Free Born to Rock by Gordon Korman Page B

on.
    â€œBrickfield Hardware.”
    â€œHi, Dad. I made the four-oh-eight. Can you pick me up around five-thirty?”
    â€œNo problem.”
    â€œOne more thing”—sucking air—“I’m not going to be able to work with you at the store this summer. I—I’ve got another job lined up.”
    â€œAlways the wheeler-dealer, huh, Leo?” he chuckled. “Okay, lay it on me. What’s so important that it’s worth leaving your old man shorthanded? You’re the new president of the Stock Exchange, I suppose.”
    â€œI’m going to be a roadie for Purge.”
    There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Be serious.”
    â€œIt’s the truth.” I filled him in on the details of my meeting with Bernie and King.
    â€œDo you have any idea what goes on with a tour like that?”
    â€œDo you?” I countered.
    â€œWhen Purge comes to town, it’s like a state of emergency! Cities hire extra police, impose curfews—”
    â€œThat was the eighties, Dad. They’re all like you now—regular middle-aged guys. Besides, most of that stuff was probably hype. The media distorts everything.”
    â€œCan you be sure of that?”
    â€œLook, it’s all for Harvard, okay? If I had my scholarship, none of this would be necessary.”
    â€œAnd King Maggot agreed to fork over forty grand?” he persisted. “Just like that?”
    â€œI haven’t mentioned it yet,” I confessed. “Not until the DNA tests come back. By then I’ll have known the guy for a month, and I won’t seem like a gold digger.”
    I could hear his unspoken response over the dead air: Seem?
    â€œIt’s the only way, Dad. Trust me.”
    He was silent for another moment. Then: “I want to meet him.”
    â€œThere’s no time,” I argued. “Concussed starts in a few days.”
    â€œIf King Maggot wants to take my son on a thirty-city tour, first he’s going to look me in the eye and promise me you’ll be okay.”
    â€œYeah, but you’ll never get an appointment. He’s got wall-to-wall interviews.”
    He came to a decision. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
    I was horrified. “Dad—no!”
    â€œThe St. Moritz, right?”
    Click.
    Now I was nervous. I noticed something in Dad’s voice that I hadn’t heard in years. Not since the day he’d decided to give up the commuting life after Mr. Rapaport’s heart attack. When Erik Caraway set himself on a course of action, you couldn’t change his mind with a howitzer. He’d never drive a Harley through a plate glass window, but in his own way, he was just as hell-bent.
    I called back, and got a recording. Dad was already on his way.
    The meeting of my two fathers, regular and biological, was something I would gladly have put off until doomsday. Talk about a clash of opposites. King was a rock star; Dad owned a small-town store. King could pull forty grand out of petty cash; Dad was a regular Joe with regular finances. King had seduced my mother before Dad had even held her hand. Worst of all, it was King’s DNA, not Dad’s, that made up half the sole heir to Brickfield Hardware. Dad knew all that, and had accepted it a long time ago. But to stand next to Marion X. McMurphy—that had to be a bitter pill the size of a U-boat.
    At five o’clock I stood outside the St. Moritz. It was another half hour before Dad emerged from the hotel garage, looking stressed and disgusted.
    â€œForty bucks for parking,” he muttered. “If I can find a spot on the street the next thousand times I come to the city, I’ll save enough money to pay your tuition.”
    â€œYou don’t have to do this,” I urged gently.
    â€œThe hell I don’t.”
    We went upstairs to the suite, which was, if anything, even more chaotic than before. The Stem Cells had arrived, and were prancing