Mojo

  One word that kept coming up did spark my interest, though—Gangland. As in: Gangland this Saturday. Or: Gangland, baby, Gangland. Or simply: Gangland! What that meant was anybody’s guess.

  There were no comments from Ashton since her disappearance, of course, and in fact, we had to go back a couple of weeks before we found anything from her at all. Nothing looked suspicious. Actually, she seemed like a pretty positive supportive-type friend. Except for one comment she made in response to Rowan’s post.

  Rowan Adams: Another glorious Gangland extravaganza!

  Ashton Browning: :(

  That was her only response, just the frowny face.

  Audrey’s like, “Maybe that has something to do with why they broke up.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Randy added. “He probably broke up with her because he didn’t like her putting a frowny face on everything he said.”

  “You would blame the girl,” Audrey said. “I bet she broke up with him because she couldn’t stand his little smirk.”

  I started to scroll back even further into the past, but just then a private message showed up. It was from Nash. Admittedly, I felt a little rush. I mean, this guy was top-of-the-heap material, and here he was sending me a private message.

  He’s like, Hey, master detective! Good to meet you the other day! We should hang out and talk about the case! I have a game going on at my favorite pool hall this Saturday! You should come!

  Besides the correct grammar and overuse of exclamation points, there was something else odd about the message—the address of his favorite pool hall was smack-dab in the middle of the Asian District, not at all the kind of high-rent place you’d expect a Hollister kid to hang out in. But that was okay. This was just the kind of opportunity a good investigator needed to take advantage of. Maybe I could even find out what Gangland was. Plus, it would be pretty cool getting to hang with a guy like Nash.

  “Hmmm,” Audrey said. “This is interesting. Very interesting. I wonder what he wants out of this.”

  I’m like, “Hey, is it so impossible that the guy just wants to hang out with me?”

  She shrugged.

  Randy goes, “But pool? Who plays pool anymore?”

  And I’m like, “I guess I do.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Saturday night I put on my newest old jeans and my retro Iron Maiden T-shirt. I’m not sure I’d ever heard an Iron Maiden song, but the shirt was pretty awesome, and besides, they say black is supposed to be slimming. Audrey picked me up about seven, and then we swung by to get Randy. He was wearing a cheesy collared shirt that was unbuttoned far enough to expose his pale bony chest. I should also point out that he’d been trying to grow a mustache for about a month, but it only had about twenty whiskers—twelve on one side and eight on the other—which had the texture of armpit hair. Apparently, he thought it was suave. I wasn’t so sure I wanted him along on this mission, but I still owed him for the tough spot I’d put him in at the grocery store.

  As we headed into the city, he started asking about Trix, wondering if maybe she’d be at the pool hall. That possibility was the main reason Audrey wanted to go, but Randy, always up for meeting a new girl—any new girl—figured if Trix turned out not to be a lesbian, he might have a shot at her.

  I’m like, “No way. If she’s not a lesbian, then I’m first in line in front of you.”

  “Forget that, Dylan,” Audrey said. “You can’t ever ask her out.”

  “Why not? If she’s not into girls, why would you care?”

  “Because we’re best friends, and you don’t ask out somebody your best friend already likes. The gay thing doesn’t make any difference.”

  I hadn’t thought of it that way, but she was right. It wouldn’t feel so good to see her going around with some girl I liked. And I would never—never—in a million years want to make Audrey feel like that. Besides, I didn’t think it was a good idea to date a suspect.

  Anyway, the Asian district is a cool part of town. There’s a healthy Vietnamese population in Oklahoma City, and they’ve opened up all kinds of interesting restaurants and shops. If you’ve never tried pho, which is this super-hearty Vietnamese noodle soup, then you need to. They have whole restaurants devoted to it. In fact, even though I’d already had dinner, I voted to stop in for a quick bowl, but Audrey and Randy vetoed me.

