Number 8 (22 page)

“So that's where you get your skill with the drums,” I whisper to Asim. “You never told me.”

He just grins, but I bet his chest has swollen to twice the size with pride. He doesn't take his eyes off his dad for a moment.

Everyone else in the audience must be thinking Mehmet is awesome, too, because they clap like crazy and won't let
the band go. The shy guy with the electric guitar tears off his beanie hat and shakes out his dreadlocks. Then he does a solo that would have left Led Zeppelin gasping. And Mom is great. She's
great
. She knows just when to hold back and let the others star and when to come in. And when she does ride in with the melody, it's like all the lights in the world switching on.

The only bad thing about the entire night is that Esmerelda isn't here to see it. If she had been allowed to come, I think this night would have been better than any Christmas present, ever.

Asim and I watch our parents together up there on stage. We watch, too, the way they take such a long time to come back to our table after it's all over. They have their heads together, too busy talking.

We don't look at each other. We don't say anything about it. Because sometimes, if you tell a wish, it doesn't come true. But if you say it to yourself eight times in your head, and then another eight times until you make sixty-four, you never know, it just might.

I give up hunting for a seatbelt. I can smell spearmint and Rocky's pine forest aftershave. It would be a nice smell if it weren't Rocky's. I try not to breathe it in. There's not a speck of sand or a smear of muddy shoe or one candy wrapper to be seen. Mom would love the way this car is kept. The thought of Mom makes tears spring up. I swallow and press my nose against the window, trying to make out where we're going.

Trees, houses, shops flash past like familiar faces in a dream. We're going so fast the world is drowning in a river of light and dark. I can feel Badman's fear blowing in hot waves against my arm. We're crammed like sardines in this backseat. It isn't meant for two. As we take another corner I smash my funny bone against the window ledge. I've never felt less like laughing.

I close my eyes. I don't know which is better—looking or not looking. I dig my nails into my palm to make sure I'm awake, that this is really happening. There's a growing thickness like fog working its way up around my ears. It's quite calming in a numb kind of way, like falling asleep when you're freezing to death. Everything just melting away. Suddenly I want to laugh and laugh and never stop.

“What the hell are you doing?” There's a sharp nudge in my ribs.

I stare back at Badman. I realize my face is wet with tears. The laughing dies as Rocky turns up his Prince CD. He's tapping out the rhythm with one hand on the dashboard, weaving in and out of traffic like a bumper car. We overtake a souped-up Mazda on the inside and nearly hit a parked car at the curb. Badman gasps as Rocky swings out and crosses lanes with a squeal of rubber.

I clear my throat. “You'll get booked for speeding if you keep driving like this.” I hear my voice as if I'm outside myself, looking on. I sound just like my mother. “There's a speed camera up here.”

Badman looks hopeful. But I'm thinking, if Rocky slows down, maybe we can jump out. Then I remember about the child locks. Anyway, you can get killed that way. But if Rocky doesn't slow down, we'll get killed by that truck we're about to overtake in the next lane.

Rocky doesn't reply. Prince is pretty noisy.

“That camera will zap you,” I say a bit louder. “We must be going 75 in a 35 mile zone.” We screech around a corner overtaking the truck, and the car slides out before gunning straight ahead.

Rocky gives a grunt and opens the glove compartment. I can see a stash of envelopes sliding around in there.

“I got hundreds of fines,” he laughs, flicking the glove compartment closed before all the letters tumble out with the next screaming corner. “My boss, Tony, he just says, ‘give 'em to me, I'll handle 'em.' So every few months, I dump 'em all on his desk.” Rocky lights another cigarette using a lighter in the dashboard. He steers with his knees. Oh, when will this nightmare end?

“See, there's a lotta driving in my job. Lotta urgent matters, if you know what I mean.” He turns down the
stereo and gives a meaty chuckle. “You should hear my boss, he's crazy for speed. He insisted,
in-sis-ted
on adding the turbo. Sometimes I need to get to places yesterday, you read me? Deliver stuff fast.”

“What
is
your job—
kid
napper?” Badman has found his voice again. I wish he hadn't.

