Wreck and roll, p.1
Wreck and Roll, page 1
It’s Showtime. . . .
As showtime drew near once more, Ms. Greenberg dashed up to them, looking almost frantic. “Have you seen the Browning’s electrician?” she asked. “We’re having trouble with the lights, and we can’t find him.”
“We haven’t seen him,” Phil replied. “But I’ve done all the lighting in the Bayport High productions for the last three years. I could probably fill in if you want me to.”
“The union will kill me if they find out,” Ms. Greenberg said, “but we can’t wait any longer. Go for it, Phil.”
Phil nodded and headed up the spiral stairs leading to the big catwalks overhead.
“Don’t worry,” Frank said. “Phil’s a wizard with electronics.”
“He’d better be,” Ms. Greenberg replied.
The Hardys and their girlfriends looked up to where Phil was working on the lighting. Suddenly Phil lurched over the edge of the catwalk and slipped toward the stage below.
Contents
* * *
Chapter 1: Band in Bayport
Chapter 2: The Bouncer Bounce
Chapter 3: The Long Drop
Chapter 4: Dial-a-Threat
Chapter 5: Songs from the Shadows
Chapter 6: Cutting the Chords
Chapter 7: Lightning Rods
Chapter 8: Stalker in the Dark
Chapter 9: Mob Rule
Chapter 10: Bad Eats
Chapter 11: Shock Rock
Chapter 12: Battle of the Bands
Chapter 13: Vette Dash
Chapter 14: Last Band Standing
Chapter 15: Flash in the Band
1 Band in Bayport
* * *
“Grab your dancing shoes and prepare to party!” Phil Cohen announced as he walked into the living room in Joe and Frank Hardy’s home. Phil slicked back his dark hair and adjusted the collar of his shirt.
Frank, Joe, and their girlfriends—Callie Shaw and Iola Morton—all laughed. Phil was known for his genius with electronics and his keen intellect, not for being cool. Tonight, though, he was dressed to the nines and looked ready to star in a music video.
Phil raised an eyebrow at his friends. “What?” he asked. “Is my shirt hanging out or something?”
“Nope,” Frank said. “We’re just not used to you being a fashion plate.”
“And I think you’ve forgotten your pocket protector,” Joe joked.
“It’s keeping my slide rule company at home,” Phil replied, chuckling. “Are you all ready to go? The show starts in less than half an hour.”
“Are we dressed right for this gig?” Callie Shaw asked. Frank’s pretty, blond girlfriend smoothed the creases in her sleek blue skirt and satin top.
“I look like I belong in the Stone Age,” Iola Morton agreed. She checked her own casual outfit and frowned. She and Callie looked great, but for the first time ever they weren’t nearly as well-dressed as Phil.
Joe Hardy laughed. “What does that make Frank and me?” he asked. “Cave men?” He hitched up his jeans, pulled down his black T-shirt, and ran one hand through his unruly blond hair. “Maybe I should have gotten a new do for tonight’s festivities.”
“We’re just going to a concert,” Frank said, “not putting on a fashion show.” He put his arm around Callie. “You girls look super. You’ll be the envy of every girl there.”
“Thanks,” Callie said. She took a moment to admire her boyfriend’s lean, muscular frame, dark hair, and flashing brown eyes. “You’re looking pretty super yourself.”
Phil checked his watch. “Well, we’ll all be looking late if we don’t get a move on.” He opened the Hardys’ front door and waved his friends forward. “My chariot awaits. Let’s hit the road.”
“Well-dressed and impatient,” Joe said, his blue eyes twinkling. “We’re seeing a whole new side of the Philmeister.”
“Less talk, more hustle,” Phil said, pretending to kick Joe’s rear end.
Phil and the others hustled toward his aging green Toyota, which was sitting by the curb.
“Did you buy a bumper-sticker factory?” Frank asked. Bright, adhesive ads covered nearly every available surface of Phil’s rusting car.
Callie scanned the names on the stickers. “I didn’t know you were such a fan of local music,” she said.
