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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

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BOOK: Motocross Madness
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“Well, whoever it was, they knew their way around that old bike,” Joe said. “I don't think I could have gotten it going faster with an electric starter.”

“Come on,” Frank said. “Let's get back to the office. Maybe Mr. Fernandez noticed something that we didn't.”

“Let's hope,” Joe agreed.

The brothers caught their breath as they walked back to the trailer, which served as the course headquarters. Inside, they found Peter Fernandez sorting through the scattered papers on the floor. Corrine's father looked up hopefully as the Hardys came in.

“Well?” he asked. “Did you catch him?”

Frank and Joe both shook their heads. “He got to a cycle and rode away.”

“What are those papers?” Joe asked.

“Just registration forms, mostly,” Mr. Fernandez said. “I don't see what use they'd be to anyone.”

Frank frowned. “Are the ownership papers for the SD5 in there?”

“Nope,” said Mr. Fernandez. “There are some papers about the bike's history, but not the ownership papers. I checked, and those are still safely locked away.”

“So the burglar didn't touch the safe,” Joe said.

“Apparently not,” Mr. Fernandez replied. “It's not the best safe in the world, but maybe this guy wasn't a very good burglar.”

“If it was a
guy
at all,” Frank said. “Neither of us got a very good look at him. Did you?”

Mr. Fernandez shook his head. “Can't say I did. Are you boys thinking a girl might have done this?”

“We can't rule it out,” Joe replied.

The brothers took a few moments to help Mr.
Fernandez straighten out the office. They gathered up the papers and sorted things as best they could.

Finally, Mr. Fernandez said, “That's enough for now. I'll have to sort the rest myself or I'll never find anything again. I have a rather  . . .
unique
filing system.” He smiled weakly. “Plus, I imagine you boys want to get out of here.”

“It's no trouble, really,” Frank said.

“Don't worry about it,” Mr. Fernandez said, “Just let me find those applications for you. . . .” He rummaged through a pile of papers and pulled out some applications to replace the ones that had gotten ruined earlier.

Joe and Frank filled out the forms. Then Mr. Fernandez certified them, and gave the brothers their contestant numbers and information packets.

“Of course the most important part is the pledge form,” Mr. Fernandez said. “I know it's pretty late for you boys to find sponsors, but just do the best you can.”

“We've got a pretty good network of friends and relatives,” Frank said.

“We'll come through for you,” Joe added. “Good night, Mr. Fernandez.”

“Oh! I almost forgot,” Mr. Fernandez said. “There's a big kick-start party tonight for the contestants. There'll be food and drinks, and we hope a lot of media will be coming to cover the benefit. I
hope you two will be able to come. Bring some friends, if you like.”

“Sure thing,” Joe said.

“The party's being held at the Veterans of Foreign Wars Memorial Hall, just down the street,” Pops added. “The VFW was nice enough to donate their place to use for our cause. You'll find information about the party in your contestant packet. It'll be a good chance to check out our grand prize—as well as the other competitors. The bike will be on display during the festivities.”

“I wouldn't mind having a classic motorcycle,” Frank said.

Joe winked at Mr. Fernandez. “He'll have to beat
me
to get it, though.”

They all laughed, and the brothers headed out. As they left they passed the police, who were coming to take a report on the break-in. The Hardys found Jamal, who'd gotten back from his errand with Corri, near the gate.

“How's she doing?” Joe asked.

“Right as rain,” Jamal said. “You'd never know she nearly got clobbered by a runaway motorcycle.”

“It's amazing that she maintains such a positive attitude, despite the wheelchair,” Frank said.

“I guess you can overcome any obstacle if you put your mind to it,” Joe added.

“She was like that in school, too,” Jamal said. “I
had a couple of classes with her before she graduated. Corri's one tough cookie. The way she's going, I'm sure she'll get out of that chair one day. All she needs is the money. We can't let her down.”

“Don't worry,” Frank said. “We'll gather as many pledges as we can.”

“Speaking of which,” Joe said, “we need to get home and start making calls.”

“Will I see you at the kick-start party later?” Jamal asked.

“Definitely,” Frank said.