“No, smart ass, it's security. My boss, he says I've got the most responsible job in the casino.
Fun-da-men-tal
, he says.”

“Casino?” screeches Badman. His voice sounds like Rocky's tires.

“Ssh!” I mouth at him, my finger on his lips. When Rocky's turned up the stereo again, I whisper into Badman's ear, “We're not who Rocky thinks we are.”

“Rocky? You
know
this guy?”

“I think so. Well, I don't know him, but I've heard of him. It's all starting to fit.”

“
What
?”

And so I tell him the story Jackson told me, about the Blue Moon casino and the mean manager named Tony, and the stuff Valerie shouldn't have seen that night.

“But what's that got to do with us?”

I sigh. I forgot things take time with Badman. “We were at Jackson's place in the middle of the night, remember? And you told him we lived there, right?”

“Yeah, so?” Then his frown clears. “Oh, I get it, Rocky thinks I'm Jackson! Oh, great, the number freak!”

“That's right. Rocky was probably meant to deliver Jackson to Tony. I guess they think that's the best way to scare Valerie—make sure she stays quiet.”

“Like a ransom type thing. Like that Mel Gibson movie, where his kid—”

“Only,” I bite my lip, “we're not the right kids, are we?”

“No,” says Badman, brightening, “so this Tony will probably just let us go, right?”

I look at him. “Yeah, Tony'll probably just say, “Oh, sorry kids, our mistake, this will just be our little secret, okay? Off you run then, have a nice day!'” The weird laughter is bubbling up again.

Badman pales. I can see him swallow. I wish I'd shut up.

“Okay, I'll try to tell him again who we are,” I say. In a loud voice I call, “Rocky!”

“Yeah?”

“We're not who you think we are. This is NOT Jackson Ford next to—”

Rocky swings around, taking his eyes right off the road. “I've had enough of you little smart asses. Don't think you can fool me.
I'm
not stupid!” He glares at us, then his eyes suddenly narrow. “And how do you know my name then? Ho
ho
! I wasn't born yesterday! Just sit back, shut up, and enjoy the ride.”

Sometimes it's better not to wonder, not to think. Just let that foggy feeling creep back.

Out the window the night is pitch black. We're on a long wide stretch of empty road. The freeway.

Rocky turns down the music. “Listen to the power in this beast. Did I tell you it's turbocharged? Now we can really gun it.”

I strain to see the dashboard. The needle on the speedometer is climbing. 75, 80, 95…

“She's a monster, isn't she?” crows Rocky. “T67 turbo kit, full suspension upgrade, 18 inch Ford racing wheels … Hope you kids wiped your feet before you got in.”

Badman and I look at each other. “How stupid can you get?” he whispers to me.

“I vacuum every day you know,” Rocky goes on. “Wipe over the seats with Wet Ones. I get all types in here. Italian leather shoes, sneakers, rubber soles, doesn't matter which class of shoe, they're full of bacteria.
Bac-ter-ia
, little one-cell creeps. Parasites. Honestly, if you believed what you read in the dictionary, you'd never be without a can of antiseptic in your hand. Nasty crawling bugs.”

“You have a very good vocabulary, sir,” I say. An idea is slowly forming, trying to break through the fog.

Badman stares at me.

“Your boss must really appreciate having such a smart right-hand man,” I go on.

Rocky makes a low grunting noise. I think it's a sign of pleasure. “Well, yeah,” he says uncertainly. There's a pause and then he says more confidently, “You know, Tony really does appreciate me. He knows I can have conversations with any of your rich dudes that come to the casino. Your Egyptians, your French fries, your Eye-tyes, your tourists from Mont-y Carlo. They're all impressed by my English.”

“Oh, is English your second language?”

“What?”

Badman snorts.

“Every week I learn twenty-one new words,” Rocky leans around the front seat to tell me. “I go through the dictionary, see. My sister gave me one last Christmas. She says just because you're grown-up, you should never stop learnin'. I like in the dictionary how there's those little pictures next to the hard words, like arm-a-dill-o. I was lucky because I knew a lot of ‘A' words from the Mustang. You know, like aeromotive fuel regulator, and autometer electronic boost.”

