by Mike Lupica
Drew knocked on the door again, but stopped when somebody from behind a closed door nearby told him to knock it off out there. Drew walked back down the stairs to the lobby, feeling let down, wanting to talk to Legend in a way he didn’t want to talk to Mr. Gilbert tonight.
Even Lee.
Maybe Legend was just out having a late dinner somewhere. Or with a friend. Did he even have friends? Did he have a life? Or just this room, his books? His job off a truck, helping build a pool.
Better question: Why do I care so much?
But Drew knew the answer to that one. He knew, all right. His real nightmare, True Robinson’s true nightmare, wasn’t just falling down a flight of stairs the way David Thompson had. The way Urban Legend had after a bar fight in Greece.
The bottom of Drew’s nightmare was a room like this. A life like this.
A ghost of someone who should have made it big.
He sat on a bench in front of the hotel for a while, feeling silly. Looked down at his hand and saw that he was still carrying his drink, that there was a little left. He sucked it dry.
Drew thought about getting a cab at the train station, but didn’t. Tonight he walked all the way home in the cool night air, wondering what Urban Legend thought about at this time of night, before he went to sleep.
Wondering what his dreams were like. Or his nightmares.
The rest of the way home, Drew kept telling himself the same thing, over and over again, like he was trying to scare a bogeyman away.
I’m not him.
Not him.
Not.
Him.
TWENTY-NINE
All the other juniors, whether they were sixteen yet or not, talked all the time about getting their driver’s licenses. If they weren’t talking about getting their licenses, they were talking about getting permits, starting the process.
Drew wasn’t like them. He had his permit, but hadn’t done much with it, had been out riding in a car one time with Mr. Gilbert, and both of them said they’d do it again real soon. But they never had.
Oh, he wanted to drive, all right, have the freedom of all that, and not have to rely on Lee—or Mr. Gilbert or his mom—to take him places.
But the truth was, all those people wanting to take him places—knowing he had people who wanted to take him places—chilled him out on the whole idea of driving. Made him less gigged up about it than the other kids in school. Maybe having his own personal car service, Lee or Mr. Gilbert’s man Eddie, whenever he needed it was just one more part of being True Robinson.
As always, he thought of that guy, True, as almost another identity, the way he knew Magic Johnson used to talk about the Magic part of him and the Earvin part. People wanted to do things for True Robinson, get him stuff. The kind of stuff that would be coming his way his whole dag-gone life.
For now, he just enjoyed the ride in all ways, putting off driver’s ed, not even thinking about scheduling a driver’s test. He was still months away from turning sixteen, anyway.
He’d worry about it all after basketball season, even the car Mr. Gilbert had promised him when he finally did have his license.
Drew and Lee were at Mr. Gilbert’s house now on Saturday night. They had the place to themselves except for the help, because Mr. Gilbert and Robbie had flown in a private plane to Phoenix for a Jay-Z concert and didn’t plan to come back until morning.
Lee had been talking about the whole license thing, couldn’t believe Drew wouldn’t get after it. Drew told him what Mr. Gilbert always said, that he was going to buy Drew a new car a year until he could buy his own once he got to the pros.
“But don’t they have rules about cars and things once you get to college?” Lee said.
Drew gave Lee the same kind of look he put on when they found out there was no check at the diner.
“Rules? Mr. G says those are for the other guys,” Drew said.
“Sorry,” Lee said. “I forget sometimes.”
Drew said, “Mr. G said not to worry, there’s always ways around the rules, that whatever car he gets is going to be in his name.”
“That’s why if it was me,” Lee said, “I’d be getting my license tomorrow if I could.”
“It isn’t you,” Drew said. “I can wait until after the season. Besides, Mr. G. says I can get behind the wheel of one of his cars anytime I want.”
“Riding with him, you mean.”
Drew grinned, shook his head no. “When it comes up, he just gives me that look like we’re on the inside of the same joke and says, ‘You really do need to take the Moz for a spin one of these days.’”
His Maserati.
“What’d you drive when he took you out that time?”
“Mercedes.”
“My dad’s got one of those,” Lee said. “But, dude, a Maserati? It’s like being at the controls of a rocket ship.”
Drew said, “Mr. Gilbert says I might as well start getting the feel of a ride like that now, seeing as how I’m gonna have a whole fleet of my own someday.”
They were getting ready to watch a movie in Mr. Gilbert’s private theater, which was in one of the cottages behind the swimming pool—six rows of cushy red seats, a movie-theater-size screen. Mr. Gilbert’s casa being Drew’s casa, like always. He knew that if he called up to the main house, one of the chefs on call 24/7 would whip them up something to eat.
Have it down there a lot faster than if they ordered Domino’s.
But they had already chowed out on pizza in town. As they were coming out of Pizza Nosh, on Canwood, Lee had asked if there was anyplace Drew wanted to be dropped tonight, asking if he had any secret spy-type missions planned.
Drew had said, “Nah, I’m good.”
