Mojo

by Tim Tharp

  So that left Randy. He was still a little pissed at me for not taking him along with Brett, but he had even fewer friends than I did, so it wasn’t like he could hold a grudge against me for very long. Still, I didn’t mention that Nash and Brett had invited me back to Gangland. Obviously, Randy would want to go, and I didn’t see any reason to get into that argument again.

  Without a ride, we were stuck meeting for lunch in the lowly school cafeteria. At least they were serving cheeseburgers—if you want to call those things cheeseburgers. I swear they painted stripes on the patties to make them look like they were actually grilled.

  As I should have predicted, Randy had no interest in counseling me about best-friend issues. Instead, he totally wanted to focus on Mr. Westwood’s sex scam. How many girls had he run it on? Who were they? What did they look like? What kind of things did he do with them? These were questions I didn’t have the answers to, which was probably for the best. Randy’s interest seemed a little unhealthy.

  “Well, let me ask you this,” he said. “What if Trix isn’t covering up for him? What if he’s covering up for her?”

  I’m like, “You mean maybe Trix is the one luring in the girls like for a lesbian thing, and her dad knows about it?”

  “Why not?” he said around a mouthful of French fries. “Trix probably killed that girl in California to keep her quiet, and now she’s doing the same thing here.”

  For the first time ever in my life, I didn’t feel like finishing off my second cheeseburger. “I didn’t think about that,” I said. “But maybe the whole story is false. After all, there hasn’t been anything on the news about it. Not that I think Nash would lie to me, but what about Mr. Browning? Maybe he made it up.”

  “I doubt that,” Randy said. “He seemed pretty determined to get to the truth.”

  “Yeah. Damn, we have to do something.”

  Randy nonchalantly poked another fry into his mouth. “What for? The cops are already on to the deal, right?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “Apparently, the cops only suspect Mr. Westwood. For all they know, Trix is just his innocent little girl.”

  “But I thought you’d quit this investigating crap after the switchblade thing.”

  “I don’t care about that,” I said. “I’m not dropping anything if Audrey’s involved.”

  After school, I cracked the laptop and did some more snooping, checking over all of Trix’s social sites and Googling her dad. There was quite a bit on him, mostly about legal cases he’d worked on for one corporation or another. It was all very boring and, aside from proving that he was pretty great at his job, didn’t give me anything to go on.

  As for Trix, of course I’d looked her up before, but now I went over every photo and post as if I was an archeologist trying to decipher the meaning of a foreign culture. She had a bunch of photos of herself with girls I’d never seen, probably California girls from the looks of them, so I checked the captions for names and then Googled them to see if there was any news about them getting kidnapped or murdered. Nothing—until I took a closer look at one of the photos of Trix and a friend.

  Behind them a poster hung in a store window. When I zoomed in, I saw that it bore the picture and the name of the missing California girl Trix told us about. With that I was able to search for news articles about the case, and sure enough, it was true—the pool guy was convicted. That info could’ve confirmed Trix’s story, but then again, this poor guy wouldn’t have been the first to get thrown in jail for something he didn’t do. After all, Trix’s dad was a lawyer. Maybe he knew just how to frame someone.

  Checking one of the earlier articles about the case—one written before the pool guy’s arrest—I found something intriguing. Where was that little California girl last seen? That’s right—a park. It was a city park and not a nature park like in Ashton’s case, but still that was too much of a coincidence.

  I knew I couldn’t sit around on my fat butt poring over the Internet any longer. I had to get out and do something. Even though that might mean drawing Sideburns and his switchblade out of the shadows to de-nose-ify me. But what could I do? Where could I go? Who could I talk to? The answer to that last question was obvious, but it wouldn’t be easy. I had to talk to Trix—in person.

  I called her, pretty much expecting her not to answer, but she did. Obviously, she wasn’t thrilled to hear from me, but I convinced her I wanted to get together and talk things over, not for my benefit but for Audrey’s. Finally, she’s like, “Okay, I’ll meet you at the coffee shop we went to last time. But I’m only doing it because you’ve been Audrey’s friend for so long.”

