Mojo (18 page)

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.

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. But 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.

“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.