Trouble Times Two

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “So what do you think he’s doing? A little late-night bookkeeping?” Joe began pushing his door open. “Maybe we ought to go in there and have a look-see.”

  Frank sighed. “Joe.” He put a warning tone into his voice.

  “What?” Joe asked, his face the picture of innocence.

  “Stop making a big deal out of this,” Callie said. “Most of the people here are too embarrassed to tell you, but you’re acting like a—”

  “I don’t think we need to disturb Mr. Gilliam,” Kevin quickly broke in. “If he’s doing work on his own time, it’s no business of ours.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll leave it to my dad.”

  Joe sank back in his seat, closed the door, and snapped the seat belt in place around his waist. “Well, I guess that’s all settled.” Then he turned to Frank. “So how are we doing on time? Can we still make that heart-flopper romance Callie wants to see?”

  Frank checked his watch. “It started about five minutes ago,” he announced.

  A broad smile crept across Joe’s lips. “So I guess we’ll just have to see the boom-boom flick I suggested,” he said smugly.

  Frank shook his head. “Actually, that started half an hour ago.” He grinned. “But we could still make that foreign film Phil was talking about.”

  Joe was mumbling to himself all the way to the Bayport Mall Multiplex. Callie was doing a slow burn. The rest of the kids exchanged amused glances over the way Joe’s clever plan had blown up in his face.

  To be honest, Frank wasn’t too sure about the film Phil wanted to see. But if it helped teach Joe a lesson . . .

  Actually, the foreign film turned out to be a pretty funny comedy. Even Callie was in a good mood by the end.

  “Why can’t we see American actors making films like that?” Iola asked as the group headed across the parking lot to the van.

  “Oh, you will,” Liz predicted. “I expect a Hollywood remake will hit the theaters next year by holiday time.”

  “But we’ll be able to say we saw the original.” Phil looked happy. For once his suggestion had been taken. Frank realized this was a rare victory for his more intellectual friend. Usually Phil got outvoted in the choice for a Saturday night movie.

  We’ll have to change that, Frank promised himself. Maybe I can throw my vote his way a little more often.

  At least Joe wasn’t a sore loser. He played bus driver for everyone in the van, delivering each kid to his or her home. It was getting pretty late by the time Joe steered on to the Hardys’ street.

  Frank unsnapped his seat belt and was out the door as soon as his brother parked the van. Joe slipped more slowly from behind the wheel. He stretched until Frank heard joints popping.

  “Whoa! I’m bushed!” Joe announced.

  “It’s all that extra driving you did,” Frank replied.

  Joe looked hurt. “You think I’d let people bus it or walk home at this time of night?”

  “I’m talking about the extra driving you did before the movie. That little mystery you created.”

  Joe shrugged. “That was then, this is now,” he said. “The only mystery left is whether I have enough energy for a midnight snack. Or should I just hit the hay immediately?”

  Frank snorted. “That’s no mystery,” he said. “You always have enough energy for a snack.” He followed Joe into the house. But instead of joining his brother in the kitchen, Frank headed upstairs to his room.

  Joe poked his head inside the doorway a few minutes later. He had a chicken leg in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. “If I’d known I wouldn’t have to compete with you for it, I’d have scarfed the other leg.”

  He took a big bite, then tried to peer at Frank’s monitor. “What’s up? You get another inspiration to research sun tan, or whatever it was?”

  “Qui tam,” Frank answered, most of his attention still on his computer. “And this research is on something completely different. I call it Bad Dad.” He looked over at Joe. “Also known as Russell Gilliam.”

  “Remind me never to slam a door in your face,” Joe said with a laugh. “So, what’s the scoop on Tom’s dad?”

  “He sure moves around a lot,” Frank said. “I used some tricks of Dad’s to access part of Gilliam’s credit records. His address keeps changing—a new town every three or four months. Not to mention a new job.”

  Joe’s eyes sparkled. “Is he like that famous impersonator guy? A brain surgeon one week, a prison warden the next?”

