white kid in dark glasses, jeans, and a T-shirt stepped forward to help Joe twist the handlebars back into shape. "They call me Slim," he offered, when the handlebars were straight. He took off his dark glasses and grinned at Joe as the knot of messengers began to break apart.

"Congratulations, man. You passed. You were way ahead of him, too. That doesn't happen very often."

"I passed?" Joe was still slightly dazed and more than a little mad.

"Yeah, it's a trick they play on all the new guys," Slim explained. "They race them into this blind alley, and the ones who come out in one piece get hired." He put his glasses back on before adding, "Personally, I don't think it's such a great idea."

"That makes two of us," Joe growled. He felt for the mike, wondering if it was still working. Frank had undoubtedly heard the crash—but had he heard anything else? Did he know that Joe was okay?

Slim gestured. "Come on. Let's get your name on the board in the dispatch office."

Wheeling his bike, Joe followed Slim through a back door and down a long hallway, past a storage room and into the office where he had applied for the job minutes before.

Activity had picked up. There were four or five messengers sitting at one end of the room, two of them playing cards, the others sprawled on the floor listening to rock music on a portable radio. Behind them was a row of wooden cubbyholes filled with messenger bags and personal gear. In the corner was an old sofa and table with a hot plate and coffee pot.

At the other end of the room the man with the leg brace had a telephone glued to one ear, and he was beckoning impatiently to one of the messengers. The kid ran up to the desk and the man thrust a piece of paper at him and snapped, "Get going!" As the messenger disappeared out the door, the man stood up and wrote an address beside the messenger's name on the dispatch board.

"Say, Gus," Slim called out over the noise of the radio, "how about putting Hot Dog's name up?"

Without a word, Gus wrote "Hot Dog" at the bottom of the list and sat down again. He picked up some personnel forms and thrust them at Joe.

"I guess you've already met Gus Ireland," Slim said as they walked to the sofa.

"Yeah," Joe replied. He sat down and started to fill out the forms. "Does he hate the whole world or is it just me?"

"Oh, Gus isn't so bad," Slim said with a grin. "He used to be one of the best riders on the street. Then a cabbie plowed into him at Broadway and Fulton, and he nearly lost his leg. Now he's stuck behind a desk. I think it's soured him."

Across the room, the two guys had stopped playing cards and were talking intently in the comer. One of them glanced suspiciously at Joe, and they both stopped talking abruptly. Joe wondered why.

"That's Apollo and Wipe-Out," Slim said. "They've been in the business longer than the rest of us. There's not an address in the city that they can't find—blindfolded."

Before Joe could answer, a pretty girl walked in from the street. She was wearing fatigue pants and an oversize jacket with the sleeves rolled up, and her short red hair was brushed back from her large green eyes. Joe caught himself staring at her. "Who's she?" he asked curiously.

"Name's Gypsy," Slim replied. "She's only been here a couple of months, but she seems to be working out okay. She's weird, though. Keeps to herself, won't talk to anybody. Word has it she's moonlighting with another messenger company. She's already made enough to buy herself a new bike, and she was flashing some big bucks around here the other day."

Joe made a mental note to find out more about Gypsy. A new bike, big bucks — could she be making that money working for MUX? He picked up the forms he'd just filled out and took them to Gus's desk, where the dispatcher was just putting the phone down.

He glanced up at Joe. "Okay, Hot Dog," he said, "time to earn your pay. You've got a pickup in the financial district."

Joe took the work order Gus waved at him and headed for the front door. As he reached it, he turned back toward Slim. "Hey, thanks," he said.

"Sure thing." Slim shrugged. "Good luck."

Joe wheeled his bike down the front steps. "On my way to Chase Manhattan Plaza," he said out loud, hoping Frank could still hear him.

Joe was amazed at how easy it was for somebody on a bike — somebody who was willing to take chances—to cut through New York City traffic.

At the first intersection, he wanted to dismount and cross with the light, but he could see the cross-street traffic was snarled up so he rode - across it without stopping. When the columns of bumper-to-bumper traffic traveling beside him ground to a stop, he threaded his way between two rows of cars all the way to the next light. He got a jump on the light, turned left on Water Street, and was off at the head of the column, pedaling south.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the Hardys' black van swinging into the lane behind him. Good, he thought to himself. Frank was on his way, so the radio must still be working.

"Hey, Frank, can you hear me?" he said. "If you can, give me a beep." A second later he was rewarded with the familiar sound of the van's horn honking amid all the other traffic noise. "So far, so good." Joe pedaled harder.

At the next corner Joe dodged between the lines of stalled traffic, slipping into the intersection as the light turned green. With a burst of energy, he rapidly pulled away from the lumbering buses and delivery trucks, pushing himself to top speed. But the van was stuck behind a bus.

