They were now somewhere out to the east of Palmdale, to the north of Angeles National Forest, driving along something called Pearblossom Highway, which could barely be considered a road, much less a freeway. Josh had never seen so many Joshua trees in his life. He had only known what they were before because his dad was a U2 freak who had named his only son after an album.
They had just passed up a roadside tourist trap that proclaimed the superiority of its date shakes and smoked “meats,” never once specifying what meats those might be. Josh had been curious, but one sideways peek at the vegetarian Allie had eighty-sixed that idea.
And now they were out in the middle of nowhere and, according to Josh’s iPhone 4S, completely without cell phone coverage. Awesome. Not only could he not figure out where he was, he had no way of contacting his parents if—make that when—things got late.
“Hey, Seven. You sure you know where you’re going?” Josh did what he could to keep the quaver out of his voice, and was mostly successful. He did not like getting lost.
“Dude. Yes. I’m telling you, I’ve been out here like a dozen times.”
Which was a patent lie, of course. Seven might be older and, according to him at least, wiser than he and Allie, but that was only because he had failed his freshman year of high school. Twice. Then, after he’d started hanging with Josh, his GPA had shot up, mostly due to the fact that Josh couldn’t help his people-pleaser personality and could never say “no” when Seven asked for “help” with his homework.
Now they were all in their senior year and looking to have some quality adventures before high school was completely over. But considering the amount of time they all hung out together, Seven couldn’t have been out here more than once or twice without them. Besides, where would Seven have gotten the gas money?
M83 blared out of the speakers, the electronic counterpoint of the music setting Josh’s mind spinning in a million different directions, but somehow making him feel nostalgic at the same time. Nostalgic for a simpler time, maybe. A time before Allie transferred to his school. A time before her every move became the sole occupation of his heated brain.
Josh rolled the window down a crack. It wasn’t that it was hot inside the car—actually, the wind coming through the window was like an arid blast from a furnace—but the scent of the air held kind of a wild promise. There was a heady mix of sage, scrub oak and baked rock that made Josh want to tip back his head and howl at the moon.
He figured he needed it.
Allie had been on his radar ever since she first moved into their school. The fact that she had chosen to hang out with them still blew his mind. But even with all of this interaction, he wasn’t getting any action. And by action he meant just a simple handhold or peck on the check. He’d gotten nothing. Nada. Zip. Clearly he was stuck in the friend zone and might never get out. He was hoping tonight’s outing would change things.
There were a ton of rational reasons for them not dating. Allie was a total brainiac who was looking at early acceptance from M.I.T. any day now. She always joked that her brain for higher math was the only good thing she’d inherited from her deadbeat, but brilliant, dad. But wherever she got her smarts from, she intended to make the most of them, and Josh knew a heavy relationship could totally blow that for her. He didn’t want that.
But even with the best of intentions, lately things seemed to be changing between them—or maybe it was just wishful thinking on Josh’s part. Little half sentences, an occasional stutter out of nowhere, a small blush. He really hoped it wasn’t wishful thinking.
The other problem was that Josh had been raised a strict Mormon with the expectation that he would be leaving on a mission for his faith as soon as he turned nineteen. Two years in some foreign country… or worse, Idaho… with no dating, hanging out with another guy as a companion and spreading the good word like a good boy. Kinda hard to go through all that with a serious girlfriend back home.
In spite of all of that, he was pretty sure that tonight was gonna push things in one direction or another. And for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out which way he wanted it to go. He really, really wanted to at least kiss a girl before heading off into the female wasteland of a mission. And he really, really, really would love it if that girl was Allie.
Plus, if word got out that he’d never even made lip contact, that was it for his social reputation. Yeah, I’ve never been kissed and I’m gonna be hanging out with men preaching the gospel for a couple of years. That was sure to go over well. Whoa. Josh was struck with a nasty, ugly thought. What if Allie had already found out, and that was why she had kept him in the friend penalty box? This thing could be over before it even started.