  Now my problem was how to get there. Obviously, Audrey wouldn’t drive me, and Nash had football practice. Besides, he and Brett probably would think I was crazy for even wanting to talk to Trix. And then there were a couple of other halfway good friends at school who had cars, but this might end up being a dangerous trip—it wouldn’t be fair to drag halfway friends into it. What choice did I have? A taxicab was the only option left. You know you have to make a change in your life when you’re reduced to paying somebody to drive you around.

  On top of that my anxiety level rose with every mile the cab traveled. All sorts of scenarios played in my head, the main one being that Trix was the one who hired Sideburns in the first place and now she was just luring me in for a quick knifing. Thinking about it, I actually felt a little queasy, and the cab-driver’s gas problem didn’t help. I’m not talking about fuel for the car either. I’m talking the guy couldn’t control his rottenegg farts. It was brutal.

  When we got to the coffee shop, I didn’t ask him to wait. I didn’t know how long I’d be, and besides, I figured I could get a more fragrant ride home from a different driver. Trix, in her usual black-and-white outfit, was already at a table inside, so I ordered a large café mocha and joined her. The place was filled with the usual professional types, who, I was pretty sure, weren’t packing knives.

  I’m like, “Hey, thanks for meeting me.”

  And she goes, “To tell you the truth, I thought about backing out. Those things you said about my dad were pretty unforgivable.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not like I made any of it up. I was just trying to protect my best friend, you know.”

  “So do you still believe it?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You should be at the police station. They’ll tell you how stupid it is.”

  I shook my head. “The police and I don’t get along too well.”

  “Then what do you want from me?” she asked. “I’ve already told you it wasn’t true. Are you waiting for me to swear on a stack of Bibles or something?”

  “But why would Nash and Brett make up a story like that?”

  “Why?” She sounded like the question exhausted her. “Because I’m different? Because I don’t fit into their stereotype of what a Hollister kid should be? People like they are can always find reasons. Kind of like how the kids at your school found a reason to call you Body Bag.”

  I guess she caught the surprise on my face because she’s like, “That’s right, Audrey told me all about the Body Bag thing.”

  “My school ranks pretty high on the vicious scale.”

  “Yeah, but kids at my school know how to be vicious on a whole different level.” She paused to take a drink of her coffee. “You know, what I don’t get is why you puppy-dog around after the likes of Nash and Brett. That doesn’t make you a rich kid too, you know.”

  “They’re my friends.”

  “You really believe that, don’t you?”

  “I don’t see why I shouldn’t. You never hear them calling me Body Bag. Actually, we’re pretty close.”

  “Right,” she said sarcastically. “But you don’t think I could be good for Audrey?”

  “That’s different.”

  She looked up from her drink. “Why is that different? I mean, why are you so ready to believe bad things about me but not the others? Is it beca
use you think I might just be gay?”

  “What? No.”

  “It seems pretty homophobic to me.”

  I felt my face suddenly flush. “Are you kidding? You can’t even play that card on me. I’ve been best friends with a lesbian practically my entire life.”

  Trix leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table. “But she never went out with a girl that whole time. Not in any kind of romantic way. Now she might actually start dating someone, and you can’t take it.”

  Personally, I don’t like getting pissed off—it can make me lose control of my tear ducts—but this was pissing me off. “You’re wrong,” I told her. “You couldn’t be more wrong. It wouldn’t be any different if you were a dude. I still wouldn’t trust you. I mean, we don’t really know each other.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Don’t pop a blood vessel. It just seems weird that you’re able to trust someone like Nash but not me. All of that aside, though, how about Audrey? How about putting some trust in her? Like you say, she’s your best friend. I’d think you would have more faith in her judgment.”

