“Well, 1986 was the year you added sugar to the French fry oil and you had live chickens marching in front of your restaurants with picket signs that said ‘I’ll do anything for Big Barney,’ ” Jupe said.
“I’m going to adopt this guy!” Big Barney announced to the crowd. “Juliet, you’ve got a new brother!”
While Jupe and Barney traded Chicken Coop history, Pete and Kelly were talking with Juliet. She was perched near the back of the low-diving board.
“Great party,” Kelly said. “What a crowd. Who are all these people?”
“I don’t know — just a bunch of people Dad invited,” Juliet said. Her shoes were off and she was dipping her toes in the water. “I mean, I’m really confused, and I’m usually just the opposite — super-organized. This memory loss is driving me crazy. People keep coming up to me, saying ‘Glad you’re better,’ and I can’t tell if I don’t know them or I just don’t remember them.”
“You haven’t seen a tall, ugly guy, maybe wearing an army camouflage jacket?” asked Pete.
Juliet shook her head. “Doesn’t sound like my type,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, Juliet, I forgot to tell you about him,” Kelly said. “I call him Mr. Sweetness. He came to your room the night of your accident. I had the feeling you didn’t know him, especially since he never showed up again.”
A look of real fear crossed Juliet’s brow.
“Let us worry about that,” Pete said. “Hey, how’s your car? I might be able to help you fix it up if it’s not totaled.”
“My car? Big Barney shipped it off to the junkyard real fast. He wouldn’t even let me see it,” Juliet said.
“And you still don’t remember anything that happened to you that day?” Kelly asked.
“No,” Juliet said. “Maybe something will click when I go back to work next week.”
That evening after the party, the Three Investigators sat around eating pizza in Jupe’s workshop at The Jones Salvage Yard. Jupe tried to stick to his diet by coming up with a compromise: After every slice of pepperoni pizza he ate two pieces of cantaloupe. It wasn’t exactly a system Mrs. Teitelbaum would approve of.
“So what if Don Dellasandro called the hospital a lot?” Pete asked.
“It’s the way he called, the sound of his voice, what he said,” Jupe said, leaning back in his swivel chair.
“Okay, we’ll find out more about him,” Bob said, swigging a cola. “But what’s this about having a date tomorrow?”
“We have a date with Big Barney’s chickens,” Jupe said. “He practically adopted me at the party. I guess he recognized a true fan. I managed to secure an invitation to visit his research lab and main offices.”
“What do you think we’ll find? Boxes sitting around marked ‘poison’?” Pete asked, licking a piece of pizza cheese off his fingers.
“I don’t know what we’ll find there,” Jupe answered. “It depends on how thoroughly we snoop around.”
“It sounds great to me,” Bob said. “But — ”
“We know,” Jupe and Pete said in unison. “Sax Sendler’s Rock-Plus Talent Agency comes first.”
“Sorry,” Bob said. “Good luck, guys.”
They finished the pizza, closed up the workshop, and walked outside the big iron gates of the junkyard to Bob’s and Pete’s cars. The sky was pink, but not for long.
“Look what’s parked across the street,” Pete said, pointing down the block to a black Porsche convertible. “Sixty thousand dollars on four mag wheels. An awesome machine!”
“But look at the driver—the guy leaning on the hood,” Jupe said quietly. “He’s wearing an army camouflage jacket. Just like Mr. Sweetness. ”
For one second Pete froze. Then he took off running down the street toward the man. “Hey, you!” Pete shouted.
Bob and Jupe followed, but the man in the jacket hopped into his Porsche and roared away.
Instantly Pete turned back and headed for his own car. He jumped behind the wheel and zoomed down the street after the Porsche.
“Great acceleration,” Pete said out loud to himself as his Scirocco pulled up right behind Mr. Sweetness’s Porsche.
But as they came to the first curve and Pete hit his brakes, he suddenly wished that he weren’t going so fast — because the brakes were gone. The pedal was pumping nothing but air!
Pete was speeding down a hill at 50 miles per hour, headed straight toward a busy intersection with a flashing red light!
For a moment Pete couldn’t stop pumping the brakes. They had to be working! He had checked the brake fluid himself!
But the fact was, the brakes were dead. They weren’t gripping at all. And his car was picking up speed on the downgrade. It was only a matter of seconds until he’d go crashing through the intersection ahead. That is, he’d go crashing through it if he got lucky. More likely, he’d go crashing into another car crossing the intersection. After all — the flashing red light was on Pete’s side, telling him to stop. And the other drivers had no way of knowing that Pete’s Scirocco was totally out of control.
Pete’s throat was so tight it felt like there was a whole apple stuck in it, instead of just his Adam’s apple. His palms were sweating too.
But that didn’t stop him from grabbing for the gear-shift knob. He downshifted from fourth to second, hoping the drag on the engine would slow his car down. Meanwhile the black Porsche in front of him skidded into a U-turn, burned rubber, and took off.
The Scirocco slowed down, but not enough. He was only a hundred yards from the intersection. Cars were whizzing through it from the crossroad as if the yellow flasher on their side didn’t exist.
Honnnnnnk! A blue Honda beeped at Pete to warn him that he was going too fast.
With his heart pounding, Pete downshifted again, grabbed the hand brake, and jerked the steering wheel to the right.
Instantly his car swerved off the road and into an empty lot where some low condominiums were being built. The rough terrain at the construction site slowed his car down — but it was a cement block, hidden in the tall grass, that brought the Scirocco to a jarring halt.
Pete’s chest bounced against the steering wheel, but his seat belt kept him away from the windshield.
There goes the suspension for sure, Pete thought. He took two deep