The lights of the city are appearing on the horizon. If Rocky's taking us where I think, we don't have much time.
I want information, anything that might help us. And if we could get on Rocky's good side, maybe…

“Why twenty-one?” Badman pipes up, glancing at me.

“Twenty-one?” Rocky bangs the steering wheel with enthusiasm. “Twenty-one's my boss's fave game. It's the only game he'll play at the casino! He told me once, anything good ever happened to him, happened when he was 21. See,” Rocky reaches for another cigarette, “Tony respects me, I know that. But, like, he could respect me
more
. I mean, us security guys, everyone thinks, they ass-
ume
, we're all brawn and no brain. 'Course Tony doesn't think like that, oh, no, but we can all improve, right? I just want to show what a big brain I
do
have, see? I want them all to know that
my
bit of the central nervous system is very large.”

I give Badman the thumbs-up sign.

“I could give you a word we learned in English,” I offer. “Tautology—it means—”

“I'm not
up
to ‘T' yet,” Rocky says grumpily.

There's silence as the road narrows and the traffic thickens. Neon signs wink past like strobe lights. Cars toot and Rocky winds down his window to swear at the drivers.

“Are we nearly there yet?” I ask.

“Where?” asks Badman.

“Don't give me that,” snaps Rocky. “You know exactly where we're going.”

We zoom through the middle of the city, streaming in and out of narrow roads. Rocky's about as moody as a rattlesnake. I wish I hadn't said “tautology.”

Office blocks crowd around us, tall and spiky like Daniel's Lego buildings. Lights are shining in some of the windows. Are people still working in there? How can life go on, people strolling the streets, drinking in bars, eating in restaurants
as if everything is normal and we're not trapped in some gangster's turbocharged car equipped with an aeromotive fuel regulator?

The roads start to widen and the lights are thinning as we head over a small bridge. When we pass the last pylon I see a steep hill stretching ahead to the right. And on top of the hill, like a glittering palace, sits the Blue Moon.

I hear Badman suck in his breath. As we drive up the hill we see the huge sign pulsing on and off. The letters look like jewels, sapphires maybe, glinting against a white fluorescent circle. It hurts your eyes to look at it for more than a second, like the sun. But you can't help glancing back.

A stab of dread starts in my chest. It spreads out through my arms and neck, making me shiver.

Rocky parks the car near a long white flight of steps. Like a waterfall it flows down from the casino, lined on either side by small fountains spraying arcs of glinting blue water.

“Get out,” says Rocky. He lifts up the front passenger seat for us to squeeze through. It takes a few minutes because the space is so tight.

“Come on, shake a leg,” he barks.

Once we're out I look down at my bathrobe and bare feet. A group of men in suits stand near a red Porsche. Strolling down the stairs toward them are two women in long shiny dresses.

“Kids aren't allowed in casinos,” I remind Rocky. “Specially dressed like this.”

“Yeah,” says Badman weakly, looking around.

“It's okay,” Rocky grins, “you're the boss's precious offspring.” I see for the first time a gold tooth gleaming in his mouth. It's right where the vampire tooth should be—a
canine. He runs his tongue over it. “You see a policeman around? No? What a pity. Now you kids are gonna walk up those steps ahead of me. You'll walk slowly but without stopping. I'm gonna be right behind you.”

Rocky reaches into his inner pocket to get his cigarettes. He takes his time fumbling around in there, making sure we see the gun at his belt. “Damn, musta left the matches in the car.” He puts back the cigarettes. “Trying to cut down, anyway. Not good for training.”

I look at the people getting into the red Porsche. One of the women glances back at me.

“Move,” hisses Rocky. His hand glides to his belt and stays there. “Remember, me and my gun are right behind you. One word, even just one look that's outta place, and you'll feel the steel. Now go.”

We start walking. It seems to take a year to cross the asphalt. We walk past the expensive cars all polished and lined up like kids at assembly. My legs feel so strange, heavy. But I keep walking. It makes me think of actors in a film, just doing what they're told. I want to scream, call out my own words, but I can't find them under all this strangeness. I still remember the feel of that gun at my back.