by Tim Tharp
“I don’t know about awkward,” Brett said. “Actually, it kind of pissed us off. I wouldn’t put it past her to get all involved with that charity just to have something else to put on her college application.”
And Aisling’s like, “Don’t say that, Brett. Ashton wouldn’t do that. Anyway, I wasn’t mad. It was just that we missed her.”
“Sure, we missed her,” Brett agreed. “But she had a way of making you feel guilty for wanting to have fun instead of driving down to some high-crime ghetto where you could get your throat cut just to deliver ham sandwiches.”
“Well, there was that,” Aisling said.
“Yeah, that’d be annoying,” I said. “Was there any particular person she pissed off more than anyone else?”
“You mean besides Rowan?” Aisling asked.
“Rowan?”
“Yeah, he didn’t like it that she spent more time on her charity stuff than at Gangland and everything.”
“So Ashton used to come here?”
“Sure,” Brett said. “But then she decided it was too—I guess—frivolous.”
I wanted to dig into this Rowan thing a little more, but just then Randy showed up.
“Hey, girls,” he said, grinning. “Either of you want to dance?”
Brett and Aisling glanced at each other. “Uh, no,” they said in unison.
“Oh, come on. Why not?” Randy insisted, keeping the grin burning.
“Because no one’s dancing?” replied Aisling.
“And because the band is atrocious?” added Brett.
Randy’s grin fizzled.
“Look,” Brett said to Aisling. “There’s Tres. Let’s go see how he’s holding up.” She reached over and touched my arm again. “Talk to you more later?”
“Sure.” I watched her wind through the crowd to catch up with Tres. She had a whole different walk from the sexy girls at my school—a little less lubricated in the hip area—but it was sexy just the same.
When she latched onto Tres, she gave him a tight hug and leaned her head on his shoulder in a consoling way. He looked like he enjoyed it. I thought it was strange, though, that he’d showed up here, with his sister missing and all. I mean, I could understand that the rest of the kids needed to blow off a little steam, but Tres? You’d think his parents would order him to stay home and hide or something.
A moment later, Nash stepped up next to him and shook his hand. Then with Brett and Aisling, they formed a line and snaked through the crowd and past the stage, Nash in the lead. I had to hand it to Nash—he moved with such easy confidence, like it was something he was born with along with his blond hair and blue eyes. A guy like that—he had plenty of mojo.
They disappeared into a corridor to the right of the stage, and I’m like, “I wonder what goes on back there,” and Audrey’s like, “Probably plotting their gang activities.”
“The chicks here must already have boyfriends,” Randy observed. “I couldn’t get a tumble out of a single one.”
“Did you ever think it might be your mustache?” Audrey said. “You really do need to get rid of that thing. It looks like a caterpillar with mange.”
“Hey,” he said. “Show a little respect for the ’stache. It’s working as hard as it can.”
“Well,” Audrey said, “Dylan’s already had two girls flirting with him.”
“Those two hotties you were talking to? Give me a break. They were probably just high.”
“Yeah,” I said. “High on Dylan Jones.” But I couldn’t help thinking Randy might have a point. Both of them very well could’ve partaken of some chemical appetizers on their way to Gangland. And maybe they were going back for seconds with Nash somewhere down that dark corridor into the bowels of Gangland. A good investigator, I told myself, wouldn’t leave before checking out where that corridor led.
CHAPTER 16
Colonoscopy plowed through a couple more songs before taking a break. At that point, Rowan hopped onto the stage again, and after a few sarcastic remarks about how great the band was, he turned serious, basically repeating the same spiel he handed me about how everyone needed to break up the darkness that Ashton Browning’s disappearance had cast over them. “But make no mistake,” he said. “This isn’t lighthearted fun tonight. It’s heavyhearted. This is serious fun, the kind that’s required to bring us together so we can make it through the hard times until Ashton’s back with us, safe and sound.”
It sounded good, as if he really meant it. But, with a guy like Rowan, there was about a 70–30 chance he was putting on an act.
