Mojo

by Tim Tharp

  First, I messaged him online about meeting in person, said I wanted to write an article on the Hollister football team and that he would be the perfect person to interview. I didn’t mention Ashton. No need to leave a written trail showing that I might still be investigating her case. And actually that whole deal was on the back burner anyway. Right now I was more focused on figuring out how to keep my nose on my face.

  His reply to my message confirmed just how wrong Audrey was about him. He had nothing but enthusiasm about the idea. One problem—he wanted me to meet him on the Hollister campus so I could actually watch the team practice, and I wasn’t so sure I wanted to show my face around there.

  Besides, Audrey was no longer a dependable chauffeur. In fact, she claimed she and Trix were hanging out together that afternoon. That was no big deal for Nash, though. He said he’d send Brett out to pick me up. Black-haired, blue-eyed, beautiful Brett. This was going to call for some cologne. And maybe even the porkpie hat.

  She agreed to pick me up outside of school after I got done with my journalism stuff, which I admit was my idea. How could I resist showing the nonbelievers that Dylan Jones was more than just some Body Bag fool?

  As I waited on her, it was perfect—about twenty kids milled around in front of school, stupid Corman Rogers among them. I couldn’t think of a better audience. Unfortunately, Randy showed up and wanted to come along. I’m like, “I don’t think so, dude. They’re just expecting me.”

  “Come on,” he said. “You can’t cut your buddy out of some possible rich-girl action.”

  That was exactly the attitude that made me not want to bring him. “Forget it. This isn’t about trying to pick up chicks.”

  “What are you talking about? Everything is about trying to pick up chicks.”

  “Forget it,” I told him. “You’ll just screw things up.”

  He didn’t like that. “Really, I’ll screw things up? What—do you think you’re some kind of high-class act now?”

  “No. It’s just that I’m friends with these people, and they hardly know you.”

  “That’s a load of crap. You’ve hung out with them, what, one more time than I have?”

  At that point Brett glided up to the curb in a sweet Mercedes SUV, the same deep blue color as her eyes.

  “Look,” I told Randy. “I’ll talk to them. Maybe you can come along next time.”

  The window of the Mercedes rolled down, and Brett goes, “Hey, stranger, you need a ride?”

  I turned away from Randy and tipped the porkpie. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  As I headed to the car, he goes, “You suck, Dylan.”

  I didn’t respond to that, but as Brett and I drove away, Randy slunk toward the building, his head bowed and his hands in pockets. The other kids, though, stood there checking out me and the fabulous Mercedes. Even Corman Rogers, in his usual all-black getup, stared after us, his tongue practically hanging from his mouth.

  Of course, the interior of the Mercedes was luxurious, but it still didn’t look as classy as Brett. She was the type that would look rich even in jeans and a T-shirt, not that she was wearing that. No, she had on this stylish swirly-patterned mid-thigh-length dress and little ankle-high boots. Needless to say, I immediately forgot all about Randy.

  As for my attire, I’d picked out my Beatles Let It Be T-shirt. Brett glanced at it and goes, “So, you like the Beatles?”

  And I’m like, “They’re just the greatest band ever, probably.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, that’s what I think too. Either them or Death Cab for Cutie.”

  Comparing Death Cab for Cutie with the Beatles was sacrilegious in my book, but I let it go.

  Otherwise, she was pretty easy to talk to and actually seemed interested in my high school and the kids who went there. So I guess my guard was down when she came around to asking me if I’d found out anything new about Ashton. Up to now I’d intended on only discussing the latest developments with Nash, but suddenly here I was telling Brett all about Sideburns and his switchblade and more than a little bit building up my role in chasing him off.

  “Wow,” she said, flashing me an admiring look. “You’re brave.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said modestly.

  “Sure you are, going through something so horrible, and you’re still not giving up on Ashton.”

  “I wouldn’t be much of an investigative journalist if I let myself get scared off too easily,” I told her. What else are you going to say to a girl like Brett? I couldn’t let on that I was seriously considering chickening out of the whole deal.