  “I do, but—”

  “But what? You don’t trust her when it comes to dating a girl? Forget about me. If you really want to smooth things out with her, you need to trust her to know what she wants from life.”

  “How am I going to do that? She won’t even talk to me.”

  “Well, she’s really mad at you right now. But what do you expect? Not only did you call her desperate, but you also made it sound like there was no way I could really love her. Getting past that is going to take time, so just try this—give her some space for a week or so. Then, when you see the police haven’t arrested my dad—or me—for anything and there’s nothing in the news about us, you can apologize.”

  “I don’t see what I have to apologize for.”

  She leaned back in her chair. “All I can say is if you don’t see that, then you’re probably going to lose the best friend you ever had.”

  “I’d rather lose her that way than lose her to something worse.”

  “And I’m worse—is that it?”

  “I guess I’m just wondering why you never mentioned how that girl in California went missing from a park—just like Ashton Browning.”

  Trix stared at me for a moment. “So you didn’t want to talk to me about Audrey at all, did you? You’re still playing detective. Well, if that’s how it is, then I don’t have anything else to say to you.” She unlooped her purse strap from the back of her chair and stood. “Except one last thing—that girl in California? My dad put up the reward to find her.”

  Watching her walk away, I didn’t know what to think. None of the articles I’d read mentioned anything about who put up the money for the reward, but if what Trix said was true, I had to admit it made a good case for her father’s innocence. Unless he knew all along no one would ever find her alive.

  After finishing my drink, I called the taxi service and went outside to wait for my ride. Nobody popped out of the shadows to stab me. I was pretty confused and not just about the deal with Trix’s father but also about how I’d handled things with Audrey. It was true—I had called her desperate. That was just the kind of thing that would really piss her off. Plus, she usually was a good judge of character, so there was a chance that maybe I should go ahead and trust her on this. But if she was wrong, I hated to think what might happen.

  Saturday night was right around the corner. Then I’d have a chance to dig into the story about Trix and her dad a little deeper. I figured I could at least hold off on bugging Audrey about it anymore until I did that.

  It took about twenty minutes for the cab to show up, and when it did, who was behind the wheel? Mr. Fartmaster, of course. He’s like, “Hey, buddy, we meet again. Need a ride?”

  What could I do, tell him thanks but no thanks, you stink too much? No. So I climbed into the backseat and rode home with bad thoughts in my head and the fragrance of rotten eggs in my nose.

  CHAPTER 33

  The whole homophobe accusation boiled in my stomach for most of the evening, but when the anger cooled off, I started to wonder if maybe there was something to what Trix said after all. True, I never cared when Audrey just said she was gay, but now that she had a chance to do something about it, did it really bother me? Was I prejudiced against Trix because of it?

  No way. Not a chance. Maybe that’s how other kids Trix knew thought, but not me. Period. On the other hand, I had to admit it did rankle me that Audrey actually got a girlfriend before I did. If she and Trix started getting all romantic, hanging out, going to movies, showing up at stupid jazz concerts, where would that leave me? So, yes, maybe I was a little jealous. No one wants to get squeezed out. But that didn’t necessarily mean my judgment got all clouded when it came to Trix, did it?

  So Saturday rolled around, and I must have tried on about six different T-shirts before I settled on my new Notorious B.I.G. shirt. I checked my look with the porkpie and without and finally decided to go without. Sure, I was a little anxious about my night at Gangland, but, as with most things these days, I didn’t let on to my parents.

  I didn’t even tell them about Gangland, only that I was hanging out with my Hollister people. And I assured them this was not a date with the same imaginary girl I pretended to go out with before. They were happy I had some new friends, but that didn’t keep them from being suspicious. That’s how it was—my own parents acting like I wasn’t good enough to hang out with the Hollister crowd. I figured they’d see the truth one day, though. Everybody would.

  About eight o’clock the doorbell rang, and unfortunately I couldn’t just slip out. I had to ask Nash and Brett in for the parental inspection. They were both real cool with my parents, making small talk and doling out compliments. Brett told my mom she really liked our house, and Mom giggled and goes, “Oh, it’s not much, but we call it home.” Pretty lame.