  Frank shook his head. “Nothing so exotic. Mr. Gilliam is always an accountant—but for different companies. Before he went to work for Tri-State Express, he did the books for a ball bearing manufacturer. Before that, he was working for a car rental outfit.” Tapping a key, Frank kept scrolling through screen after screen. “Electrical equipment. A toy store chain . . .” Frank blinked. “An Indian casino?”

  He swung round to look at Joe. “Do you see any sort of career path in that mess of jobs?”

  Joe shrugged. “Maybe I was right about Tom’s lousy personality being inherited. Looks like Russ lands a job, annoys everybody, and gets fired. Then he moves off to a new town and a new gig.”

  He stopped, struck by a new thought. “You know, there’s another reason for Tom’s bad attitude—he’s always the new kid in town. That’s got to grow old pretty fast.”

  Joe laughed, but Frank didn’t join in. Instead, he frowned at his computer screen.

  “I’ll say it again—what’s the deal, big brother? You didn’t take the little act I pulled down by the warehouse seriously, did you? ‘What’s that wicked man doing in there?’ ”

  “I’m beginning to wonder what he’s doing in Bayport,” Frank answered slowly.

  “Working his bookkeeping buns off for Kev Wylie’s father—if tonight is any example,” Joe hooted.

  “Short-term jobs—moving around a lot,” Frank said. “What does that sound like to you?”

  Joe gave his brother a what-kind-of-answer-are-you-expecting? look. Then he shrugged. “It may not be the nicest thing to say about a person. But what that pattern says to me is . . . ‘loser.’ ”

  “I take your point,” Frank said. “So, why, when I look at it, do I think, ‘great cover story!’ ”

  “Of course!” Joe broke into laughter again. “Tom’s dad is a freelance secret agent! He takes his son along so no one will suspect!” He put up a finger, coming up with a new idea. “Or maybe he’s one of those people in the witness protection plan. I hear that ex-mobsters sometimes have trouble settling into their new lives.”

  “That’s a little closer,” Frank said. “Except our Mr. Gilliam may be more current than ex.”

  “I was kidding!” Joe protested.

  “Then think about this. Whenever an organization has to organize a new territory, the same thing happens. It doesn’t matter if it’s an insurance company or a crime syndicate. They have to send along an official representative—a front man.”

  Frank’s dark eyes were very serious as he looked up at his brother. “What if Tom’s much-traveled dad is a mob front man? Suppose he’s the new fence in town?”

  7: Where There’s Smoke . . .

  Frank watched his brother’s jaw drop at his off-the-wall suggestion. “Are you serious?” Joe demanded.

  Silently, Frank nodded in reply.

  Joe burst into laughter. “Obviously, I’m not the only one around here who’s bushed,” he said. “I think you sprained your brain on this one, Frank. Stick to Qui Tam. Or better yet, go to bed.”

  Frank really tried to go to sleep. But his weird notion kept him tossing and turning between the sheets. Could the man they’d met tonight have burned down that pawnshop with its owner inside? Hard to tell on the basis of a few looks, a couple of words, and a slammed door.

  Actually those thoughts weren’t what was keeping him awake, Frank had to admit. He knew he was circling around the really disturbing question. Had Tom’s father been behind the wheel of the car that had almost smeared Frank’s dad?

&nbs
p; More than ever, Frank wished that the infrared photos Fenton had taken came out. Unfortunately, they only showed a ghostly silhouette behind the windshield of the sedan. By luck—or with extreme caution—the driver had never shown himself.

  Frank found himself staring at his bedroom ceiling in the predawn dimness. The shadows seemed to rearrange themselves into the front of a car. There was the windshield, there was the steering wheel . . . and behind it was Russell Gilliam. With his thinning hair and stooped shoulders, he didn’t look like a gangster. But his expression was frozen in the same grim lines Frank had seen just before Gilliam shut the door in their faces.

  Fantasy or reality? At this point Frank was too tired to care. But, he promised himself, I’ll pass my nutty idea along to Dad. Maybe he can make something out of it.

  • • •

  When Frank went down to breakfast the next morning, Joe was already at the table. “Some brother you are,” he accused. “First you side with Callie instead of me on the film question. Then you go along with Phil and make me look like an idiot.”

