Mojo

by Tim Tharp

  He stroked his pseudo-mustache for a moment, then goes, “You’re right, dude. Chicks do love that. I’m in.”

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  It was true—the plan was fabulous. It really was secret-agent-worthy. Still, when the time came to head to Gangland, my nerves twanged like an electric banjo. And not just because of the potential for danger, but also because now I finally had my shot to show Ashton what I was worth.

  As we drove, I kept checking the rearview mirror to make sure Audrey and Trix were behind us. Meanwhile Randy rattled on about how, if Sideburns showed up, one of us should hit him high while the other hit him low. This might’ve been a good idea except, as I remembered it, Randy hadn’t been much help the last time Sideburns rolled into the picture.

  When we got to Gangland, there was only one car parked by the loading-dock entrance, a white Porsche, which I assumed belonged to Ashton. While I called Audrey, Randy pulled down the sun visor to check his mustache in the mirror. It was no less scraggly than the last time we came to Gangland, but he was proud of it anyway.

  On the phone, Audrey’s like, “Okay, we’re all set. Keep the line open.”

  “Roger that,” I said. It seemed like the situation called for something official.

  Figuring out where to stash the phone so she could hear what was going on presented a problem, though. I couldn’t carry it, and I was afraid it might accidentally turn off if I put it in my pocket. I’d worn the porkpie, thinking I might lodge it under there, but it jostled around too much, so I ended up tucking it into my sock.

  On the loading dock, I knocked on the metal door where we entered Gangland the first time we came. No answer. I tried the knob. It was unlocked, so Randy and I ambled right through. Inside, the place was so movie-theater dark it was hard to see. And without the crowd and lame music, the emptiness and silence of the place gave off more of a graveyard feel than a party atmosphere.

  “Is anyone here?” I called, but still didn’t get an answer.

  We walked further in, and Randy goes, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  There was actually an echo, it was so hollow in there.

  “This is weird,” I said. “We got here at almost exactly four o’clock.”

  We went across to the corridor, which was even darker than the main room, but a thin sliver of light shone from beneath the door at the far end. I bent down so my phone would pick up my whisper. “Okay, Audrey, I think she’s in the office. Keep listening.”

  Just behind me, Randy goes, “All this dark is weirding me out.”

  “Yeah,” I whispered. “I don’t like it either.”

  Somewhere along the way, I knew we’d pass the dressing room where the bands, dancers, and fighters hung out while waiting to entertain the stupid Gangland members. This would be a good place for some paid long-sideburned skulker to lie in wait, ready to jump us from behind as we passed, so I ran my hand along the wall until I felt the opening of the doorway.

  When I stopped to check it out, Randy rammed into me from behind, almost knocking me over. My phone fell out of my sock. I picked it up, but now I’d lost my connection to Audrey. I was just about to call her back when the door at the end of the hall opened.

  “Is that you, Dylan?” All I could see was a black silhouette in the doorway, but it had to be Ashton.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said, tucking the phone into my pocket before I could finish dialing Audrey’s number.

  “What are you doing stumbling around in the dark?” she asked.

  “I didn’t know where the light switch was.”

  “Well, come down here so we can talk in the office.”

  She backed into the light. She was gorgeous in a white sleeveless top and black slacks. It was like those near-death stories you hear where there’s a light with an angel in it waiting at the end of a dark tunnel.

  As Randy and I walked into the office, she goes, “I thought you were coming alone.”

  And I’m like, “I would have, but you seemed so nervous last time we talked, I thought maybe you could use some extra help.”

  She smiled. “That’s nice of you, but it really wasn’t necessary.”

  “Don’t worry about Randy,” I said. “He’s okay. He’s been helping me search for you, so we’re both on your side.”

  Randy walked over and shook her hand. “I met your dad,” he said. “We talked a little bit about the banking business. I’m thinking about going into a career in that line.”

  She looked past him toward me. “I’m sure if you trust him, Dylan, then I can too. Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll fix you something to drink. Will diet soda be okay? I think that’s the only thing in the fridge.”