  Trang’s, the Vietnamese pool hall, was on a little out-of-the-way side street in a building that I think used to be a carpet store. Although a lot of the Vietnamese places were all spruced up, Trang’s was pretty dingy on the outside, not a total dump, but not exactly welcoming either. I was pretty sure we weren’t going to fit in.

  “Are you guys sure you want to go in here?” I asked.

  “Why not?” Randy said. “My dad used to take me into worse places than this when he was still around.”

  I looked at Audrey.

  “We’re here,” she said. “We might as well check it out. Besides, how bad can it be if a Hollister boy hangs out here?”

  I’m like, “It’s times like this I wish I had a derringer or something.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Randy. “Someone would take that away from you in about five seconds and let the air out of your big belly with it. Now come on, let’s go in.”

  That Randy. He sure knew how to reassure a guy.

  My hope was that the owners had put all their money into decorating the inside. I pictured gold Buddha statues, fake exotic plants, a couple of big-screen TVs, maybe even a snack bar made out of bamboo. No luck. I guess all their money went into used pool tables. There were ten of them, each with plastic-shaded lamps, which were pretty much the only sources of light in the room. The walls might have been another color at some time, but now they were pretty much a shabby slate gray, except for the cue racks and a few signs with Vietnamese writing on them. Cigarette smoke hung over everything. Either this place was exempt from smoking laws or nobody bothered to enforce them here.

  It wasn’t hard to spot Nash, being tall and blond and all. He and a buddy of his were the only non-Vietnamese guys in the room. Emphasis on the word guys. Not a single female in sight, except for Audrey. Nash looked up from the pool table where he was playing and waved. “Hey, Dylan, my man, I’m glad you could make it.”

  He introduced me to his playing partner, another blondstatue Hollisterite, whose name was Holt, and to the two Vietnamese guys they were playing against, Huy and Tommy. I thought that was pretty gentlemanly of him to introduce everybody like that, so I introduced them all to Randy and Audrey.

  Nash chalked the end of his cue and leaned over the table to take a shot. “Five in the side,” he said. He made the shot and looked up at me. “Ahhh, I’m on a hot roll.”

  He missed the next shot, and Huy and Tommy laughed.

  “Can’t make ’em all,” Nash said, smiling. He walked around the table and stood next to me. It was weird. In the dingy atmosphere, he seemed almost to glow. But I wasn’t so sure it would be a good idea for him to win the match. The regulars around here might not like that.

  “So I guess these two are your detecting partners, huh?” He nodded toward Audrey and Randy.

  “Something like that.”

  “What’s the word? You found out anything new?”

  “Not really. I was hoping maybe you had something to tell us.”

  “Need a little info for your newspaper articles, huh? How about the one you were going to write about the search party? I thought you were going to send me a copy.”

  “Yeah, I’ll send it to you. It doesn’t come out in the school paper till next week. The teacher liked it. Said maybe I might make an investigative reporter after all.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt you will. That’s what I like about you—you have a passion for something interesting. Investigative journalism” He said it like it was the title of something grand. “Too many people are bland, but not you.”

  I have to admit I swelled a little at that. It felt good to have somebody of Na
sh’s stature recognize that I wasn’t just another member of the herd.

  Randy poked his head around to get into the conversation. “Where’s all the girls?”

  “We’re not here for girls,” Nash said. “Girls come later.”

  “There’s a couple things I was wondering about,” I said. “You dated Ashton, and it seems like you two stayed friends—how did she get along with her dad?”

  “Her dad? You know the story—at the office twelve-hour days, flying around the country, never there for her recitals, or plays, or anything like that. Bought her everything she wanted, though. You don’t think he had something to do with it, do you?”

  “You never know. A lot of times in cases like this it’s the parents or the spouse or something—crimes of passion and all.”

  “You really know a lot about this kind of stuff.”

  “I do my homework.”

  “Well, I’d say her mom caused more problems than her dad.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Her mom’s what you might call the nervous type. A real pill popper.”

  “Her mom, huh?” I had a hard time picturing her as a suspect. She didn’t look like she could get the lid off a jar of pickles—or a jar of caviar—much less do bodily harm to someone.