  “That didn’t take much work,” Frank replied.

  Joe pretended he hadn’t heard. “But worst of all you throw that little hand grenade of an idea in my lap right before I try to get some sleep.”

  The way Joe said “try” made it clear that he hadn’t succeeded. “Every time I began to doze off, I saw Russell Gilliam trying to smash into Dad.”

  “So it’s not so funny now, is it?” Frank fought back a yawn.

  As if in answer, Joe’s mouth gaped even wider. “Funny or crazy, I think maybe you should tell Dad.”

  “Tell me what?” Fenton Hardy asked, coming into the room. “You didn’t put a dent in your van last night, did you?”

  “No,” Joe said. “We met Tom Gilliam’s dad last night.”

  Fenton thought for a moment. “He’s the kid you pegged for a troublemaker, right? The one who duked it out with Biff Hooper.”

  Frank nodded. “We’d like you to listen to what happened.” He took a deep breath. “And what happened afterward.”

  As Fenton sat down, Frank tried to give a word-for-word account of what had happened at the Gilliams’ door. Joe interrupted to add a few details. Then he went on to describe the way they’d seen Tom’s father sneaking into the offices of Tri-State Express.

  Fenton nodded. “Odd,” he said, “but I don’t see—”

  “That’s not all.” Frank went on to describe his late-night computer research, ending with the theory that had kept both boys up all night.

  “I don’t like hunches,” Frank finished. “But I can’t shake the feeling that something is fishy about Russell Gilliam. Maybe it’s the way he keeps pulling up roots and jumping into new jobs. And this latest one—a shipping company—”

  He threw out his arms. “It all makes a weird sort of sense. Con Riley said the cops can’t find the new fence’s loot pipeline. Maybe that’s because it’s a legitimate company that ships packages all over the country.”

  Fenton frowned, his eyes intent. “I see what you mean—it does make sense in a bizarre sort of way. We suspect Bayport has been infiltrated by a gang with national connections. They would certainly need a front man to come in to organize things. In some ways this Russell Gilliam might fill the bill.

  “But you’ve built a tall tower of guesswork on very few facts,” he cautioned. “The word is that this gang is supposed to be foreign-based. But Russ Gilliam and his son seem pretty American.”

  “What if he had a family connection?” Frank argued.

  Joe grinned. “Or maybe the gang is an equal opportunity employer.”

  “Most likely that’s an inconvenient fact that demolishes your whole theory.” Fenton got up. “Right now we can’t tell one way or the other—not until we know a lot more about Russell Gilliam. So guess what just got on my list of things to do this week?”

  • • •

  Mr. Hardy spent a good part of the day on his computer, checking what he could on Russell Gilliam. But Frank knew most of his background check would have to wait till Monday, which was when Fenton would be able to work his professional contacts. When Frank and Joe left for school the next morning, their dad was already on the phone.

  Monday also marked Tom Gilliam’s return to Bayport High. Frank noticed that there wasn’t a brass band on the school lawn to greet Trouble Boy. And when Frank bumped into Liz Webling between classes, she was full of Gilliam gossip.

  “We both have math first period,” Liz said. “Tom mouthed off to Mr. Fielding almost as soon as class started.”

  She shook her head. “I guess being suspended didn’t adjust his attitude.”

  “Did you expect it to?” Frank asked. “He pops Biff Hooper in the face and gets a one-week vacation. Some minds could see that as a reward instead of a punishment.”

  “But think of what he’s got to face coming back,” Liz said. “Mr. Sheldrake is sure to have him on his hit list. And all the other kids—”

  “If anybody gives him a hard time, Tom can just take a swing. Then he’ll get another week off.” Frank took a deep breath. “I’m sure the next discussion on our fair project will be a circus and a half.”

  Frank’s prediction came true even sooner than he thought Mr. Bannerman set aside the last five minutes of class for the teams to discuss their progress. The members of the whistle-blower project hadn’t even gotten together before Kevin was on Tom Gilliam’s case.

  “You can’t shut us out this time,” Kevin said. “Why don’t you tell us what you have—or haven’t—done.”