  Of course, I’m not a fan of diet anything, but I said okay just to be sociable, and Randy, well, he’ll take anything that’s free. She fixed the drinks in whiskey-style glasses and talked about how good a writer she thought I was after reading my articles about her. She thought I really had a future in journalism. She even thought I should start my own blog.

  She handed me and Randy our drinks and then sat behind the desk. After one sip, I remembered why I didn’t like diet soda—the aftertaste was like liquid rubber.

  Randy disagreed. “That hits the spot,” he said. “You wouldn’t have a little rum I could splash in here, though, would you?”

  “No, sorry,” she replied. “I’m not really the partyer like some of my other friends you’ve met.”

  Randy’s like, “Me either. I just like a little rum now and then. And a good cigar.”

  This, sadly, was what he thought would impress her.

  “Look,” I said, “I’m sure you didn’t ask me here to talk about rum and cigars.”

  “No,” she said. “Not exactly.”

  “You want to know what I think?” I asked.

  “I’d love to.”

  “I think you couldn’t talk last night because your dad is putting pressure on you to say what he wants you to say.”

  She shifted uneasily in her seat. “Why would you think that?”

  I took another pull of my soda. “For one thing, because you got kind of panicky when I mentioned Hector Maldonado’s name, and for another, because I don’t think Beto Hernandez really kidnapped you.”

  “You don’t?”

  “It’s that brother of yours,” Randy said. “We think he’s kind of a douche.”

  She’s like, “What? Tres? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  And I go, “What Randy’s trying to say is that some things don’t add up. For example, I got the idea your dad thinks you and Beto were, like, a couple until you wanted to break things off, and then he wouldn’t let you go. I know Beto a little bit, and he just doesn’t seem like that type. And I don’t think he’s your type either. No, I figure you’d be more likely to go for a guy like Hector.”

  “You think you know me well enough to say that?”

  “I’ve done my research. You and Hector are both good people. Idealistic. Kind of like me. I can see the two of you hitting it off.”

  “But why would you think I even knew this Hector person?”

  “Well, you obviously recognized his name. You probably met him while you were delivering meals to the Ockle ladies. Hector’s grandmother lives right next door. It all fits—you broke up with Rowan right around the time you started at FOKC, and then not too long after that, Hector’s dead and you vanished. Seems pretty likely somebody didn’t like the idea of you and Hector together. At first, I thought it might be one of your exes—Rowan or Nash—but if it was either of them, you wouldn’t have that good a reason to go along with the story about Beto, would you? Rowan’s family doesn’t have the status anymore to apply any pressure on your dad, and truthfully, your dad’s probably not the type who would be pressured by Nash’s family either, no matter how much money they have. No, I think your dad’s private detective found out Tres had you locked up somewhere and then framed Beto to keep Tres from getting into trouble. Your dad can’t
have people knowing his own son killed Hector and then tried to get you out of the way because you knew about it.”

  “Yeah,” added Randy for emphasis.

  “You’re wrong.” Ashton shook her head. “Tres didn’t have me locked up anywhere. I was with Beto. In fact, he took me with him to his grandmother’s house the day you came by asking questions. That’s why Oscar hit you. They didn’t want you to find out I was in there.”

  That was a stunner. And cut a pretty big hole in my theory. “But what about Hector?” I asked. “Someone killed him, and I know for a fact Beto figured that someone was mixed up in Gangland. So, yeah, maybe you were with Beto, but not involuntarily. He wouldn’t take you to his grandmother’s if he kidnapped you. No, he was helping you hide from whoever poisoned Hector.”

  Just then her phone rang, but she only glanced at it for a second, then muted the ringer. With a sigh, she looked up and goes, “Poor Hector.” That was all for a moment, then she went on. “He had the loveliest brown eyes. So sweet. And ambitious in his own way. He really wanted to have a career doing something for his people. And not just Mexican Americans but working-class people everywhere. He loved that I worked with FOKC. You should’ve heard him talk about our future together. We were going to change the world.”