“We might even bring Iola and Callie with us,” Joe said. “If they're not tied up. You know how busy our girlfriends' schedules can be.”

The three friends went their separate ways, and the Hardys drove home in their van.

   •   •   •

That night, the brothers worked the phones, lining up sponsors. Their parents helped while their aunt Gertrude worried about the race. “People get hurt in those things,” she said.

Frank tried to calm her down. “Joe and I have been riding motorcycles for years,” he said. “Our dad rode before us, and our grandparents before him. I remember reading an account of Hardys riding cycles as long ago as nineteen twenty-seven.”

“Well, of course I wouldn't remember
that
far back,” Gertrude said, flustered. With that, she took to the phone banks along with Fenton, Laura, and
the two boys. Working together, the five of them scraped together a respectable number of contributions by the time of the party.

Unfortunately, the Hardys' girlfriends, Callie Shaw and Iola Morton, had already left for the long weekend. They had driven with Iola's brother, Chet, to the town of Jewel Ridge.

The brothers arrived at the VFW Memorial Hall, a relatively small, steel-sided building that used to house a nightclub, shortly after eight.

As they entered, they found the party already in full swing. Jamal waved at them when they came in. He was standing in a corner, chatting with Corri Fernandez. Her brother, Paco, hovered nearby, talking to Ed Henderson. Paco glanced protectively from Amber Hawk—surrounded by admirers near the refreshment table—to his younger sister.

Mr. Fernandez mingled with the crowd, shaking hands and smiling. Camera crew members from WBPT and other local TV stations followed him around like wolves circling their prey. To his credit, Mr. Fernandez refused to get annoyed with them.

Joe and Frank introduced themselves to Ed Henderson. They chatted with him for a few moments, then mingled with the rest of the crowd.

“Do you think we should say hello to Amber Hawk?” Joe asked.

“Let's wait until she talks to us,” Frank said.

“That Corri Fernandez is one very brave girl,”
said a deep voice from behind the brothers. The Hardys turned as a tall man wearing an impeccable business suit stepped toward them. He stretched out one big hand to the brothers while still carrying a drink in the other. “I'm Asa Goldberg,” he said as they shook hands, “one of the benefit's sponsors.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Frank said.

“What do you do, Mr. Goldberg?” Joe asked.

“I sell quality imports,” Goldberg replied. “Many of Bayport's wealthiest citizens are my clients. I'm more than happy to lend my clout to a cause like this. In fact, I was the one who first proposed the races to Peter and his family.”

“I'm sure the Fernandezes are grateful for your help,” Joe said.

As the three of them spoke, Goldberg steered them toward a small stage near the back corner of the room. A podium sat atop the stage on the right. To the left, in front of a golden curtain, rested the grand prize—the restored O'Sullivan SD5 motorcycle.

Goldberg gazed at the silver and black cycle, and his brown eyes twinkled. “Isn't she a beaut?” he said.

“Sure is,” Frank and Joe agreed. The machine looked to be in perfect condition, though neither of the brothers knew exactly what an SD5 was supposed to look like.

Several other people stood nearby, admiring the prize. One of them, a tall, slender man with a
pinched face, said, “It's lovely, of course. But not nearly as valuable as it would be if more of its pieces were original.”

“Now, don't cut down the grand prize, Trent,” Goldberg said. He turned to the teens and said in a stage whisper, “That's Trent Howard—a notorious motorcycle collector. Don't let his complaints fool you. I bet he's wishing he could enter the race himself so he could win that set of wheels!”

“Why can't he?” Joe asked.

“No talent,” Goldberg said a little louder, with a smile.

“Hey!” Trent Howard said, turning on him. “You talk pretty big for a man who's never even tried the circuit.” Then, to Frank and Joe, he continued: “I made a go of it once, but I just had no aptitude. I'm a thinker, not a rider. And, in point of fact, I've made a lot of money thinking. That's how I can afford to collect motorcycles.”

Howard was trying to play it cool, but the Hardys saw that Goldberg's cutting remark had actually needled him. The other people nearby watched the exchange curiously.

“So, are you sponsoring someone in the race?” Frank asked the collector.