  My parents were impressed, though. They told us to have a good time, and let us squeeze out the door without too much damage. It was a cool, clear night, a little too cool for just the Notorious B.I.G. T-shirt, but I wasn’t about to go back for a jacket now. And let me tell you, Nash wasn’t kidding when he said we’d be riding in style. Was it Brett’s Mercedes parked out front? Nash’s Lexus? No, a glimmering white limo sat idling next to the curb, as out of place as a diamond in a sparrow’s nest.

  I’m like, “Are you kidding me? You rented a limo?”

  “Sure,” Nash said. “We do it all the time. It adds fluidity to the night.”

  I didn’t know what he meant by fluidity, but it sure added something.

  We got into the back of the limo, and Nash rattled off an address to the driver—not the address of Gangland—and then pushed a button that raised a window partitioning off the back from the front. I didn’t really see why that was necessary. It wasn’t like this driver was likely to gas us out with an unrelenting fart attack.

  “I thought we were going to Gangland,” I said, and Nash goes, “We are, but we need to make a couple of stops first. Just sit back and enjoy.”

  As soon as we cruised out of my neighborhood, he opened the cover on this little bar and pulled out a bottle of champagne. “You have to try this, Dylan,” he said. Apparently, it was supposed to be excellent as far as champagnes go. He even pronounced the name with a French accent, which I thought was pretty cool.

  “I’m not much of a drinker,” I told him. This was a bit of an exaggeration because actually I wasn’t any kind of a drinker.

  “Don’t worry,” Brett assured me. “It tickles a little going down, but it’s all good from there.”

  Nash filled a glass for each of us. Not plastic cups like kids from my school would drink liquor from, but actual champagne glasses.

  “Here’s to a winning night for the O-Town Elites,” he said, and we all clinked our glasses. They both took healthy drinks, but I barely wet my tongue. It wasn’t bad, though, so I downed a little more.

  “You like?” Brett asked.
<
br />   “Excellent,” I said.

  So we rode and chatted with the hip-hop pounding from the speakers. For a while we got on the subject of crappy teachers at our schools. It’s funny—kids from any kind of background all have their teacher war stories. Except Nash and Brett tended to sound more like they were talking about the incompetent hired help than some enemy commander. Me, I didn’t lock into interrogation mode. Not yet.

  The first place we stopped was even further from being limo-worthy than my neighborhood. I mean, this place could’ve been on the cover of Better Crack Homes and Gardens. Our driver pumped the horn a couple times, and a minute later there was a tap on the roof of the car. The window glided down next to Nash, and in looks this enormous face that more than a little bit resembled the face on my T-shirt.

  “Nash, my man, you riding slick tonight.”

  “You know it, D-Stack,” Nash said.

  “When you gonna invite me to cruise with you and the lady?”

  “Right now, if you want.”

  D-Stack laughed. “I would, but me and my lady’s got our own party happening tonight.” He nodded toward the porch, where his big-boned girlfriend lounged on the steps, flicking her awesome hair extensions away from her cigarette smoke.

  “Another time, then,” Nash said. “You have anything for me?”

  “You know I do.” D-Stack lifted up his shirttail, revealing two items tucked in his waistband, a small brown paper bag and a shiny, pearl-handled pistol. Luckily, he only pulled out the bag.

  Nash traded it for a little package of his own, which I assumed contained a wad of bills.

  D-Stack grinned warmly. “Always nice doing business with you, man.”

  “You too,” Nash said, and the window glided silently up.

  As we pulled away, I’m like, “What the hell?”

  “Just a little pre-party purchase,” Nash said.

  “Let me guess—something to help make the night more fluid?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But did you have to come here?”

  “Hey.” Nash knocked back his champagne. “If you’re going to run with Gangland, you have to live the part.”