While he was still on the stage, I noticed Tres emerge from the corridor where he’d disappeared earlier. This seemed like a good time to get a word in with him, but before I could make it over there, he veered away and took the stage next to Rowan.
Everyone cheered as Rowan handed him the microphone. The two of them whispered something to each other, and then Tres looked down and nervously brushed the top of his head. None of that easy confidence for him. He appeared almost scared as he gathered his thoughts. Finally, he looked up at the crowd—kind of—and started to speak, but the microphone squawked with feedback. Rowan stepped over and nudged his hand to move the mike back from his mouth.
“Good evening, everybody,” Tres said softly. “Um, you know I’m not good at speeches, so I’ll just say thank you for coming out to show your support for Ashton. I know she would appreciate it.” There was an awkward silence as he looked toward Rowan, then back at the audience. “So, um, that’s it. Just, thank you.”
He handed the microphone back to Rowan, and everyone applauded politely, the energy of the room momentarily drained. Then Rowan started in about how there was much more entertainment to come and zapped some electricity back into the place. Just like that, Ashton’s shadow disappeared.
“Before Colonoscopy comes back for more sweet indie rock-’n’-roll action,” Rowan announced, “I want to mention some special guests who came all the way up from the South Side.” He looked straight at me. “And the word is they have something very tasty planned to help us celebrate.”
“What’s he talking about?” Audrey asked, and I’m like, “I have no idea. But I think it’s time to pay Nash a visit and find out exactly what goes on down that side corridor.”
As Rowan rambled on about how talent was everywhere—you just needed to know how to find it—Audrey and Randy followed me through the crowd. We didn’t make it into the corridor, though. Big blond Holt blocked our way. “You can’t go back there,” he said, clamping his hand onto my shoulder. “VIPs only.”
Randy stepped up next to me. “Hey, dude, in case you forgot, we’re guests of the main VIP.”
Holt looked down at him. “All that means is you’re just lucky to get in the front door.”
“Yeah?” said Randy. “But how do I know the front door isn’t down that hall?”
“What?” Holt said, consternated.
“All I’m saying is it looked to me like I came in the back door, so if I’m supposed to come in the front door, maybe I need to go down that hall, where the front door really is, and come back in through it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Holt told him.
“Is it? You’re the one who said we were only supposed to come in through the front door. I’m just trying to be official here.”
Holt was getting exasperated, and that was the point, of course. In one of his rare strokes of brilliance, Randy was running the same dumb-ass routine he’d used on Detectives Forehead and Hair Gel. It was perfect. All I had to do now was ease away and sneak down the hall.
The only light was a vague hint of neon that seeped in from the main room, so I had to feel my way along the wall until I came to an open doorway. Running my hand up the wall inside, I found the light switch and flicked it on. The room was about twice the size of my living room at home and appeared to be a combination storage area and dressing room—big cardboard boxes, spare decorations, metal benches and chairs, a long table, empty guitar cases, and ba
ckpacks. Nothing mysterious about the place. But I admit I took a little bit of offense over how Colonoscopy could be considered VIP enough to come back here while I wasn’t.
I turned off the light and crept further into the darkness, passing a couple of closed doors along the way until I noticed, at the far end of the corridor, a sliver of light showing beneath what I could just make out as the black shape of a final door. As I crept nearer, I noticed a sign hanging on the door and held up my phone for a light. The sign was obviously hand-painted, and someone had really gone to a lot of trouble with the calligraphy-style lettering:
O-TOWN ELITES A NORTH SIDE MONARCHS ONLY.
ALL OTHERS WILL BE SHOT AT DAWN.
North Side Monarchs? It took me a moment to place where I’d heard that before, but it was the name Hector Maldonado’s cousin Beto dropped on me that day at the funeral. How would he know about that? I wondered. And why did he think I might be involved with them?
