by Tim Tharp
“What’s this?” I asked.
“This is it,” Nash said. “This is Geoffrey Mercer’s.”
I looked the house over again. If it was really a restaurant, I figured it had to be pretty exclusive. Apparently, customers had to just know about it somehow because there certainly wasn’t any advertising going on.
“Do you think we’re dressed right for this place?” I asked Nash. “I mean, I’m just wearing a T-shirt, and you have Kool-Aid stains all over you.”
And real nonchalant he’s like, “No, it’s cool. They know me here.”
Inside, there was a cramped foyer decked out with fancy vases and flowers and a couple of paintings with gold frames. I kind of liked the one of this pretty lady in a white bonnet, but the one that was nothing but haystacks didn’t do much for me.
An incredibly hot waitress or hostess, or whatever you call her, greeted Nash with a wide cheery smile. Here he was, covered in Kool-Aid, and she didn’t seem to notice. It was the same as she led us through the small dining room to our table. Several parental types waved at Nash, and he even stopped to talk to a couple, never bothering to apologize for how he looked. He might as well have been wearing a thousand-dollar suit. He just had this incredible cool about him, like everywhere he went he not only belonged but ruled.
Me, on the other hand, I felt like every customer in the place was giving me the evil eye. I didn’t think it could be my Beatles T-shirt. Who doesn’t love the Beatles? So I guessed it must be the porkpie. I took it off as we walked to the table, but then I didn’t really know what to do with it, so I ended up stuffing it under my chair when we sat down.
I could describe the upscale décor, but here’s all you really need to know about Geoffrey Mercer’s: the menus didn’t tell the prices. That didn’t matter since Nash was paying, but still, it’s kind of creepy—you keep looking for the prices, but they just kept not being there—it’s like you’re an amputee trying to scratch your missing leg. On top of that, they didn’t have any burgers either, so I had to go with some kind of steak that was supposed to have wine sauce on it.
After we ordered, Nash leaned back in his chair and told me that, in addition to the steak, he and Brett had another little surprise for me. “How would you like to come back to Gangland?” he asked, smiling his big ultra-whitened half-moon smile. “And this time you can stay after ten o’clock with the rest of us members.”
“Uh, wow,” I said. “That would be cool.” Of course, I was honored, except for one thing—someone could very easily think I was still on the Ashton Browning case if I went back there.
“What’s the matter?” Nash said. “You don’t sound so sure.”
“You’re not worried about that guy who threatened you, are you?” Brett added.
And Nash’s like, “Threatened? Who threatened you?”
“To tell you the truth, that’s what I really wanted to talk to you about.”
“You mean you aren’t really writing an article about the football team?” He clasped his hands to his chest like he was wounded.
“Uh, no, sure, I’d like to write that sometime, but right now I’m kind of more worried about who wants me off the Ashton Browning case, and I thought maybe you could help me figure out who it is.”
He smiled. “Sure. We can talk about football any old time.”
So I laid out the Mr. Browning-Smiley-Sideburns story again, and Nash congratulated me for dealing with the switchblade situation like a regular action hero. This time, unlike when I told the story to Brett, I listed the people who were most likely to be behind the threat. Not wanting to get ridiculed again, I left out Rowan, but I did include Beto. This was the first time I told anyone about meeting up with him on Ashton’s FOKC route. What I didn’t tell, though, was that there could be a connection with Hector Maldonado.
“Very interesting,” Nash said. “Yes, I think it would have to be someone else who wanted to get the reward before you could get it.”
And I’m like, “Yeah, I thought of that. But I also wondered how Mr. Browning got hold of my newspaper articles.”
Before Nash could respond to that, the waiter arrived with our food. Everything was very artistically arranged on the plate, but the portions were way small.
When the waiter left, Nash admitted he’d made copies of my articles and handed them out to a lot of Hollister kids, mainly Ganglanders, as a way to keep Ashton’s story alive. But he was certain none of them would be involved in making a threat to cut off my nose. That included Mr. Browning. Maybe it was because Ashton’s dad was one of their own kind, but he and Brett both insisted Mr. Browning was only after one thing—finding his daughter.
“Besides,” Nash said. “None of them are worried about beating you to the reward. No, I’ll bet it’s the Mexican guy—what was his name?”
“Beto.”
“Right. I’ll bet Beto is working on his own way to score the reward and, since you know who he is, he hired this Sideburns character to scare you away. Why else would he specifically tell you that the reward money was not for you?”
“So you don’t think they really have anything to do with kidnapping Ashton?”
“No. For one thing, I don’t see those guys hanging around the nature park waiting to kidnap Ashton without someone noticing them and thinking they looked suspicious.”
“Yeah, you may be right,” I said between bites of meat. Although the steak was great, I would have preferred it on a bun with lettuce, tomato, onion, and mustard—no mayonnaise. However, I was pretty sure asking for that would amount to some kind of social blunder.
“And besides,” Brett said, “if these two were actually involved in taking Ashton, I’m sure the police would’ve released something about it to the press by now.”
I’m like, “The police?”