A mischievous grin drew over Iola’s face. “Phil’s not into all local music,” she observed. “The Vette Smash stickers outnumber the rest, ten to one.”
“Hop in,” Phil said, holding the car door open. “I’ll give you the rundown once we get rolling.”
The other teens piled into the car as Phil slid behind the wheel. He pulled the Toyota away from the Hardys’ house and onto the main road leading to downtown Bayport.
“Too bad Chet couldn’t come with us,” Callie said.
“He’s helping our grandparents out on the farm this week,” Iola said. “The school’s even giving him credit for it.”
“It’s nice that you Mortons are keeping touch with your roots,” Frank said.
Iola nodded. “That farm’s been in our family for generations. Even though we live in the city now, it’s nice to go back for vacations and stuff.”
“Maybe Joe and I can tag along sometime,” Frank suggested.
“That’d be fun,” Iola agreed.
“So, Phil,” Joe said, “what’s the deal between you and Vette Smash? Are they paying you to advertise or what?”
“I think the stickers are all that’s holding this old heap together,” Frank said. “Auto-body work has never been Phil’s strong suit.”
“Very funny, you guys,” Phil said. “Vette Smash is a great band. Tonight’s concert will make believers out of all of you.”
“I caught a Vette Smash tune on the Bayport High station earlier today,” Iola said. “They’ve been getting a lot of airplay on WBPT, too.”
“They’re a hot act,” Callie agreed. “The Bayport High pep squad is planning to use their music for a couple of numbers this season. Everybody who’s anybody is listening to them now.”
“Being ‘in’ has never been Phil’s gig, though,” Frank said. “I sense something more going on here. Right, Phil?”
Phil turned the car onto Racine Street, heading north toward the harbor. “No need to make a mystery out of it,” he said. “I met one of the band’s members at an acoustic guitar seminar, and we hit it off.”
“And this member’s name would be . . . ?” Iola asked. She arched one dark eyebrow at her friend.
“Julie Steele,” Phil replied, “but in the band she’s known as Chrome Jewel.”
“Aha!” Iola and Callie chimed simultaneously.
“Hey, it’s no big deal,” Phil said, smiling sheepishly. “We’ve just gone out a couple of times. . . .”
“That puts this case to rest,” Joe said, leaning back in his seat. “Any guy would support his new girlfriend’s band.”
Phil turned slightly red. “Busted.”
“Nothing slips past these guys,” Iola said, laughing.
“Or their nosy girlfriends,” Frank added with a smile.
“Okay,” Phil said. “But even if I wasn’t going out with Jewel, Vette Smash would still be a great band.”
“We’ll be the judge of that—after the concert,” Joe said. “Where are we seeing them?”
“The old Browning Theater,” Phil replied. “Two nights only, two shows a night. The band’s got a pretty hectic schedule this week—a lot of promos and stuff. I’m helping out wherever I can.”
“And building up the audience by bringing all your friends,” Callie noted.
“We don’t count as members of the audience,” Phil said. “We’ve got backstage passes.”
“So tell us about Julie,” Frank said.
“She plays bass and sings,” Phil said. “She does some song writing, too, and . . . hey!”
A pickup truck suddenly swerved at them out of the opposite lane. Phil pulled the Toyota toward the side of the road, barely avoiding a car parked by the curb.
“Vette Smash stinks!” called a guy from the truck. He lobbed a soda bottle at the Toyota. Phil swerved left, and the bottle crashed to the street beside them.
The guys in the truck laughed and roared down the road.
“Those rats!” Joe fumed as the pickup drove off. “Go after them, Phil!” He leaned over the front seat to urge Phil forward.
“Take it easy, Joe,” Frank said, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Those guys aren’t worth getting worked up about. The police patrol this area pretty heavily. If we go after them, we’ll probably wind up caught in a car chase with those jerks.”
“Frank’s right,” Callie said.
Joe sat back down. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “But letting them get away with lobbing bottles really burns me up.”
“They haven’t gotten away with it,” Iola said. “Look.”