The Brandt twins, Tyler and Jake, were having some kind of party, and Drew and Lee had said they might drop by, but knew they weren’t going to, even though Tyler had let Drew know that Callie might be there.
“Why should that matter to me?” Drew had asked.
Tyler had grinned and said, “I’m just passin’ on the intel.”
Drew and Lee had agreed this ought to be a chill night. Kick it and watch the movie—Mr. Gilbert always had copies of new movies even when they were still in theaters. Nowhere they wanted to be, no games for four days.
But Drew was restless, even in Seth Gilbert’s private theater, knowing he should be feeling like he was living the dream, his best buddy next to him.
He always got restless between one game and the next.
As cool as he tried to be, about everything, when eyes were on him, Drew knew how much these games meant to him. No matter how many times he told himself he was just passing through Oakley, the way he was going to pass through his one-and-done year of college, no matter how many times Mr. Gilbert told him to be careful, not get himself injured over some high school game, Drew knew: he was only happy, for-real happy, when there was a game going on.
Now there was no game until Wednesday.
His paper on the playground legends was due, and he hadn’t even got past half of a first draft. And this time, because of his promise to Urban Sellers, he couldn’t ask Lee for help.
It was one of the things Drew wanted to ask Urban Sellers, if there was a way to tell the story and not break his promise. Only he couldn’t find the man. He’d been back to the hotel twice more—both times on the sneak from Lee—and both times Urban Sellers hadn’t been there.
Where did a guy go who seemed to have no life to speak of? Drew couldn’t figure it out. That was one thing. Then there was Callie, who’d barely nod hello to him when they passed in the hall. She was colder than New York in the wintertime.
Drew found himself getting too jumpy to make himself sit still.
He got up out of his cushy theater chair and said to Lee, “Let’s go for a drive.”<
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• • •
When they were pulling down the winding driveway, long enough to have its own name or number, Lee looked at Drew from the passenger seat and said, “You’re sure this is okay?”
“Taking the car or me driving it?”
“Both.”
“We’re fine as long as I keep it under the speed limit and we don’t get pulled over,” Drew said. “And as for taking the Moz, I already told you he said I should take it out for a spin one of these days. So this is the day.”
Because of the times Eddie had driven him in the car, Drew was familiar with what Mr. Gilbert called the “eye candy” on the dashboard, starting with the old-fashioned clock, a traditional clock with a short hour hand and long minute hand, not the digital clock most other cars had. It was just one more way the car was telling you it was different.
The speedometer wasn’t digital, either, and working the radio was so complicated Drew wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to get that down, especially when he was trying to drive at the same time—which was okay because he didn’t want any music tonight, anyway, didn’t want any distractions.
He just knew that if he ever drove this car for real, he’d have to take some kind of driver’s ed class just to find stations he liked.
When he’d told Mr. Gilbert that one of the reasons why he was in no rush to get his license was because he was in no rush to sit in a classroom for a bunch of hours, Mr. Gilbert had said, “Don’t worry, when the time comes, I’ve got a guy to handle that.”
But for now, Drew was the guy, the guy sitting behind the wheel of the man’s Moz, remembering how to work the shift paddles on the Formula One steering wheel, starting to feel as if he were driving a race car for real.
On the open road in the night, not some school parking lot.
He stepped on it a little now, pushing Lee back in his seat, thinking, This is what I feel like in the open court, like nobody can keep up with me.
“You remember we cannot, in a million years, no way, get pulled over, right?” Lee said.
He sounded more nervous than Drew had ever heard him.
“Relax,” Drew said. “This is fresh. You can drive it on the way back, if you want. See what this baby’s got.”
“I know what it’s got. And what it’s got, we shouldn’t have. Because what it could do is get us arrested.”
“It’s not like I’m taking it out on the 101.”
“Well, there’s good news.”
Drew said, “We’ll just turn it loose on some back roads, then go back.”
“No,” Lee said, “no turning loose. Driving the speed limit is what we’re shooting for.”
“Got it.”
Then he stepped on it a little more, laughing as Lee fell back into the seat again.
Drew said, “Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”
“Not happening.”
Drew slowed down as they came out of Thousand Oaks, on their way toward Westlake Village, not wanting to head toward Agoura Hills. He felt himself getting more comfortable doing this, not feeling as nervous as he had when they’d pulled away from the house, starting to feel that control he did on the court, when he could make things happen the way he wanted them to.
This was like driver’s ed for the life he was going to have.
“Maybe we should think about heading back,” Lee said.
“Little while longer.”
They were on Route 23 now, heading toward the Pacific Coast Highway.
Drew said to Lee, “Aren’t you the guy always telling me I should act like a normal kid? What’s more normal than this, wanting to get out and drive a hot car?”
“Drive one,” Lee said, “or carjack one?”
“Just trying to be like a kid taking Daddy’s car for a little joyride.”