“Of course. After you reported what happened, they probably checked those guys out.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. No reason to mention how I didn’t inform the authorities. Nash and Brett probably wouldn’t be able to relate to my fear of the police.
“There have to be hundreds of people after that reward,” Nash said. “From what I hear, the police are getting so many tips they can’t keep up with them all. Everyone wants a piece of the action. It’s like they think finding Ashton is the same as hitting the lottery. They’ll collect that sad little hundred-thousand-dollar check and it’ll change their lives. They’re not like you, Dylan. They don’t really care about Ashton. They just want the money. But I know you do care about her.”
“I do,” I said. “I really do.” And I did, but also that reward didn’t seem so sad or little to me. Plus, I’d done a lot of pondering on how a hundred thousand bucks could change my life.
“But what those people don’t know,” Nash said, “is that the police already have a pretty solid suspect. They just haven’t released anything about it to the media yet.”
I’m like, “What?”
“You haven’t heard about that?” Brett asked. “I thought Mr. Browning might have said something to you about it.”
“He didn’t tell me anything about a new suspect.”
“Yeah,” Brett said. “Tres told me and Nash about it. The story came straight from his dad, so you know it’s reliable information.”
“I can’t say I’m really surprised,” Nash said. “I always thought she was weird, so it’s no shocker to find out her dad’s a pervert.”
I’m like, “Whose dad?”
“Trix,” Brett said. “Trix Westwood.”
“What?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“That’s right,” Nash said. “The word is her father has a thing for young girls. Apparently, he sent out a bunch of nude photos of himself to girls’ cell phones. And I’m talking about girls seventeen and under. A couple of them have admitted to having sex with him.”
“And not only that,” Brett said, “but where he and Trix used to live in California? One of her friends was murdered, and the police are looking into t
hat to see if he had anything to do with it.”
“But she told me about that murder. The pool guy got arrested for it.”
“That’s her version,” Brett said. “But you know what I think? I think Trix is in on it with her dad. I’ll bet she lures girls over to her house so he can pick his favorites.”
“Isn’t that creepy?” Nash said, and I go, “I can’t believe it. I’ve hung out with Trix, and she seemed pretty cool. Except for the murder-in-California connection.”
“Well, I’d stay away from her if I were you,” Brett said.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess I should.” But I wasn’t worried about myself. I was thinking about Audrey. She was probably with Trix right now. Maybe at her house meeting her father.
CHAPTER 31
I excused myself to go to the bathroom, where I immediately dialed Audrey’s number. “Come on, pick up, pick up,” I muttered into the phone, but she didn’t. She was probably afraid I’d spoil her “romantic evening.” So I called her mom and found out she was at an outdoor jazz concert in a little park not far away. Jazz. Audrey didn’t even like jazz.
There was nothing to do but go back to the table and explain to Nash and Brett that Audrey was with Trix and that we had to head to the park right now. They didn’t even argue. They could see how upset I was. And here is another thing that struck me about how cool Nash was—he didn’t worry about all the expensive food we left on our plates. He just paid the bill, and we were on the road in five minutes.
“Can’t you go faster?” I asked Brett, and she’s like, “Faster? You were way freaked over the way I was driving before, and now you want me to go faster?”
“But this is important.”
“Calm down,” Nash said. “If she’s at a public park, I’m sure she’s safe.”
I dug my fingers into the edge of my seat. “I just hope she really is there.”
At the park, the good parking spaces were all taken, so Brett let me out while she went to look for one. By now the sun was down, but there were plenty of lights shining on the small stage and the crowd of maybe a hundred and fifty people. It wasn’t hard to spot Audrey and Trix perched in lawn chairs about two rows back from the stage. They were snuggled pretty close together, but at least they weren’t holding hands or anything.
I squeezed down the third row until I came to Audrey from behind. I tapped her shoulder and she jumped.
“What are you doing here?” She didn’t sound happy to see me, but Trix looked up and cheerfully goes, “Oh, hi, Dylan. How’s it going?”
To Trix, I’m like, “Not great,” and then to Audrey, “I need to talk to you.”
“You can talk to me later.” Now Audrey was mega-irritated.
“No, I can’t.” I pulled her arm, but she yanked it away.
“Go ahead,” Trix told her, and then with a flirty smile, “Don’t worry. I’ll save your seat.”
“Oh, all right,” Audrey said. “But this better be important, Dylan.”
I led her to the back of the park where no one could listen in. It wasn’t so easy to get started with what I had to say, so I opened with a simple question: “Has Trix introduced you to her father?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Just bear with me here,” I said, and Audrey’s like, “You know what? Unless you just found out some really big news like you’re dying or something, I’m going to kill you.”
“I’m getting to it, but first I want to know if you’ve met Mr. Westwood.”
“Okay, yes, I’ve met him. She introduced me to him tonight. So what?”
“Did he seem kind of weird to you?”
“Weird? No, he didn’t seem weird. He was nice.”
“Nice, huh?” That didn’t sound good. “How nice? Was he like dad nice, or was he more like, uh, um—”
“What?”
“Or was he like I-want-to-get-in-your-pants nice?”