Plus there was fact that he really liked Allie. A lot. Maybe more than liked. She was smart, no doubt, but she was also funny and irreverent and insightful in ways that none of the other girls Josh had dated ever were. And hot. Had he mentioned how hot she was? Hot, hot, hot.
Josh pulled up to a four-way stop, effectively pushing all questions of morality out of his head for a second. Where exactly was he supposed to go from here? He swiveled around in his seat to consult with the resident know-it-all.
“Where to, Seven?”
Seven made a production out of leaning forward to look out the front windshield. He craned his neck to look at the roads to the right and to the left. He then pronounced his verdict with the finality and slight boredom of a judge proclaiming sentence on a three-time felon.
“Take a left.”
He then slouched back in his chair, studying his fingernails as if they held the secret to the universe. Sometimes Josh questioned his taste in friends.
The road off to the left was to real roads what Pearblossom Highway was to real highways. In other words, not even close. It was one step up from a dirt road. No, it was a dirt road, just a little bit more level and tighter packed than most.
At least it wasn’t likely to ruin the suspension in Josh’s car. Correction. Josh’s parents’ car. That they thought was down at Hollywood and Highland right about now. Where Josh was supposed to be watching a movie. With Seven nowhere in sight or sound. Josh felt a pang of guilt that he managed to suppress. He spoke over his shoulder.
“You sure this is right? It feels like we’re going out to a cattle ranch, not a rave.”
“Dude. Seriously. You gotta stop with the rave. Would you just trust me? Dozens of times, remember?” Seven huffed out his indignation, blowing up the hair that hung lank and stringy over his left eye. Someone needed to tell him that emo was on its way out. And by that, Josh meant that it had been out for about a half a decade now.
The only thing that kept Josh from doing it was the realization that Seven would probably move off emo into imitating hipsters, which was going to be infinitely more irritating. Josh had a sudden vision of Seven in skinny jeans and a v-neck tee shirt, sporting a beard and wearing glasses with no lenses. He had to turn his sudden laughter into a cough to keep from having to explain what was so funny.
Allie had rolled her window down a crack as well, and the cross breezes were playing with her hair, lifting it up and whipping it back and forth. They were like dark snakes, winding around her neck, caressing her skin. Okay, new thought. Time for a new thought.
Josh wouldn’t swear to it, but he thought she might dye her hair to get that perfect jet black. It seemed impossible that anyone could have hair that dark. That, combined with the fact that she did what she could to stay out of the sun, lent her a slightly goth look that Josh found pretty much irresistible. Hm. That might not have been the best new thought for him to focus on. Honestly, he couldn’t help himself.
Should he say something about it? Like how pretty her hair was? But each time he went to open his mouth, his lips clamped shut. He was so out of his element. He’d only moved to L.A. a year and a half ago from Kansas. And since then, he had heard pretty much every variation of the Wizard of Oz “we’re not in Kansas anymore” joke. Thing is, they were all totally right. He w
asn’t in Kansas anymore. Things were different here in California. Very, very different.
Seven leaned forward, pointing his index finger slightly off to the right. Man, he totally needed to cut his nails. Guys weren’t supposed to share grooming tips—it was part of the Man Code—but maybe Josh could make an exception. That was totally unsanitary.
“That’s it, dude,” Seven announced. “Take a right. Then just follow it to the parking area.”
Josh looked, but didn’t like what he saw. “Seriously? That’s the road?”
It was nothing more than a double rut, markings for the tires on either side of the car. This was not good. At the very least, the dust and dirt from this “road” was going to completely coat the Mazda. At the worst, it could destroy the suspension.
Oh well. He’d just drive slow, and maybe there’d be enough time after the party to stop somewhere for a car wash. That could work. That could totally work. That was going to work.
Or he was going to get grounded for the next three weeks straight.