  “Well, what about that Rowan Adams guy?” Audrey asked. “Didn’t he and Ashton break up a month or so ago?”

  “Something like that,” he replied. “But Rowan wouldn’t be involved. I mean, he’s a douche, but he’s still my friend from way back. No, a lot of girls break up with Rowan. He’s used to it.”

  That was interesting. She broke up with him. Despite Nash’s opinion, that sounded like a pretty good motive to me.

  “Hold on,” Nash said. His turn was up at the pool table. He made one shot and missed one. When he came back, Randy asked him if there was anything to drink around the place, and Nash said they had Vietnamese soda. “It’s weird, but it’s good.”

  “Get a couple for me and Audrey,” I told Randy, and he’s like, “Give me some money.”

  When Randy left, Nash goes, “What’s that thing on your buddy’s upper lip?”

  “He thinks it’s a mustache,” I explained.

  “Yeah?” Nash raised an eyebrow. “Well, he’s wrong.”

  I had to laugh. It was good to share an inside joke with Nash, even if it was at Randy’s expense. Or maybe because it was at Randy’s expense.

  “So anyway,” Nash said, “to tell you the truth, I wasn’t really thinking about someone getting violent with Ashton. You know, killing her or something. I was figuring more along the lines of kidnapping. Something she could come back from safe and sound.”

  “But nobody ever said anything about a ransom,” Audrey pointed out.

  “There’s still time.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “I wonder who might want to kidnap her.”

  Nash thought about that for a moment and even looked like he might have an idea, but if he did, he wasn’t sharing anything specific. “Who knows? Anyone who wants a bundle of money the easy way, I guess. You haven’t heard of any real hard evidence that something violent might have happened to her, have you?”

  I wanted to mention that blue running shoes didn’t just take themselves off, but he looked too genuinely worried, so I said, “No, I haven’t heard anything like that. Just have to take all the scenarios into consideration, you know? You’re probably right. A ransom note will probably show up, and she’ll get back home just fine.”

  “I hope so.”

  “But there’s one other thing I was wondering about,” I said.

  “What’s up with this Gangland deal? You know anything about that?”

  “Gangland? Where did you hear about that?”

  “Oh, I hear things. That’s part of my job.”

  “Hey, Nash,” his buddy Holt called from the other side of the pool table. “It’s your turn.”

  “Already?” Nash stepped over and eyed the remaining balls, then proceeded to run the table.

  “Oh yeah,” he roared. “Yeah, baby, yeah, baby.”

  I looked around to see if his celebration pissed off the regulars, but no one seemed to care. Huy and Tommy only shook their heads and took out their wallets. I couldn’t see how much money they paid off on the bet, but it wasn’t small change.

  “You give us a chance to get some of that money back, right, Nash?” Tommy asked.

  Nash slapped him on the back. “You know it.”

  I was finishing off my Vietnamese lemon drink when he came back over. It wasn’t bad.

  “So, you want to know about Gangland?” he asked. “I’ll do better than tell you about it. I’ll show it to you.”

  CHAPTER 14

  According to Nash, it wouldn’t take us fifteen minutes—depending on the traffic lights—to get where we were going. “There’s one rule,” he said.

  “You can’t write about this in your paper.”

  “You mean nothing about it?”

  “Well, I don’t care if you mention something vague like that you went to a party, but you can’t say where it is or even mention the word Gangland.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s special. It won’t be special if everyone knows about it. Besides, it doesn’t have anything to do with Ashton.”

  “Okay, sure,” I told him. “I guess that’s fair.” And I really did figure it was fair—as long as he was telling the truth about the connection, or lack thereof, to Ashton Browning.

  We rode in his Lexus SUV along with Holt while Audrey and Randy followed us. And I wouldn’t be lying to say this vehicle was ripped. Black inside and out. Leather seats. A console that looked like it belonged in a flying saucer. I was like, Who needs a ’69 Mustang? I’m a Lexus man now.