Then it hit me—maybe, just maybe, Hector’s death was somehow connected to Ashton’s disappearance. But how? It didn’t seem likely they’d know each other, much less have the same enemies. Unless he was the South Side boyfriend Rowan had mentioned. The image of Hector in the Dumpster flickered in my head along with what Beto had said: If Hector had drugs in him, someone else must’ve dosed him. I couldn’t help Hector then, but this little clue gave me hope that I might be able to help him now. But what could I do, call Detective Hair Gel and get myself placed back on the suspect list? No. There was still too much I had to find out.
Voices burbled vaguely behind the door, but no matter how hard I pressed my ear against the cool wood, I couldn’t understand a word. Then a sliding lock clacked from inside, and I’m like, Holy crap! They’re going to catch me!
It wasn’t like I was breaking into a sacred crypt or anything, but for some reason my heart felt like it was trying to claw its way out backward through my shoulder blades. At first I backed away, then I turned to run, then I turned again and froze. Just act natural, I told myself. No need to freak out. These aren’t vampires you’re dealing with.
Then someone shouted from the other end of the hall: “Hey, I told you not to come down here.”
It was Holt. Audrey and Randy followed as he strode toward me. Then the door opened and I was double busted.
Nash, Brett, and Aisling walked out, all three of them grinning in the wash of light from the back room. I wasn’t sure, but my guess was they’d been indulging in some more of the sweet yet evergreeny weed.
Holt’s like, “Sorry, Nash, this character sneaked back here,” and Nash’s all, “Don’t worry about it. That’s cool. Dylan’s my man.” He slapped me on the back. “Isn’t that right, Dylan?”
And I’m like, “Yeah?”
“But really,” Nash said, his arm now around my shoulders, guiding me away from the room he just came out of. “What are you doing back here? You guys should be out there schmoozing. Ten o’clock isn’t too far away—you have to cram in the fun.”
“I know,” I said. “That’s why I wanted to come back here. I just wanted to get your ideas on my investigations so far.”
“That’s cool,” Nash said. “But nothing needs investigating back here.”
The girls laughed.
“Seriously, though,” Nash said, “before you head out, I was wondering if you’d do me a little favor.”
“Um, okay,” I said. “What is it?”
“Well, until the band comes back, we’re going to have a little karaoke action, and I thought you three might want to represent the O-Town Elites.”
“O-Town Elites?”
“Yeah, that’s my gang.”
That meant Rowan’s gang must be the North Side Monarchs. Could it be that Hector’s cousin actually thought the Monarchs were a real gang? Could Hector have told him they were? Before I could muster any answers, Audrey stepped up.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “You want us to do this because you think we’ll be terrible and you can win some bet?”
“Not exactly,” Nash replied. “I was hoping you’d be terrible on purpose so I can win a bet.”
“But everyone will think we’re idiots,” I said.
“No they won’t.” Brett gave my arm a squeeze. “They’ll think you’re notorious.”
“And I would love it,” added Aisling.
“I’m in,” Randy piped up from behind Holt.
I looked at Audrey, and she’s like, “It might be kind of funny. Like that time we did the comedy version of ‘Bullet Head’ by Insidious at the journalism fund-raiser.”
“ ‘Bullet Head’!” Nash sounded thrilled. “That’s perfect. I know we have that one on the machine.”
Brett aimed her brilliant blues at me. “Besides, you have to contribute something for getting into Gangland free tonight.”
I didn’t really like the sound of it. After all, I figured an investigator should remain more low-key than that. You’d never see Walker, Texas Ranger, or the Andromeda Man doing karaoke. But I had to make up for getting caught in the forbidden corridor. Besides, what are you going to do when you have a black-haired, blue-eyed rich girl standing so close you can smell the mint on her breath?
CHAPTER 17
I agreed to go through with the bad karaoke under one condition—that they didn’t announce us by our real names. Nash said that was all right by him, and after some discussion, we ended up with me as Nitro, Randy as TNT, and Audrey as Lil’ Dynamite. But there was no time to rehearse. The Hollisterites herded us out of the corridor, and we squeezed our way to the front of the stage, where Rowan was already rambling off a long, overblown introduction to the first act, a tall, lanky brunette by the name of Paige Harrison.
That was her first mistake, I thought. No cool alias.