He knew, intellectually speaking, that it was better to have engaged parents, parents that cared about his well-being enough to know exactly where he was at any given moment, but at such an auspicious time as this, he could do with a more lackadaisical approach. Was that so wrong? To just have his parents check out from time to time? At least when it was convenient to him and his plans?
In spite of his reservations, Josh slowed way, way down and turned the wheel to the right.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
But as the car went over a huge rock and bottom out, Josh felt his stomach settle right down there with the chassis.
* * *
Keaton could not stop moving. He had checked over his Mickeys—his pet name for his micro-businesses—twice already and was about to go back for a third round. He had been up and down every hallway in the turn-of-the-century house like five times today, making sure the place sparkled more than a vampire in a teen romance novel.
And now, he breathed in the sweet smell of success, surveying his little kingdom. This was the night, baby. This was the night.
Now was the time that everything was finally going to go Keaton’s way.
Unlocking the door to the crafts room, Keaton peeked in on the middle-aged woman who was busy demonstrating decoupage to her rapt online students. He never would’ve guessed that their demographic for this one would be teenage girls in Japan. Go figure. He backed out of the room, closing and locking the door behind him. Couldn’t have his Asian goldmine running off on him, now could he? Not that the locks were what kept them working. He knew how to keep his people motivated.
On to the next room. This was one of his faves. The Russian mail-order brides. Oh, and grooms, of course. Keaton was not sexist in his business endeavors. Just as important for wealthy yet awkward women to find true love as it was for the men.
What he loved about this Mickey was that it was Keaton in a nutshell. Bringing people together. It was what he did. It was who he was.
The girl running it now was one of the first brides Keaton had brought over. Love hadn’t worked out so well for her, but this biz certainly had. When she had taken over from the ninety-year-old matchmaker who had kicked the bucket, profits had soared through the roof. Apparently, the thought was, If the matchmaker looks like this, how hot are the matches gonna be?
The dark-haired beauty looked up from her matchmaking book as Keaton swiveled his body into the room. “Ah, Mr. Keaton,” she purred, her thick Russian accent making her sound almost sleepy. “You come to see how I do? You look.” She scooted the book toward her boss.
“No, babe. Just popping in to remind you to be on your best behavior. No flirting with our guest when he arrives.” She pouted a bit at that. “Actually, come to think of it, do flirt with him. That might be good. Or not. I don’t know. Play it by ear.”
“Play by ear? What is this?” Her pout had now turned into a look of confusion.
“Oh, right. Idioms. I forget.” Keaton thought about it for a second, then snapped his fingers. “See how he reacts in the moment that you meet him.”
“Mr. Keaton.” Her tone was disapproving. “I am woman. I do this… how you say?… sleeping.”
“Yeah, in your sleep. Right. Okay.” He moved back toward the door. “Best behavior, remember.”
Keaton found himself whistling as he moved away from the Russian matchmaking service. He had been working toward this moment for like five whole years. Yeah, sure, there was the whole Ecstasy business side of things. It was what was making this night happen finally, but it was not what was going to put Keaton on the map. No way, man.
What was going to make him famous was the whole micro-business thing. That was the hook, baby. Mickeys. This idea was going to revolutionize the way the world worked. It was working well enough for Keaton’s compound, lovingly referred to as “the Hive.”
It was all paying off tonight. In spades. Actually, in diamonds. Yeah, that was more like it. Keaton had never understood the phrase “paying off in spades.” Diamonds made a whole lot more sense.
Keaton bounced back and forth from his left foot to his right. He was so amped up, he was catching air on each hop. This was a big deal. This was bigger than Elvis. Bigger than the Beatles. Bigger than Weird Al.
He popped his head into the bathroom, just to make sure the “chemists” weren’t sampling their own wares. Couldn’t have them trying to touch and love all over their guest this fine evening. Glassware and chemicals were stacked precariously all around the small space, making Keaton claustrophobic the second his head crossed the threshold.
“How’s the batch looking?” Keaton asked the head X guy, a tall, skinny guy with patches of hair on his face that almost looked like a beard. His eyes were opened just a touch too wide for Keaton’s liking. He peered closer at his employee, checking his pupils.