  It took about a half hour to get to Hollister. I’d never been on the campus, and let me tell you—it was something. You had to go through a checkpoint to even get on the premises, but that was nothing for Brett. She just gave the guard a wave, and he waved back, and we were in.

  The rest of the place looked like how I’d imagine an Ivy League college campus would look. My high school pretty much packed everyone into one big box, but Hollister had a whole assortment of buildings, and they must’ve used the same landscaper as Mr. Browning. Everything was completely spruce.

  I’m like, “How much does it cost to go here?”

  Brett laughed. “Enough,” she said.

  Then, as we passed the auditorium, the very thing happened that I was afraid of—a Rowan Adams sighting. He was hanging around in the parking lot with Tres Browning and the blond and gorgeous Aisling Collins. I’m like, Don’t let him see us, don’t let him see us, don’t let him see us. My thinking being that if he, in fact, did have anything to do with Sideburns, he would now figure I didn’t sufficiently heed the switchblade warning.

  But of course, he did see us, and on top of that, he had to wave us over. Brett pulled up next to the group and not only rolled down the window to chat but made sure they all remembered who I was.

  Rowan’s like, “Ahhh, Dylan, the master of rap karaoke,” and fired an index-finger-pistol-style greeting at me. “You should start a band so you can come back for another appearance at Gangland.”

  “Oh, he’ll be back,” Brett said.

  “I’m sure he will be,” he said. “So, Dylan, am I still the number-one public enemy on your suspect list?”

  This, I figured, could be his way of seeing if I was still on the case, so I played it cagey. “I wouldn’t say that. Even though you never did tell me where you were the day Ashton went missing. But that’s okay. I’m not worried about that anymore.”

  “Hey,” he said. “I can tell you where I was—I was out doing a million things just like I always am.”

  “Oh, sure,” Brett said. “You’re such a big shot. At least you used to be.”

  He put on a wounded expression. “Used to be? Really, Brett, you are a big bully.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she told him. “Dylan’s the one you need to be worried about. He has your number.”

  He laughed. “I’m shaking in my boots.”

  “You should be,” she said.

  And he’s like, “No, you two are the ones who should be shaking.”

  I didn’t like this exchange one bit—Rowan looked like he might be taking it a little too seriously.

  They traded a few more semi-nasty quips, and then Brett and I were back on the road to the stadium to watch Nash finish practice. Which was a relief. I could’ve gone all day without a Rowan Adams run-in.

  A handful of students and a smaller handful of parents had collected in the stands, and Brett and I sat about midway up on the fifty-yard line. The team was in the middle of passing drills, and Nash was amazing. The quarterback could throw the ball way too long or way too short, but every time, Nash snatched it out of the air. The guy was a prime athlete. It was almost enough to make me want to cut back on the burgers and get into halfway decent shape.

  “So what’s the deal with you and Nash?” I asked Brett. “Are you guys just friends or what?”

  She flipped her silky black hair back over her shoulder. “I guess you co
uld say we’re friends—with benefits.”

  Friends with benefits. I’d heard of such a thing, but it always sounded so far-fetched, like ghosts or vegan burgers that didn’t taste like cardboard.

  Finally practice wrapped up, and we waited in the Mercedes while Nash showered. When he came out and hopped in the backseat, he looked as fresh as if he’d been lounging around all afternoon in his air-conditioned bedroom playing Madden NFL on PlayStation instead of digging out actual pass patterns over and over in the sun.

  He shook my hand and said he was glad to see me, then leaned back in the seat and goes, “Wow, I’m so hungry I could eat a woolly mammoth without a fork. Let’s do this interview thing over a bite to eat. It’s on me, Dylan.”

  Of course, I’m like, “Great, just let me call my parents and let them know.” And at the same time I was thinking it was too bad Audrey wasn’t here to see what a totally cool guy Nash really was.

  We weren’t a half mile away from campus, though, when the weirdness set in.

  Brett glanced in the rearview mirror and goes, “Uh-oh, looks like we have company.”

  Nash turned and looked out the back window. “It’s on,” he said.