  Her voice trailed off, and I thought she might start crying.

  “Hey,” I said. “It’s okay.” I felt pretty proud of myself for finally getting to something that resembled the truth. “Whatever you’re mixed up in, you can tell me about it. I’m just here to help you and Beto.”

  “I wish you could.” Her voice was almost a whisper.

  I started to tell her what I could do, but someone from behind interrupted me. “She doesn’t have to tell you a single thing, Nitro.”

  It was Tres. He stood in the doorway wearing a black button-up shirt with a black-leather sport jacket. Like he thought he really was some kind of gang kingpin.

  “Look, it’s Casper the Friendly Ghost,” said Randy.

  And Ashton goes, “Tres, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m just worried about my big sister.” He sauntered into the room. “You know, Ash, you shouldn’t really leave the house. The parents wouldn’t condone that. Especially when it comes to meeting with these two dregs.”

  “Why’s that?” I said. “Oh, wait. Let me tell you. It’s because you’re afraid your whole story’s going to come unraveled, aren’t you? Sure, maybe your sister was with Beto, but not because he kidnapped her. No, she stayed with him because she was afraid of you. You couldn’t stand that she fell for this guy you saw as some kind of low-class loser, so you overdosed him with something. I don’t know how, but you did. And she was afraid to tell Beto. After all, you’re still her little brother. How am I doing so far?”

  Tres scratched his cheek. He couldn’t look me square in the eye, so he stared over my head. “To me, it sounds like something no one’s going to believe. I wouldn’t have to kill a kid like Hector to keep him from seeing my sister. I’d just pay him off.”

  “But Hector wouldn’t take your money, would he?” I said. “He wasn’t that kind of guy.”

  “Everybody’s that kind of guy.” Tres leaned against the wall. “In fact, I’ll bet you’re that kind of guy. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t even bother with you and your little guesses about what happened, but I can’t have you start throwing around Hector Maldonado’s name in connection with this. Not that I had anything to do with him. You think I’d ever believe my sister would fall for a nobody like that? But at the same time I can’t have his name out there. It just won’t do.”

  He took out his wallet and started thumbing through the bills. “So let me tell you what kind of bargain I’m prepared to make. I have five hundred dollars here. I was going to let you have it all, but it looks like you’ll have to split it with your friend with the pubic mustache.”

  Randy leaned forward in his seat. “Hey, buddy, don’t dis the ’stache.”

  Tres disregarded that. “Two hundred and fifty apiece—that’s still a lot of money for guys like you. All you have to do is keep your mouths shut about this Hector business, and you can walk out of here a couple of wealthy individuals, and everything will be all right.”

  “You have to be kidding,” I said. “You think I’d sell Beto out?”

  But Randy’s like, “Wait a minute, Dylan. I could use two hundred and fifty dollars.”

  I glared at him. “No, Randy, we’re not taking the money.”

  “Think about it,” Tres urged. “You could buy all the stupid retro T-shirts you want. And your buddy—maybe he could get a date for a change.”

  “I bet I get more tail than you,” Randy said.

  And I’m like, “Forget it. As far as I’m concerned, your money’s no good.”

  Tres snapped his wallet shut. “Too bad.”

  Then Ashton jumped into the discussion, pleading, “Dylan, you should really think about taking the money. I know how you feel about Beto. Believe me, I do. And I wish there was another way, but this is bigger than you.”

  Her blue eyes went watery, and I started to feel a little dizzy looking into them. But I couldn’t do what she wanted. “I’m sorry, Ashton. Maybe a few weeks ago I would’ve just taken the money, but not now.”

  “That’s okay,” Tres said. “I have an alternative plan.” He walked to the open doorway, leaned out, and called, “Hey, Dickie, get in here, will you?”

  Dickie? The name sounded familiar, but with the way my mind was racing, I couldn’t slow my thoughts down enough to grab hold of where I’d heard it before.