“This one’s gonna be, like, fuchsia-colored, man. Or no… rainbow-colored. Like a double rainbow across the sky. Yeah. We haven’t done that one before. The kids’ll love it, dude.”
“Okay, yeah. Whatever. Just… keep those pills from ending up in your belly.”
“Totally, dude. It’s all about the work tonight, man.” The scruffy man turned back to his latest batch, held his arms out over it and started chanting or something. Weird. Keaton backed out of the room. This X lab was just a means to an ends. A profit center until his other Mickeys really took off.
Tonight, Keaton was playing host to someone special. Stavros Tarvasas was the guy when it came to dealing drugs on the West Coast. And after all this time, Keaton had managed to land himself on the big bald guy’s radar. If he got in with Stavros, the sky wasn’t even close to the limit.
And Keaton wasn’t just going to sell him on the X. Oh no. That was so passé. Keaton had much more grandiose plans for Stavros. What Keaton was really selling here were his micro-businesses. Just like Dippin’ Dots were the ice cream of the future, micro-businesses were the next step in… entreprenuerialism? entrepreneurship?… whatever. They were the next big thing. This was going to be bigger than the dot com boom, and this little sucker wasn’t gonna bottom out. Maybe they’d have to create a new market, like the NASDAQ or something.
That was what was cranking Keaton’s motor right now. Nothing chemical about this high, baby. It was au naturel. Honestly, that was the only way Keaton rolled.
Tonight, the X was his ticket into Stavros’s inner circle. And once Stavros was here and seeing the awesomeness that was the Mickeys, he’d be hooked. And Keaton would be living the sweet life.
But he had to keep his focus. Well, he had to try to keep his focus. This had always been a bit of an issue with Keaton. He had tons of great ideas, but the whole keeping-on-track thing was a bit of a problem for him. Not that he was upset about it. Not at all. It was out of his borderline ADHD that micro-businesses had been born, after all.
His Mickeys were the perfect playground for someone that couldn’t just focus on one thing. Ins
tead, you focused on a whole mess of little itty bitty things.
Thinking about his Mickeys made him bounce higher and faster. Okay. He had been standing in one spot for way too long. Time to step outside to see if Stavros had arrived yet. He was supposed to get there at 9 p.m. sharp, but guys like Stavros could pretty much show up whenever they wanted. Keaton checked his watch. 9:05.
As he jogged over to the front door, Keaton realized that, soon, he could be the guy that could always show up late. He could be the one that everyone else looked up to. Well, figuratively, at least. He wasn’t the tallest guy on the planet. That idea definitely had its appeal.
Pushing open the door to the house, Keaton stepped out into a blast of the lingering heat from the day. Soon enough, the temperature would plummet, but for now, the waves of hot still air radiated up from the ground around him.
From his right, Keaton could hear the thump, thump of the dubstep they were playing over at the club. The weird mechanical bass warping reminded Keaton of the sound Transformers made when they were changing shape. It wasn’t his favorite kind of music, but it was what was popular right now.
Hey, if it made him money…
Over the vibrations of the music, Keaton could hear the howling of a pack of coyotes chasing something. Probably a jackrabbit. There were tons of them out here. When they caught whatever it was, there was a scream—definitely a rabbit—and then the sounds of the predators ripping apart their prey. Circle of life, right here outside of his dwelling.
He really needed to get a place in the city.
Stifling a shiver, Keaton peered out into the darkness. If you didn’t know better, you would think that the world didn’t exist outside the pool of porch light. Sure, he had a dozen employees and hundreds of partiers, but let them drive up to the house? No way. No how. He made all the patrons hike their way in. Two miles. Added to the whole “exclusive” vibe, plus a side benefit to the security of his… less legal activities.
Any headlights coming this way would have to be Stavros’s.
Down & Dirty: A McCray Crime Collection Page 36