  “Definitely,” Brett said, and punched the gas.

  I’m like, “What’s on? Who’s back there?”

  “Just hold tight,” Nash told me. “Everything’s fine.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. About a hundred yards behind us, a black car hit the gas just after Brett did. The street was a four-laner and not that heavy with traffic, but that didn’t lower my panic level much as Brett zipped from lane to lane, around cars and trucks, and through a yellow light. It didn’t matter that the light turned red either. The black car flew right through the intersection.

  Brett cut off a car to hit the entrance ramp of the interstate, and a steady torrent of traffic bore down as we merged from the ramp all the way to the far lane. She passed semis and oil tankers, Corvettes and Mustangs, but the black car still wove from lane to lane behind us.

  On a steep hill, with semis in front of us trying to cough their way to the summit, she finally had to slow down. In a matter of seconds the black car would swoop vulture-like right down on our tail. But why? I couldn’t figure it out. What were Nash and Brett mixed up in?

  “Come on, do something!” Nash demanded, and Brett’s like, “I’m doing everything I can!”

  Zeroing in, the black car jockeyed into the next lane over. It was close enough now I could see the driver—Rowan Adams.

  I’m like, “Hey, it’s only Rowan! It’s only Rowan!”

  And Brett goes, “We know! We know!”

  This didn’t make sense. She’d just been talking to Rowan a little while ago, and now she was running from him? Then I saw the rear window of his car roll down, and the black barrel of a pistol jabbed out—pointing straight at me.

  “They have a gun!” I screamed, and Nash goes, “Get us the hell out of here!”

  “You got it,” Brett said, jamming down on the gas pedal.

  I’m going, “Holy crap!” as we roared toward the rear of the semi in front of us, but at the last moment, Brett swerved and took to the shoulder of the road.

  “Yes!” Nash hollered. “Yes!”

  Blazing down the shoulder, we passed the semi and at least four other vehicles before Brett steered us back into a legal lane. Looking back, I couldn’t see Rowan anywhere, and at first I thought that was good. Then I realized it only meant he’d hit the shoulder of the road himself, and if he didn’t get killed on the way, he’d be right back on our tail.

  Nash told Brett to take the next exit, which she did by veering in front of two lanes of traffic, drawing the blare of honking horns. But it was a relief to get off the interstate. By now we were well beyond the city limits, and the little two-lane country roads didn’t have near as much traffic to crash into.

  “Do you think they saw where we got off?” Brett asked, and Nash’s like, “I don’t know. I couldn’t tell.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I have an idea.”

  She slowed down and pulled onto a narrow side road, one encrusted with trees on either side. Then she turned around so that we had a perfect view of the road we just left.

  “Genius,” Nash told her. “Now all we have to do is wait for them to pass, and we’ll be the ones on their butts.”

  I’m like, “What’s happening? Why was he chasing us?”

  “Probably because he knows you’re with us, Dylan,” Brett said.

  “Me? What did I do?”

  And Nash goes, “I afraid he knows you’re on to him.”

  “On to him?” I said, trying to sound innocent. “On to him about what?”

  “About Ashton Browning,” Brett said. “What else?”

  And then Nash’s like, “But don’t worry. We’re on your side.” He lifted up his shirt and pulled a black pistol of his own out of his waistband.

  I’m like, “What the hell? You carry a firearm around with you?”

  He winked at me. “You never know when it might come in handy.”

  At this point, I felt like I’d dropped down the rabbit hole into a nightmare version of Wonderland where everyone but me was a Mad Hatter with a gun. I didn’t have a chance to ask any more questions, though. Just then, Rowan’s car whooshed past our hideaway.

  “Got you, little boy,” Brett said, and stomped the gas pedal.

  The road stretched long and straight. The black car raced ahead, but Brett scorched after it. Within a matter of seconds, Rowan caught on to our ploy. But instead of trying to outrun us, he jammed on the brakes, fishtailed a one-eighty, and, after sitting still for a moment, his engine breathing heavy, he barreled straight toward us, aiming his shiny chrome grille at ours.