  Nash had good taste in music, but he blasted it a little too loud. He pulled a half-roasted joint from the ashtray, lit it, and took a deep drag before offering it to me.

  “No thanks,” I said. “Have to keep my wits sharp when I’m on a case, you know.”

  “Probably all for the best,” he said, then passed the joint back to Holt.

  This was unexpected. Somehow you just don’t figure on a rich-kid wide receiver also being a stoner.

  “You know,” I said as the weed smoke billowed around me, “I would’ve thought the cops would question you—you being one of the ex-boyfriends and all.”

  “Who says they didn’t?”

  “This weed has an evergreen-like, almost sweet taste to it,” Holt said. “Not too sweet and not too harsh. A decent pre-party blend.” He sounded like a wine connoisseur.

  “You mean the cops did talk to you?” I asked Nash.

  “Sure. They talked to a lot of people.”

  “What’d they ask?”

  “Oh, you know, the usual—Why did you and Ashton break up? Did she have any enemies? Where were you when she went missing? That kind of thing.”

  Of course, I’d thought of asking him where he was when Ashton disappeared, but I didn’t want to come across as so obvious. My theory was you don’t want people thinking you suspect them of anything. That way they’re likely to be less guarded. But now that he’d mentioned it, I had my opening.

  “So, what did you tell them about where you were?”

  “The truth—I was at football practice.”

  That sounded like a strong alibi to me. Which was a relief. I was starting to really like Nash. I’d never had a cool friend like him, and I didn’t want anything to spoil that—like him being guilty of kidnapping or murder.

  A little east of the heart of downtown and north of the entertainment district, we turned down an alley next to what looked like an abandoned warehouse. You wouldn’t expect an alley like this to be lined by high-dollar luxury cars, but there they were. And more were parked in the small lot by the loading dock at the back of the warehouse. One spot was left open and Nash pulled into it. I mentioned that he was lucky to get the spot, but he said luck had nothing to do with it. The sp
ot was reserved for him. Too bad there was no reserved parking for Audrey and Randy. They had to park a block away and hoof it back to where we waited next to the Lexus.

  The warehouse was a solid squat thing made out of red brick. The few small windows had been sealed and painted black, and the metal sliding door on the loading dock was shut. As we stepped onto the dock, Randy’s like, “What the hell are we doing here?”

  And Nash goes, “This is it, brother. This is Gangland.”

  Next to the big sliding door was a smaller one, also made of metal. Nash banged on it a couple of times and a narrow slot, about at eye level, clicked to the side. A second later the door opened. Nash looked back at us with a smile. “Après vous,” he said, which I figured meant something like “Go on in.”

  Unlike the pool hall, the inside of the warehouse was way different from the outside. Yes, the inside walls were also red brick, but they’d been polished to a shine. Gold-framed movie posters hung on one wall, all of them from one gangster movie or another—Juice, Scarface, The Godfather, GoodFellas, American Gangster, even some from old black-and-white movies like ones I used to watch with my dad—White Heat, The Roaring Twenties, and Little Caesar. On the opposite wall hung posters of all the great gangsta rappers like Ice-T, Tupac Shakur, Notorious B.I.G., Insidious, and on and on.

  The glow of red neon lights hung over everything like the atmosphere of some foreign planet. A mirrored disco ball swayed above a stage at the far end of the spacious warehouse, and on the stage sat a drum kit, keyboards, and a couple of racks with electric guitars in them. No band yet, though. The rest of the room was filled with teenagers, mingling, talking, laughing, apparently from Hollister and maybe some of the other hoity-toity schools in the area. And the biggest difference between Gangland and Trang’s? Loads of girls.

  Randy’s like, “Wow, this place has more perfect female bodies than a mannequin factory.”

  “You can put your tongue back in your mouth now,” Audrey told him. “You’re starting to drool.”

  As we made our way along the gangster-movie wall, Nash goes, “Pretty cool place, huh?”