  “I haven’t done much, so far,” Tom admitted. “I wasn’t supposed to be out during school hours. And otherwise, I was grounded.”

  He glared at Kevin and Frank. “Unlike some people, my dad can’t afford a bells-and-whistles computer for me to surf the Net.”

  “Probably afraid of what you’d find out there,” Callie muttered.

  Tom’s ears went pink, but he pretended not to hear.

  Kevin paid no attention. He was still busy dumping on Tom. “Excuses get no work done,” Kevin said. “We’re all taking this project seriously. You’re supposed to be responsible for half the presentation—”

  “If this is about being captain, Wylie, I know Frank made me a captain to shut me up. Do you have a new nickname for me now—Captain Trouble Boy,” he said angrily.

  “I just want you to do some kind of work besides moving your mouth.” Kevin looked around at the other members, expecting their support.

  The problem with Kevin is that he never knows when to stop, Frank thought.

  The buzzer blared over the PA system, and kids grabbed their books and began trooping out.

  • • •

  Joe caught up with Frank at the cafeteria. “So, what’s the latest chapter in the high school soap opera of Tom Gilliam aka Trouble Boy?” he asked with a grin.

  “Kev Wylie kept mouthing off to him—generally about the way Tom keeps mouthing off.” Frank shook his head. “We’re lucky the period ended, otherwise—”

  “I’m talking to you, Gilliam!” Kevin Wylie’s shrill voice cut through the cafeteria noise. “You’ve got to shape up—I’m not going to carry you!”

  Frank turned to where the shouting was coming from. Kids were moving out of the way, heading for spots where they could watch the expected fight.

  “Old Kev’s really pushing it, isn’t he?” Joe muttered. “Does he think he’s got a stronger chin than Biff Hooper?” Frank watched Tom Gilliam as Kevin kept up his tirade. But Trouble Boy didn’t explode. He clenched his fists and grit his teeth but didn’t take a swing.

  “Of course,” Frank said quietly to Joe, “Kev’s dad is Tom’s father’s boss. If he slugs Kev to shut him up, Tom could cost Mr. Gilliam his job.”

  Or maybe, Frank thought, Tom knows his father will get really nasty if Tom fouls things up with Tri-State Express.

  The other kids got bored quickly when it became obvious there wasn’t going to be a fight. Finally, Ke
vin shut his mouth and began feeding his face.

  The rest of the day at school passed without any more incidents. When the Hardy brothers got home, Frank immediately headed for Fenton’s basement office. “How’s the background check on Russell Gilliam going?” he asked.

  His dad pointed to the computer screen. “I don’t have everything yet, but I’ve assembled enough to paint a very interesting picture.”

  Fenton ran the display backward. “Here’s the basic facts—birthday, schooling, et cetera. Gilliam was your basic middle-American, middle-class, boring kid.” He glanced over at Frank. “No hint of any foreign connections in his family.”

  The display rolled on. “Young Russ graduated with an accounting degree, went to work for a middle-size firm, got certified, married, and became a father. Then he switched jobs, becoming a middle manager for a government program. That’s when things began to change.”

  Frank leaned forward. “Change how?”

  “He held this job for less than a year, leaving very suddenly.” Fenton shook his head. “Something shady went on there—I haven’t been able to find out exactly what. But it certainly had an effect on Gilliam’s family. His wife sued for divorce, getting custody of young Tom. Ever since, Russ Gilliam has kept on the move, all over the country. As you found out, his employment record has been, well, spotty. Gilliam seems to hold on to a job for only a couple of months. But he doesn’t clear out in disgrace. Often he leaves with a golden handshake.”

  Frank blinked. “A what?”

  “A very generous farewell check—the sort of thing that usually goes to an important executive.” Fenton frowned. “But he seems to hold only grunt jobs. There’s something very wrong with this picture.”

  Frank looked at Joe, who’d been standing in the doorway, eavesdropping. His brother had the same worried expression that must be on his own face. Maybe Russ Gilliam wasn’t the front man for a national mob, but he seemed to be running some sort of scam. And it involved the company that a friend’s father had worked hard to build up.

  Fenton’s digging had, unfortunately, created many more questions than answers.