  Then in through the doorway walked Sideburns himself, grinning maliciously. I bolted to my feet so fast my head went light. Randy stood up too. I didn’t know if he was scared, but he was sweating so much you would’ve thought he just took a hot shower.

  “You have your switchblade with you, Dickie?” Tres asked, and Dickie’s like, “Sure do.” He pulled the knife from his pocket and flicked out the blade.

  Ashton got up and walked to the side of the desk. “No, Tres, you can’t be serious.” Then to me, “Dylan, you have to take the money. Please, take it.”

  “I can’t,” I said, but the words sounded weird coming out, like someone else was saying them.

  Then Randy looked at Dickie and goes, “Are you one of those Wiccans? I heard they had a coven here. Is it true they know magic and stuff? I don’t believe in the whole broomstick deal, but I figured maybe they made potions and charms, that kind of thing.”

  It was Randy’s dumb-ass routine all over again.

  “Shut up,” Dickie told him. “Or I’m gonna work on you first.”

  Randy backed away, but his routine did buy me just enough time to catch hold of how I knew Dickie’s name—Dancin’ Dan mentioned it the night we drove home from Gangland. Dickie was the one who fought Robo-Troy before Dan.

  Now Dickie stood right in front of me, swishing the knife blade in the air. “Here we are—you and me again. Looks like I’m gonna have to do that nose job on you after all.”

  “So, you’re Dickie,” I said.

  His eyes narrowed. “Yeah, what of it?”

  And I’m like, “Dan told me about you.”

  The knife stopped swishing. “You know Dan?”

  “Do I know Dan? Are you kidding? Dan and I are tight. We fought in the rumbles on the same night. He told me all about you and Robo-Troy, said you came the closest of anyone in the history of the rumbles to beating Troy.”

  Dickie smiled. “Dan said that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, I guess I done pretty good. A lot better than Dan, that’s for sure. Old Dan sure got a faceful, didn’t he?”

  “Not as bad as me,” I said. “I almost got my nose broken.”

  Dickie gave me a playful punch on the shoulder. “Well, how do you like that? You’re buddies with Dan.”

  “Would you shut up,” Tres ordered. “Forget whether he knew some stupid guy named Dan. We have a little persuading to do her
e, remember?”

  Dickie glared at him. “Dan’s not stupid. He’s my main man.”

  “That’s okay,” Tres told him. “Marry him if you want to, but I’m the one who’s paying you.”

  Dickie folded his knife shut. “I don’t believe I like the way you’re talking.”

  “Look,” Tres said. “I have a hundred extra dollars here if you’ll just forget about how I’m talking and get back to doing your job.”

  During this, my heart pounded so hard I thought it might crack a rib. You never know how you’ll react in a situation like this, but I was beginning to think there was something more wrong with me than just stress. Randy didn’t look so good either.

  “I don’t know,” Dickie said. “If you got an extra hundred, I’ll bet you got an extra two hundred.”

  Tres pulled out his wallet. “Okay, two hundred.”

  The switchblade flicked open again, and Dickie’s like, “Or maybe I’ll just take everything you got.”

  Tres reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black pistol. That’s Oklahoma for you—even the rich kids are packing. But he wasn’t exactly Mr. Cool about it. His hands shook so badly he fumbled the pistol and couldn’t catch it before it clattered onto the floor.

  Dickie’s like, “Ha! Looks like I got the advantage in this deal here.”

  Tres looked panicked.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Ashton strode around the desk. “Do I have to do everything?” She had a pistol of her own.

  “Drop that knife,” she ordered Dickie. “And get over there with those two idiots.”

  All in a moment her softness had hardened into steel. She pointed the gun with the barrel turned sideways the way gang-bangers in movies do, which struck me as a kind of reverse pretentiousness.

  As Tres plucked his pistol from the floor, Dickie warily followed Ashton’s orders. Now the three of us stood with our backs to the desk, and Tres stood next to Ashton. She had all the beauty of a well-polished missile.