“Let him get ahead. Then we’ll drive up and ask who was in the black Thunderbird, turn around, and leave,” Jupe said confidently.

Pete pulled up to a valet parking stand in the shadow of an enormous white painted brick mansion, the clubhouse. Beyond the building lay acres of trees and grass with tennis courts, swimming pools, and an 18-hole golf course.

Pete stopped the car and lowered his window to ask one of the parking attendants about the black Thunderbird.

But the young man quickly opened the door for Pete. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said.

Pete turned to Jupe with a look of surprise.

“Can you tell us,” asked Jupe, “who was in the black Thunderbird that just pulled in?”

“Sorry,” the guy said. “I just started working today. I don’t know who anyone is.”

“Well,” Jupe said, suddenly sounding as if he had belonged to the club for years, “he looked just like an old friend of my father’s. We’re going to go say hello.”

“Sure,” said the car attendant, handing a parking claim check to Pete. “Great car.”

“Thanks,” said Pete. “Want to see the engine?”

 “Save it, Pete,” said Jupe, leading the way up to the clubhouse.

Inside, Jupe and Pete stepped into a large lobby filled with comfortable chairs and couches, fragrant flowers, and soft music.

Slowly they wandered across the soft Oriental carpeting toward the dining room, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. It was a huge glass-enclosed patio filled with round dark wooden tables and straight-backed wooden chairs with colorful seat cushions.

Jupe and Pete stopped in the doorway.

“See him?” asked Jupe.

“Yeah,” Pete said, stepping back out of the line of sight. But he gave a quick nod in the direction of a small table near one window.

Michael Anthony was having lunch with a beautiful young woman. She wore a bright green dress that made her suntanned skin and reddish-brown hair stand out in the room even more.

“Maybe she’s the one he’s working for,” Pete said.

But then Michael Anthony reached across the table to hold the woman’s hand. “It doesn’t look like a business partnership to me,” Jupe said. “Still, I wonder if she has a direct connection to this case.”

“Hey,” Pete said, poking Jupe, “someone’s coming this way, definite manager type.”

“Probably the maître’d” Jupe corrected.

“I don’t care if he’s the welcome-wagon lady. He doesn’t look happy to see us. What do we do?”

Jupe sighed. “I wish we could stay for lunch. The shrimp scampi looks delicious.”

Pete and Jupe went back to wait in the Porsche for Michael Anthony. Jupe kept an eye on the steps to the clubhouse, while Pete set the radio presets and adjusted the graphic equalizer.

“Six speakers,” he said, trying to impress Jupe.

“Five more than the House of Representatives,” said Jupe, not very impressed. “Try to find where to put the key. Here comes our man.”

Michael Anthony walked down from the clubhouse still holding hands with the young woman. But they got into separate cars.

“Follow her?” asked Pete.

“Follow him,” said Jupe.

They drove south past Rocky Beach, past Santa Monica and El Porto Beach. Then Anthony got off the main roads and took several smaller ones that ended at a stone wall with an iron arch. The large brass plaque on the stone wall said Costa Verde college.

Jupe’s mind spun with ideas. It was as if after days of wandering around without water, he had suddenly come upon an ocean.

 “Costa Verde — Shoremont’s number-one rival!”

Jupe said, thinking out loud as Pete slowly followed the black car up ahead. “Here’s an interesting possibility: Michael Anthony is working for Costa Verde College — maybe for Coach Bernie Mehl. Knowing that Duggan’s reputation is already suspect, they’re paying off Shoremont players to start a scandal.”

“That’s what Coach Duggan thinks. He practically said so in a TV interview after the game last night,” Pete said.

“Really?” Jupe said. “I didn’t see it. What did he say exactly?”

“He said something like ‘Bernie Mehl’s trying to start a scandal and ruin me.’ ”

“Hmmm.” Jupe was silent for a moment. “Perhaps the bribery scheme is bigger than just one school. Michael Anthony may be the messenger at a number of schools.”

Pete’s face fell.

“These are just possibilities, Pete.”

“Yeah, but if it’s that big, we’ll never be able to get enough proof,” Pete said.

“Come on,” Jupe said as Pete pulled into a parking place. “This is a start.”

They had to follow Anthony on foot now. He seemed to know exactly where he was heading as he strode along the sidewalks of the small college. Pete and Jupe jogged behind, trying to keep him in sight and dodge the students walking by.

“Hey, you fat, featherbrained weasel!”

The voice was so angry that Jupe stopped in surprise to see what was going on. He saw four guys standing under a nearby tree. Instantly he recognized two of them.

“Uh — oh,” said Pete. “Looks like numbers 32 and 52 — the basketball players who roughed you up last night. No sweat. We can handle them again.”

The four Costa Verde jocks dropped their books under the tree and started coming at Jupe.

“Hey, guys. I think Polly here wants a mouthful of broken teeth!”

“Pete,” Jupe said, “I don’t think we can handle four of them. My advice is run!” Jupe took off.

Pete followed, catching up with Jupe quickly. The four jocks were pounding the sidewalk behind them, gaining fast.

“They’re going to pulverize me!” Jupe yelled, puffing as he ran.

“I’ll split off and try to draw some of them away,” Pete called.

Jupe ran as fast as he could, but he didn’t know which way to turn to find the Porsche or the parking lot. So he just bolted toward a large lawn. Almost instantly he developed a pain in his side from running. He looked back and saw that only one of the basketball players had followed Pete. That left three enormous guys breathing down Jupe’s neck.

Jupe reached a street and dashed in front of an oncoming car, then cut through an alley between two classroom buildings. But as he rounded the corner, hoping to duck out of sight, he ran smack into a group of Costa Verde students.

“Kenny! Grab that piece of dog meat!” a voice behind Jupe yelled. Jupe felt hands grabbing at him. It must have been Kenny, a guy in the crowd he had rammed into.

Jupe twisted away, but the collision had slowed him down enough so that now the three jocks were almost even with him. A moment later he felt hands grab him again. It was number 52, wearing a green Costa Verde T-shirt. He held on to Jupe and yanked him around. Then before Jupe knew what was happening, all three jocks were pushing him, punching him, and roughing him up.

Jupe struggled and squirmed, but it was no use. With three monstrous guys holding his arms and legs his judo kicks went nowhere. All of a sudden Jupe felt himself being lifted up and carried away. Where were they taking him? A moment later he found out. His attackers put him down hard, stuffing him into a wire trash basket at the corner of the street.

“That’s where you belong, Polly!” number 52 said, kicking at Jupe inside the basket.

“Yeah—stay in your cage, parrot. And try not to mess up the newspaper in the bottom of it!”

All three guys laughed, then turned around and started to walk away.

Jupe was furious, humiliated, bruised, sore — and sticky from something in the bottom of the trash basket. But before he could decide what to do, Pete pulled up in the Porsche.

“Hop in,” Pete called, lowering the electric window nearest the curb. Slowly Jupe climbed out of the trash basket, got into the Porsche, and locked the door. He sat there silently for a moment, breathing heavily and dripping sweat. Then he noticed that Pete had a cut lip and a swollen eye.

“That fourth guy gave you trouble, I see.”