More like a sugar daddy, in Mr. Gilbert’s case, Drew was aware enough to know that. His real dad, Miles Robinson, had walked out on Drew and his mom when Drew was a baby. He said he was going to get a bottle of red wine and never came back. But then his mom had always said that Miles had never come all the way back from the first Gulf War, from what he’d seen there. When Drew was ten, they got the call from the Veterans Hospital in Miami, telling them that Miles Robinson had finally passed from complications from liver disease.
The things you thought about in the night, out here on the empty road, things that flew into your head as the night flew by you.
He could go a long time without thinking about the dad he’d never known. Now here he was.
Just like that, Drew stepped on it again, hard this time.
THIRTY
Dude, you got to slow down,” Lee said.
“In a minute.”
Lee said, “You just had your minute, going from zero to ludicrous.”
Drew wondered if Lee even knew that the Maserati had a Ferrari engine under the hood. Mr. Gilbert had told Drew that the first time he’d been in the car, sitting where Lee was sitting right now, pulling his seat belt tighter.
Drew could hear Mr. Gilbert’s voice inside his head—again—telling him, “Just punch it and it goes. Ultimate combination of power and luxury.”
Drew surprised himself, handling the curves the way he was, even without much light on this road in the night, though there wasn’t much to see on the 23 in the daytime.
He was up to sixty now.
“This isn’t funny,” Lee said. “Or fun.”
“Speak for yourself.”
Seventy.
That’s when they both heard the siren.
Drew looked into the rearview mirror, saw the flashing lights of the police car. And he knew they weren’t going to be the friendly cops at Morrison Park, cruising past the basketball court to check up on him.
This was going to be about speeding, about not having a license, about somebody else’s car.
About not being sixteen.
When Drew was able to speak, he sounded more like he was twelve. “I can’t get into trouble for this! I can’t!” He looked at Lee, bug-eyed. “This could screw up everything.”
“Relax,” Lee said. “It’s gonna be all right.”
“All right?” Drew screamed at him. “I’m not talking about this stupid ride. I’m talking about my ride to the pros! Are you hearing me?”
“I’m hearing you loud and clear,” Lee said. He looked over his shoulder. “When we get around the next curve, pull over right away.”
“What good is that gonna do?”
“Just do it. This is still a Maserati. They’re not gonna catch us right away. We’ve still got time.”
“For what?”
They came around the corner now, still going fast, losing the lights of the cop car for just a moment, the sound of the siren fading out like calls on your cell phone could fade out. Lee yelling at him to slow down, but Drew out of control in this moment, the opposite of who he was on the basketball court—
The other car wasn’t supposed to be there on the side of the road.
Wasn’t supposed to be in the way, warning lights flashing, a guy in backseat of it, talking away on his cell phone.
As well as he thought he’d done tonight behind the wheel, Drew wasn’t an experienced driver yet. But even in what felt like the worst moment of his life, he still had the same reactions as on the court. He avoided the car right there in front of them, turned the race-car wheel hard to the right, barely avoiding the car, but having no chance—none—to miss the first tree.
Drew sideswiped it as he hit the brakes hard, hearing the terrible sound of the tree scraping across the right side of Mr. Gilbert’s Maserati. His right knee slammed hard into the dashboard—it felt as if somebody had clubbed it with a baseball bat.
Now the siren was close again, the sound earsplittingly loud, the cop
car coming around the curve.
Lee was already unbuckling his seat belt, doing the same to Drew’s, not even asking if Drew was all right, just grabbing him by the shoulders, shoving him toward the passenger seat, sliding underneath and getting behind the wheel.
“What . . . ?” Drew said.
“If one of us is going to get in trouble for this,” his friend said, “it’s gonna be me.”
THIRTY-ONE
Even though one of the policemen back at the station recognized Drew, they did everything by the book. But that had already started back at the scene of the accident, Drew and Lee both taking Breathalyzer tests to see if either one of them had been drinking alcohol, even though both of them had told the policeman questioning them that they never drank, no sir. The two policemen at the scene had also asked Lee what he was doing driving a car that didn’t belong to him, but Drew jumped in and said they had permission, they could check with Mr. Gilbert if they wanted, gave him all of Mr. Gilbert’s numbers, which they called in to the station.
Now they were at the station, the policeman questioning them, looking at Drew first, then Lee, then saying, “What were you two thinking?”
Lee said, “We weren’t thinking, sir. What I did was stupid.”
What he did. Not the two of them. Just him. Wanting to take it all.
“You’re going to lose your license for a good long time, son,” the policeman said to Lee.
The name on his badge read “Saunders.”
“I know that, sir,” Lee said. On their way back to the station, Lee and Drew in the backseat of the police car, Lee had whispered to Drew that it was going to be “yes sir” and “no sir” no matter what the cops said to them.
“You know how lucky you both are?” Officer Saunders said.
“Yes sir,” Drew said, not wanting Lee to take it all, feeling guilty already. “We’re just not feeling too lucky right now, sir.”
Then Saunders dialed Seth Gilbert’s office and told him what had happened and then finally said, “So they did have permission?” And told him what the damage was and where his Maserati was and hung up.