As she spoke, a police car pulled out of a side street in front of Phil’s Toyota. The cruiser’s lights flashed on, and it quickly gained speed. Moments later, the patrol car had pulled the pickup over to the side of the road.
Phil slowly cruised by the police. The Hardys and their friends tried not to grin too much as they passed the bottle tossers.
“That truck has almost as many Green Machine bumper stickers as you have Vette Smash stickers,” Joe noted.
“Isn’t Green Machine another local band?” Iola asked.
“Yeah,” Phil replied. “They have this big rivalry with Vette Smash. I’m not surprised that their fans would thr ow bottles at us. A lot of Green Machine’s audience are real jerks.”
“I didn’t know being a fan of local music could be so dangerous,” Callie said.
“The rivalries get pretty intense sometimes,” Phil said. He pulled off the main drag and drove past the Browning Theater.
“Looks like finding a parking space will be pretty intense, too,” Frank said. The street in front of the auditorium was jammed with parked cars—unusual for the old building.
The Browning was built in the 1920s as a movie palace. It had been remodeled several times before being turned into a second-run and revival movie house. A popular destination with Bayport moviegoers, the Browning occasionally hosted live music as well.
“A crowd like this ought to help keep the Browning alive,” Joe said. “You might find parking closer to the river. There ought to be some spots a couple of blocks down.”
“Good idea,” Phil said. “Let’s drive by the back first, though, and see if there’s something there. We’ll be using the stage entrance, anyway.”
“Ah,” Iola said with a sigh, “the perks of being with the band.” They all laughed.
Unfortunately the perks that night didn’t include a reserved parking spot in the back. The alleys behind the theater were just as crowded as the street in front. Finding nothing, Phil took Joe’s suggestion and headed toward the river. They found a parking spot five blocks away and hiked back toward the Browning. The evening was pleasantly cool and none of them minded the walk.
In front of the Browning, a crowd of fans milled around, jostling one another as they pushed through the theater doors. Phil led the Hardys and their girlfriends past the mob and into an alley leading to the back of the old building. As they rounded the alley corner, though, he slapped his head.
“I left the passes in the car!” he said, angry with himself. “You all go hang out by the back door. I’ll run back and get them.” He turned and hustled away into the darkness.
“I guess following a band has made Phil forgetful as well,” Iola said with a smile.
“That’s okay,” Callie said. “Geniuses like him are pretty much expected to be absentminded.”
The four friends continued around the corner to the Browning’s back entrance. A long service alleyway ran behind the building, connecting the businesses surrounding the old theater to the side streets on the east and west. Smaller alleys, like the ones the teens had come down, connected the main streets on the north and south sides to the service alley.
“It’s like a maze back here,” Joe noted.
The stage entrance of the Browning was facing a dead-end alley between two large buildings. A big Dumpster stood near the serviceway, and the scent of stale garbage filled the air. At the far end of the alley, a single lightbulb burned over an old wooden door marked STAGE DOOR.
“So much for the glamour of stardom,” Frank said, wrinkling his nose.
Callie shrugged. “I guess everybody’s got to work their way up,” she said.
A big security guard in a red Vette Smash shirt stood near the door. He folded his arms across his chest and glowered as the Hardys and their girlfriends approached.
“Go around front,” the guard said. “You can’t come in this way.” The ID hanging on a thin chain around his neck identified him as Geo Kaspar.
“We’re just waiting for our friend,” Joe said. “He left our passes in the car and had to go back to get them.”
Kaspar scoffed. “I’ve heard that one before. I’ve heard them all before. This is a secured area. Move on out of here before I do it for you.”
“Cool down,” Frank said. “Our friend will be back in a minute or two.”
“Are you guys deaf or just stupid?” Kaspar asked. His deep voice echoed menacingly in the alleyway. “No one’s allowed back here except the band and their associates. So, vamoose!”
“Maybe you’re the one who’s deaf,” Joe snapped. “We said we’ve got passes, and they’ll be here in a minute or two. What’s your hurry?”