As the opening notes of one of those horrible generic girlpop songs started up, she slunk across the stage to the microphone, popping her eyes wide and licking her lips in what appeared to be a caricature of your typical teen diva. Now, I’m no American Idol judge, but even I could tell she was way off-key, and I’m not sure that part was intended. She was pretty funny, though. She had to strain her eyes to read the lyrics, and with her awkward bumping and grinding, she had all the grace of an ostrich with its tail feathers on fire.
I knew she was supposed to be bad, but as I listened to the boos and jeers and laughter of the crowd, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. There were so many gorgeous girls around, and she was so obviously not gorgeous I found myself hoping she’d drop the act and end up being great after all. No such luck, though. She was horrible from start to finish.
“That’s going to be hard to beat,” I told Audrey.
“Yeah,” she said. “We’d better start off with our big guns. Let Randy go first.”
Nash introduced us as if we actually were three badasses from the wrong side of town, even going so far as listing our supposed crimes: barbecuing a baby, killing a hobo with a pitchfork, and stealing all the stuffed animals out of the game machine in the lobby of Pizzalicious.
The karaoke machine cranked up the beat as soon as we took the stage, and Nash handed off the microphone to Randy. The crowd cheered and booed at the same time. Randy wasn’t involved in our journalism fund-raiser performance, so he had a hard time with the lyrics, but he made up for it with his god-awful dancing. Moving to the very edge of the stage, he grimaced, twisted, threw up his version of gang signals, and grabbed his crotch. At times, he looked like he was being riddled by machine-gun fire. It was pretty hilarious, except I knew he thought he was phenomenal.
When his part was done, he pranced back and handed the microphone off to Lil’ Dynamite. Rocking her shoulders in perfect time to the beat, she launched into the lyrics of “Bullet Head” with a vengeance. No pretending to be bad for her—she ruled. But about halfway through, she veered away from Insidious’s rhymes and started freestyling her own. I’d seen her do this before—the girl could seriously throw down:
Boys in the hallway putting
up a cockfight.
Losers and winners, they both the same at midnight.
Girlie-girls with satin gloves twirling in their ball gowns.
Everyone bleeds red every time they fall down.
Flashing cash creeps they never see the real me.
And all of you straight fits don’t know how to feel me.
Then it was back to the “Bullet Head” chorus, and for the first time, the crowd was neither cheering nor booing. I don’t think they quite knew how to process what just blew at them.
Then it was my turn. Lil’ Dynamite handed off the microphone, and I knew I couldn’t stick to the script either. After a couple of lines, I started in about how I was a real investigator who wouldn’t stop digging till I found the perpetrator. Didn’t matter if they were rich or if they were poor, they’d better look out ’cause I’d be knocking at their front door.
But I was a journalist, not a rapper, and the rhymes came unraveled pretty quickly. The boos roared after that, and I doubt many people heard the rest. Before I wrapped it up, though, I caught a glimpse of Tres standing in the front row. He had this weird expression on his face like he was angry or worried or both. Or maybe it was just sweet but evergreeny weed paranoia. Whatever it was, it seemed personal and aimed at me.
After our performance, we remained on the stage, and Paige Harrison joined us for the award—or anti-award—presentation. Rowan took the mike first and crowed about how awesome Paige was, heavy on the sarcasm. Then Nash grabbed the mike away and argued that Nitro, TNT, and Lil’ Dynamite were way awesomer than anyone who had ever done karaoke in the history of the art form.
Now it was time to vote by popular decree. First, Rowan held his hand above Paige’s head and called for the audience to voice their support. Boos rolled toward the stage like a huge dark wave, and Rowan smiled. Apparently boos were a good thing in this kind of contest. Next, Nash held his hand over my head, and again the boos rose up—only this time they came crashing like a tsunami.
We won by being bigger losers than probably the biggest loser girl at Gangland. I wasn’t really sure how I should take that, but Audrey seemed proud, and Nash was obviously thrilled. He was going to fail in the battle of the bad bands, but at least he pulled out a win at lousy karaoke.
