Bound for Danger by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

left the mailroom, carrying a stack of papers and whistling a cheerful little tune.
    Frank cleared his throat. “Hi, Coach Perotta,” he said loudly, planting himself in the big guy’s path. “Can Joe and I talk to you privately for a minute?”
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    Coach Perotta looked a little wary at first, but he agreed to chat with us and led us all the way to his private office in the gym.
    â€œHave a seat,” he said, gesturing to two folding chairs and walking around his desk to sit down himself.
    We sat.
    I looked at Frank.
    â€œUm, I guess you’re wondering—” Frank began, but Coach Perotta held up a hand to stop him.
    â€œI have a feeling I know why you’re here,” he said, in a resigned-sounding voice.
    â€œYou do?” I asked, surprised.
    The coach nodded. “Listen, I know the last couple of days haven’t been easy for you boys,” he said, sitting up a little straighter in his chair. “And I want you to know . . . you shouldn’t be ashamed for coming to me like this.”
    Frank and I looked at each other. Huh? “Oh, we’re not,” Frank said.
    â€œMy dad used to tell me, ‘There’s no shame in knowing when you’re beat,’” Coach Perotta went on.
    â€œHuh,” Isaid thoughtfully. “Well, I guess, in a way—”
    â€œNot everybody can be good at everything,” Coach Perotta went on. “Not everybody is cut out for lab work. Not everybody can star in a Broadway show. And certainly, not everybody is cut out for basketball. And sometimes, quitting isn’t a cowardly act. Sometimes quitting is the bravest thing you can do.”
    I was beginning to figure out where this was going. “Coach Perotta,” I said, “I’m sorry, but we didn’t come here to quit.”
    â€œYou didn’t?” The coach looked from me to Frank, his mouth tightening with annoyance. “Then why are you here?”
    â€œWe had something else to ask you about,” Frank said. “Er . . . have you ever had any trouble with hazing on the team?”
    Coach frowned. “Hazing?” he asked. “You mean when they make you drink antifreeze, that kind of thing?”
    â€œUh, something like that,” Frank replied.
    Coach’s expression suddenly went cold. He paused. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Hazing is not tolerated on my team, and I make my expectations very clear to my players. Anyone caught hazing would be kicked off immediately, no questions asked.”
    â€œReally?” I asked.
    â€œReally,” he said, turning his angry gaze on me.
    â€œYou’ve never . . .” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “You’ve never heard of a masked group forcing team members to do certain things? Play better? Especially the players who are struggling?”
    Coach Perotta’snose wrinkled. He suddenly looked disgusted, like I was describing something indecent. “What are you saying, exactly, boy?”
    I glanced at Frank, who nodded slightly. I went on to tell Coach Perotta the whole sordid story of what had happened to us on the night we’d tried to join the team for pizza at Paco’s. The bags over our heads, the car trunk, the pedestal, the punches, the “brand.” The apparent promise Frank and I made to quit the team, and everything that had happened to us this morning after we hadn’t quit.
    Coach Perotta leaned back in his chair and listened, not taking his eyes from mine. Sometimes he looked surprised, sometimes he looked horrified, but he didn’t say anything, and he didn’t ask me to stop. When I finished, he sat in silence for a moment.
    Then suddenly he sat up and roared, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!”
    I jumped, startled. “Sir?”
    He lunged across the desk, pointing a finger in my face. “Do you expect me to believe this hogwash? This elaborate lie?”
    â€œCoach