Kaspar rolled up the short sleeves of his shirt, exposing his bulging shoulders and muscular arms. He cracked his knuckles and stepped menacingly toward Joe. “I warned you,” he said, “but you just wouldn’t listen. . . .”
2 The Bouncer Bounce
* * *
“Take it easy,” Frank said. He stepped between the bouncer and Joe, trying to head off a fight.
Kaspar put his fist down and shoved Frank aside. Frank’s back hit the alley’s brick wall, forcing his breath out.
Kaspar tried to grab Joe, but the younger Hardy ducked under the big man’s arms. Joe stuck out his foot as Kaspar lumbered past. The bouncer tripped, stopping himself inches before his face hit the wall. He turned, rage burning in his eyes.
“Calm down,” Frank said, stepping forward again. “There’s no need for this.”
In response Kaspar whipped a trash can lid at the elder Hardy. Frank ducked, but the lid ricocheted off the wall behind him and smashed into the back of his shoulders. Frank staggered to his knees. Callie and Iola rushed to help him.
“That does it,” Joe said to Kaspar. “You’re going down!”
The bouncer came at him again. Joe stepped aside and seized Kaspar’s wrist as the bouncer grabbed for him. Joe twisted the big man’s arm into a hammerlock and shoved him against the wall.
“I’ll get you for this,” Kaspar said, snarling. His words were nearly unintelligible because his face was pressed against the bricks.
Phil ran around the corner of the alley. “What’s going on?” he asked, taking in the scene. He glanced from Joe to Kaspar, who was still pressed up against the wall. “Is there some kind of problem?”
“Not anymore,” Joe said, smiling.
“You know these creeps, Cohen?” Kaspar sputtered. “Get ’em off me!”
“Hey, Joe,” Phil said. “Let Geo go. I’m sure this must be some kind of misunderstanding.”
Reluctantly Joe let Kaspar go.
“You know this knuckle-breaker, Phil?” the younger Hardy asked.
“Yeah,” Phil said. “He usually works backstage. What are you doing out here, Geo?”
Kaspar rubbed his jaw and scowled at Joe. “The regular security guy—Sullivan—had to step away for a minute,” he said. “I was filling in when these jerks tried to muscle past me. . . .”
“That’s not true,” Callie interjected.
“We were just waiting in the alley for you,” Iola added. “We tried to tell this guy that, but . . .”
“Maybe I jumped the gun,” Kaspar admitted, dusting himself off, “but any crazy fan could claim they were waiting for a friend by the stage entrance.”
“Would it have killed you to wait two minutes to find out if we were being honest?” Joe asked, still fuming.
“There are a lot of creeps who want to bother the band,” Kaspar said. “Hangers-on, groupies, nutcases . . . you can’t blame me for trying to run you off.”
“Well,” Phil said sternly, “they’re with me.” He held out his backstage passes for Kaspar to examine.
Kaspar didn’t even glance at them. “Yeah, okay. Go on in.” He glared angrily at Joe and Frank as the five teens walked through the door into the dimly lit backstage area.
As they entered, the group passed a tall, redheaded teen whose name tag read SULLIVAN. Phil exchanged nods with Sullivan as the regular bouncer relieved Kaspar at the back door. Kaspar sulked off toward the dressing rooms.
“If we’d arrived a couple of minutes later, we could have dealt with someone who knew how to do their job,” Iola noted testily.
Phil shrugged. “Geo’s job isn’t bouncing. He’s part of the road crew—kind of a jack-of-all-trades. He does some sound checks, some lighting, some security, and even plays a few licks on the guitar. Hey, there’s Billie Greenberg, the band’s manager.” Phil waved to a short, frizzy-haired woman who was pacing nervously backstage. She was dressed in a fashionable skirt and blouse, and wore a pair of glasses dangling from a golden chain around her neck.
She smiled and walked toward them, ducking past several busy technicians. “Hey, Phil,” she said. “I almost thought you weren’t going to make it tonight. Are these your friends?”
Phil nodded. “Joe and Frank Hardy, Callie Shaw, and Iola Morton, meet Billie Greenberg.”