Joe had driven in New York traffic often, but never on a bike. In the van he never got the feel of the traffic the way he did on the bike — and he didn't have the freedom, either. Joe felt wonderful that he was moving faster than anything around him. It was hard for him to remember that he was on a job, and that there could be real danger involved. This was fun—and he was getting paid for it, too!

In less time than he thought possible, Joe was locking his bike to a parking meter outside a sixty-five-story, glass-and-steel building. He didn't see a sign of Frank. He grinned, picturing his brother still stuck behind that bus. He rode the express elevator to his pickup on the thirty-eighth floor, where a smiling secretary handed him a brown envelope. Then back down the elevator, into the plaza,' and onto his bike.

"I'm headed for West Broadway and Chambers," he said out loud for Frank's benefit, and pedaled off again. After he delivered the envelope, he stopped at a pay phone in a drugstore and dialed the number of the mobile phone in the van.

"Yeah, what is it?" Frank said. Joe could hear the frustration in his voice.

"It's me," Joe said. "How's the radio working? You picking me up okay?"

"No, I lost you when I got stuck in traffic. Too many buildings between us. Also, I don't think I'll be able to hear a thing when you go inside."

"We have two other problems," Joe said. "We need two-way communication. The guy in the car« needs to be able to contact the guy on the bike" And we've got to figure out a way to track other bikes without actually following them."

"Right," Frank said. "A van can't keep up. with all those bikes, running all over the places, We've got to come up with something. Radar, No, that won't work. It's only line-of-sight. Listen, Joe, maybe Mr. Chilton can come up with something. How about meeting near WWT's offices at noon?"

"I'll be there," Joe promised, and hung up. Then, with a sense of anticipation, he dialed SpeedWay's number. If he didn't have to meet Frank until noon, he might as well do another job. This messenger stuff was great.

At noon Joe coasted off Fifteenth Street into Stuyvesant Park, scattering a flock of gray-winged pigeons picking up crumbs from the sidewalk. On one side of the park there were a couple of red brick buildings that gave the small square the look of a New England village green. The benches were filled with people eating their lunches, reading newspapers, or taking naps in the sun.

In front of the peg-legged bronze statue of Peter Stuyvesant, Joe saw Frank, his army surplus messenger bag at his side. The two of them bought a couple of hot dogs from a vendor and found a bench in the corner of the small park.

"Did you get the equipment you were after?" Joe asked, wolfing his food.

Frank nodded. "Chilton sent down some great stuff," he said. He opened his bag and handed Joe a headset with a single earphone. It looked exactly like the portable radios people wore.

"With this," Frank said, "you can always stay tuned to your favorite station — me. With two-way communication, we can keep in touch better." He reached into his bag again and pulled out a round, palm-size metal container. "We also have a supply of miniaturized transmitters. They're perfect for this job. Each of them has a unique signal."

"That'll tell us who we're tracking," Joe said as he turned one of the transmitters over in his hand. "But it won't tell us where."

"That's where Chilton really shines," said Frank, grinning. "We'll be able to receive each bike's signal over a special set in the van that tracks the messengers on a computerized display." Frank's grin got a little wider. "The man promised us state of the art, and ... "

Joe gave his brother a high-five as he finished the sentence. "And he delivers!" Joe looked closer at the small black sphere. "But how do I attach these things to the bikes? It's not like I can toss them into the backseat."

"They're magnetized," Frank said. "You can stick them on anything metal."

Joe nodded knowingly. "Like the metal plate under a bicycle seat."

"Yeah. With these gadgets, one of us gets his exercise biking all over Manhattan, While the other tunes in on likely suspects."

"Great," Joe said, putting the headset on and stuffing half a dozen small transmitters into his bag. "I need to get back to SpeedWay before I'm missed." He flashed Frank a grin. "Stay tuned - fun and games coming up."

The ride back to SpeedWay was uneventful until the last few blocks. Just south of the Seaport a yellow taxi raced past him, its right front tire splashing through a muddy puddle. A long wave arched directly in front of Joe and he plowed right through it. He was still dripping when he arrived at the office. The chair behind Gus's desk was empty.

Slim looked up from the corner where he was playing checkers with Wipe-Out. "Hey, Hot Dog! Taking showers on company time?"

Joe made a face. "Anywhere I can dry off?" Slim pointed to a door beside Gus's desk.

Washroom's in there."

Joe ducked inside. As he reached for the paper towels on the wall, he heard Gus's voice through the flimsy plywood wall that partitioned the washroom from the storage room. It sounded as though Gus didn't want to be overheard. Joe pulled off his headset so he could hear better.

"Look, Lightfoot," he was saying, "World-Wide says the heat's on. There's gonna be an investigation, some private eye asking questions, poking his nose into things. One wrong move and the good times will disappear."