Everyone bleeds red every time they fall down.
Flashing cash creeps they never see the real me.
And all of you straight fits don’t know how to feel me.
Then it was back to the “Bullet Head” chorus, and for the first time, the crowd was neither cheering nor booing. I don’t think they quite knew how to process what just blew at them.
Then it was my turn. Lil’ Dynamite handed off the microphone, and I knew I couldn’t stick to the script either. After a couple of lines, I started in about how I was a real investigator who wouldn’t stop digging till I found the perpetrator. Didn’t matter if they were rich or if they were poor, they’d better look out ’cause I’d be knocking at their front door.
But I was a journalist, not a rapper, and the rhymes came unraveled pretty quickly. The boos roared after that, and I doubt many people heard the rest. Before I wrapped it up, though, I caught a glimpse of Tres standing in the front row. He had this weird expression on his face like he was angry or worried or both. Or maybe it was just sweet but evergreeny weed paranoia. Whatever it was, it seemed personal and aimed at me.
After our performance, we remained on the stage, and Paige Harrison joined us for the award—or anti-award—presentation. Rowan took the mike first and crowed about how awesome Paige was, heavy on the sarcasm. Then Nash grabbed the mike away and argued that Nitro, TNT, and Lil’ Dynamite were way awesomer than anyone who had ever done karaoke in the history of the art form.
Now it was time to vote by popular decree. First, Rowan held his hand above Paige’s head and called for the audience to voice their support. Boos rolled toward the stage like a huge dark wave, and Rowan smiled. Apparently boos were a good thing in this kind of contest. Next, Nash held his hand over my head, and again the boos rose up—only this time they came crashing like a tsunami.
We won by being bigger losers than probably the biggest loser girl at Gangland. I wasn’t really sure how I should take that, but Audrey seemed proud, and Nash was obviously thrilled. He was going to fail in the battle of the bad bands, but at least he pulled out a win at lousy karaoke.
CHAPTER 18
It was ten till ten by the time the contest wrapped up—time for us loser non-Gangland members to scurry out of there. Nash thanked us for giving him his victory, and even Rowan congratulated us. Brett gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I don’t know if it was the kiss or the shampoo smell from her hair, but I felt a little light-headed when she pulled away.
As we made our way to the door, Tres came up and shook all of our hands, though when he spoke, he looked only at me. “I’m glad you’re doing so much to help with Ashton,” he said. “You seem pretty determined.” That earlier weird expression on his face had been replaced by his trademark shyness. Which was a relief. I was afraid I offended him by bringing up his sister’s situation in my rap.
“I am determined,” I told him, but I didn’t say why. A rich kid probably couldn’t understand how important reaching for a little extra mojo was to a guy like me.
At the door, Nash shook my hand. “Glad you made it out tonight,” he said. “You were awesome up there onstage, but I knew you would be. Too bad you have to leave, but those are the rules. We’ll have to do it again, though.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’d love to.”
On our way to Audrey’s car, we passed quite a few people heading the other direction. That made sense—probably the best part of the night at Gangland was just getting ready to crank up. But something else didn’t make sense. Two of the people we passed were Huy and Tommy from the Vietnamese pool hall. They grinned and waved. I stopped and watched them, and sure enough they got in the door.
“That’s weird,” I said. “How do those guys rate getting to go in while we got kicked out?”
Audrey and Randy agreed that it was weird, but they didn’t think it was any of our business. We’d done our time in Gangland, and they were ready to head home. I wasn’t about to let it go that quickly, though.
“Come on,” I said. “I have an idea.”
We snuck around to the far side of the building, the side away from the street. There were several windows set high in the wall, all sealed and coated with black paint, just like the windows on the other side.
“What do you think you can do back here?” Randy asked.
“Give me a second.”
As I studied the windows, it occurred to me I might be able to scratch a little peephole into the black paint and maybe cop a view of what kind of shenanigans went on inside after ten o’clock. The problem? The windows were too high to reach—without help, that is.
I had Audrey and Randy make stirrups with their hands so they could boost me up a couple of feet. Unfortunately, this didn’t work so well—me being the heaviest one in the group—and I ended up crashing down on my butt in the gravel. There was nothing to do but change course—Randy and I lifted Audrey up while she scratched at the black paint with her car key.
“Can you see anything yet?” I whispered.
“Not yet. This paint’s pretty thick.”
“Well, hurry up,” Randy said. “You’re not exactly a feather, you know.”
“Hey, I think I can see a little light starting to come through,” she said, but as she leaned forward to get a better look, Randy’s grip loosened, and we almost dropped her.
“Look out,” she said. “Are you trying to break my neck or something?”
Just then, a voice boomed behind us. “What are you kids doing back here?”