Her mouth dropped open. “It finally happened,” she said. “You lost your mind. What kind of question is that?”
“Look,” I said. “Don’t get defensive. It’s just that I have pretty good reason to believe Mr. Westwood has a thing for young girls.”
“Where did you get a stupid idea like that?”
I hated to say because I knew she didn’t think so highly of Nash and Brett, but since the word came from Mr. Browning himself, I figured I had credibility on my side. Still, when I told her the details, she wouldn’t believe it.
“You know what?” she said. “If you actually believe Trix would ever do anything like hooking up her dad with girls, you’re the biggest fool in the universe. She’s like the best person I’ve ever met in my life, and you want to come along and ruin it. What’s the matter with you?”
“Oh, really?” I said. “You don’t even know her.”
“Yes, I do. When someone’s your soul mate, you know them like you do your own self, and I know she’d never do anything like what you’re talking about.”
Just then, Trix stepped up behind Audrey. “Who wouldn’t do what?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Audrey said. “Dylan just has a stupid new theory about Ashton Browning.”
Trix is like, “A new theory? I’d like to hear it.”
“No,” Audrey said, stepping back next to her. “Believe me, you wouldn’t.”
But Trix goes, “Sure I would. After all, haven’t I been helping you with the investigation? I’m practically one of your partners.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I was wondering why you were so anxious to help.”
And she’s like, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I stared her straight in the eyes. “It means I think you had your own motive for getting involved, and it wasn’t exactly something unselfish.”
“Motive?” Trix looked at Audrey, and Audrey goes, “Don’t listen to him.”
But I wasn’t about to let it drop now. “Yes. A motive. As in you wanted to cover up your dad’s involvement with Ashton.”
“That’s like a joke, right?” Trix said. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” But what else was she going to say?
I kept going. “I always thought it was suspicious how you just happened to be at Ashton’s search party after you were also at one for that girl in California. That was just too big a coincidence. But it wasn’t a coincidence at all, was it? Because the truth is your dad has a thing for young girls, and you know it. You knew it in California and you knew it here, and you didn’t say anything about it because you were daddy’s little helper all along. And now you’re trying to pull a fast one on Audrey just because she’s desperate to feel like somebody loves her.”
I would’ve gone on, but at that point, Audrey hauled off and punched me right in the gut. And let me tell you—that girl has some muscles. It doubled me over. I thought I might puke up my high-dollar half a steak.
Between coughs I’m like, “Crap. What the hell?”
But Audrey wasn’t listening because she was too busy apologizing to Trix. And then Nash and Brett showed up. Nash looped an arm around my shoulders and goes, “What happened, buddy?”
But Trix is like, “I should’ve known you two would be involved in this.”
“Oh, don’t try to act like you’re some kind of wronged woman,” Brett said. “We heard all about you and your sick father.”
“You’d better shut up about those lies,” Trix said. “My dad’s the best lawyer in this state, and he’ll have you in court for slander so fast you—”
She couldn’t figure out how fast that would be before Nash cut in: “Your dad’s not going to do anything. People like us don’t get sued by people like him.”
“Just get out of here,” Audrey barked. “We don’t have anything else to say to any of you. And that includes you, Dylan.”
I’m like, “Wait. Just listen,” but she and Trix turned and walked away.
Nash patted me on the back. “Well, you tried.”
On the drive home, he and Brett laug
hed about Trix’s reaction and how her face had turned nearly as red as her hair. I guessed they were just trying to cheer me up, but I couldn’t laugh. Sure, Audrey and I had had our spats over the years, but nothing like this.
When we pulled up in my driveway, Nash goes, “Hey, don’t forget, next Saturday you’re coming to Gangland.”
“And this time you’re staying till closing time,” Brett added.
“I don’t know,” I said. “If Audrey’s still mad at me, I may not have a ride.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Nash said. “We’ll give you a ride. And believe me, you’ll be riding in style.”
“Okay,” I said. “But no more karaoke or car chases or anything, right?”
Nash laughed. “I don’t know if I can promise you that.”
CHAPTER 32
I thought having a best friend was a good thing. You always had someone to hang out with, to talk to, and to just, in general, back you up on things. But what if you happen to lose that best friend? Then what do you have? Nothing.
That’s how I felt when Audrey wouldn’t return my calls or even talk to me at school. I couldn’t believe she was that mad at me, but I figured when a person thinks they’re in love, they can get pretty unreasonable.
Journalism class was the worst. She wouldn’t even look at me, much less give me a chance to explain that I was just trying to look out for her own good. When the bell rang, I tried chasing her into the hall, but I accidentally bumped into Jared Hess, who as a senior, a giant, and an idiot felt it was his duty to pin me against a locker and fling a spit-soaked lecture in my face about how, if I wanted to keep up my health, I should stay out of the way of my betters. At least he didn’t call me Body Bag.
And there wasn’t anyone to confide in about my Audrey problem either because she was the one I always confided in about everything. I didn’t want to talk to my parents—they were likely to go all Oprah on me—and I was never the type to cultivate some kind of huge network of friends. I never needed that. I had Audrey. I figured I always would.