“I'd rather not say,” Howard replied.

“He certainly isn't sponsoring me,” put in a nearby blonde. She was about the Hardys age and very slender, with her hair done up in double braids.
“I don't want you thinking I'm working with Mr. Howard just because I'm standing next to him.”

“No one was accusing you of that, Ms. Navarro,” Howard said.

A distinguished man with graying hair and a beard who was on the other side of the girl added, “Elizabeth is in this to win. Aren't you, dear?”

“Daaad!” she said, rolling her eyes. “Of course I want to win. You don't run a race to come in last! One day, you'll write about me the way you do about Garth Metzger.”

“What made Metzger so special?” Joe asked.

“Let me explain,” Trent Howard replied. “Garth Metzger was an old-time motorcycle rider and designer. On the verge of bankruptcy, he came up with an idea for a fabulous, new engine. He sketched those plans down, then made
one set
of blueprints from them.”

“I know this part of the story,” Goldberg continued. “Once Metzger completed his engine, he installed it in a cycle and then destroyed the blueprints. People who saw the engine tests said it was the best of its kind, ever. Buyers came from all over to bid on it.”

“Dad wrote an article about that once, didn't you, Dad?” Elizabeth said. “Tell what happened next.”

Richard Navarro seemed reluctant to speak up, so his daughter nudged him. “Well,” he finally said, “Metzger thought he could get more money from
the bidders if he won a race with the experimental bike. But something went wrong. He got into a fiery crash during the race and died. The super-engine was destroyed.”

“It's ironic,” Goldberg said. “He could have made a fortune, but instead, Metzger died penniless. They sold the contents of his garage. Later, some of those cycle parts got bought by Pops Fernandez, which is how they ended up in this bike here.”

He pointed to the glittering SD5 displayed before them.

“So, are you advising your daughter, Richard?” Howard asked Navarro. “Or are you entering the race yourself?”

“My competing days are behind me,” Rich Navarro said, shaking his head. “I don't have the stamina for it anymore. I'm sticking with motorcycle magazine writing now. Maybe I could do a story on you, Mr. Howard.”

Trent Howard frowned. “I've had all the publicity I want, thank you very much.”

“But it would make a great article,” Navarro said. “Wealthy collector turns out for benefit motocross event—”

“Really, I'm only interested in the bike for historical reasons,” Howard insisted.

“If you want that bike, we could help you out,” said a voice from the other side of the prize stand. The one who had spoken was a tall, blond man.
The woman with her arm around him was nearly as tall, and had short, straight, dark hair.

“Boy” Joe whispered to Frank, “you can't even finish a conversation here without someone cutting in.”

“And who might you two be?” Trent Howard asked, arching one eyebrow at the newcomers.

The big man and the tall woman shook hands with Trent. “I'm Jules Kendallson,” said the man. “And this is my girl, Sylvia Short.”

The brothers noticed the irony of a tall woman being named “Short,” but both managed to keep straight faces.

“We're freelance riders,” Ms. Short declared.

“We like winning,” Kendallson said, “but we ain't big collectors of cycles.”

“More bikes, more repairs,” Ms. Short added. “Y'know? We'd rather have the cash. How much you offering?”

Trent Howard cleared his throat. “While I'm somewhat fascinated with the Metzger SD5, I'm not interested in hiring freelance riders at this point.”

“If you're keen on getting this bike, Mr. Howard, why didn't you just buy it from the Fernandezes?” Joe asked.

“I tried,” Howard said, “but Mr. Fernandez wanted more than I was willing to pay. I may be well-off, but taking on the bulk of Corrine Fernandez's rehab bills . . . It's a hefty sum, and I just can't let all that cash go right now.” He looked at Mr.

Goldberg and added, “I suspect the same is true of Asa, here.”

“You got that right,” Goldberg replied. “But I would if I could. As it is, I'm happy just to be making a contribution.”

“As am I,” Howard replied.

“Yeah, we're here for that, too,” Kendallson said. Ms. Short and the Navarros nodded in support.

“Well, I'm sure Corri's glad to have all of you pulling for her,” Frank said.

BOOK: Motocross Madness
12.83Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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