  It was a game of chicken that neither side seemed willing to lose. I let out a long, loud “Craaa​aaaaa​aaaaa​aap!” that only ended when both cars screeched to a standstill about twenty yards away from each other. I was wrong to think it was over, though.

  Rowan’s passenger-side door swung open, and here came none other than Aisling Collins striding down the blacktop, packing a big black assault rifle, her blond hair flying back in the wind. This cannot be happening, I thought as I scrunched down in the seat. I escaped Sideburns and his switchblade only to be gunned down by a beautiful rich girl?

  Before she was halfway to us, Nash jumped out of the car, ready to face her down with his pistol. She said something, and I guess he said something back, but obviously neither was asking for mercy. I slumped lower in the seat.

  Then it happened—Aisling pulled her trigger and Nash pulled his, and the next thing I knew red splattered everywhere. Aisling staggered back, her finger still clenched to the trigger, and Nash didn’t let up either. But they weren’t covered in blood. Their guns were nothing but squirt guns filled with strawberry Kool-Aid.

  That’s when it hit me—the whole thing was just another Gangland goof.

  CHAPTER 30

  Brett laughed so hard you would have thought it was a terminal disease, and I’m like, “What the hell? Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?”

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “You didn’t think those were real guns, did you?”

  And I’m like, “No. Of course not.”

  “Oh my God,” she said. “You did. You thought they were real guns. That’s hilarious.”

  By now Rowan was out of his car and Tres Browning had climbed out of the backseat, all of them with their own squirt guns, spraying Kool-Aid everywhere. Only after the guns emptied did Brett and I get out of the Mercedes. She held up her hands. “I’m unarmed,” she said.

  Everyone was laughing pretty hard—except me. I did try to force a smile like I’d been in on the joke the whole time, but of course, they didn’t buy it and flipped me crap about freaking out. Well, Tres didn’t, but I figured he probably would have if he could’ve thought of something clever to say. Actually, I could see how it would be funny—if it happened to somebody else. Bu
t since it was me, I was a little bit pissed off.

  I guess Nash noticed my mood because he put his arm around my shoulders and said, “You’re a hell of a sport, Dylan. If it was me, I probably would’ve screamed like a little girl, but you hung right in there. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to buy you a thick, juicy steak. How about that?”

  “A burger would be fine by me,” I said, but he’s like, “No way. We’re going to get you the best steak you’ve ever tasted.”

  After everyone told me a few more times how hilarious I was, Rowan’s gang climbed back into his car and we got into the Mercedes. Brett made Nash sit on a towel so he wouldn’t drip Kool-Aid on the plush interior. As Rowan drove by, Aisling pointed her gun at me, and I pretended to get shot.

  “That’s the spirit, Dylan,” Nash said.

  Heading back to the socialite side of the city, he and Brett filled me in on the rules of squirt-gun gang warfare. I could see how it would be fun, but it also kind of made me wonder if maybe rich kids had a little too much time on their hands to think up weird things to do.

  “Poor Rowan,” Brett said. “He’s still trying so hard.”

  “I know,” Nash said. “It’s really kind of pathetic.”

  I asked why Rowan was so pathetic, and Nash’s like, “Financial problems. His dad’s not doing so well. The real estate market, you know.”

  “Uh, yeah,” I said as if I knew anything about real estate.

  “You don’t think his dad’s going to have to sell Gangland, do you?” Brett asked.

  And Nash’s like, “Doesn’t matter—as long as the right person takes it off his hands.”

  They seemed pretty unconcerned about Rowan’s family problems, which I thought was a little cold. Sure, Rowan was a creep, but he was still their friend.

  Instead of dwelling on the topic, Brett suggested a couple places we could go for dinner. I repeated how a good burger would suit me perfectly, but Nash insisted that nothing would do but a steak from some place called Geoffrey Mercer’s. The odd thing, though, was Brett pulled up in front of what looked to me like a house—a very modern cool-looking house maybe—but there was no restaurant sign or even a parking lot that I could see.