Free Mojo by Tim Tharp Page B

the godfather of the other. Only instead of having turf battles and drug wars and whatnot, we have these different contests, and the gang that loses the most by the end of the school year has to pay for the biggest graduation party in the history of graduation parties.”
    “And Gangland is your headquarters?”
    “Something like that. We call it our ‘rec hall.’ That’s what we tell our parents, anyway.”
    “So what kind of contests do you have?”
    “Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Crazy stuff, that’s all. Like this battle-of-the-bands thing we have going. Tonight, Rowan has a band competing against the one I hired last week.” He stopped walking and looked me in the eye. “Remember, this is completely confidential. I’m just telling you because you seem like a really good guy, and you’re helping out with Ashton and everything.”
    “Don’t worry,” I said. “All I’m interested in is writing about the case.” I couldn’t help regretting the confidentiality clause, though. I mean, the kids at my high school would eat up a story about something like Gangland, even if they never would get to be a part of the gangs. But what could I do? I was a journalist, and journalists were supposed to have ethics about this kind of thing. Plus, I’d never get invited back.
    Just then, a spotlight shone down on the stage, and a tall thin guy stepped into it. I recognized him immediately from his Facebook photos, mostly because of the red blazer he was wearing—Rowan Adams.
    In addition to the blazer, he wore a mauve shirt with ruffles down the button line and these crazy green-and-yellow-striped pants. His face was long and lean, and his brown hair fell down over his ears and swooped over one eyebrow in front. To top off the look, he waved a cigarette in one of those long black cigarette holders in his right hand. Altogether, he looked like some kind of fairy-tale duke.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said into a handheld microphone. “Welcome once again to Gangland, where all of yourfoulest dreams can come true. As you remember, last week our poor unfortunate and most terrible wide receiver almost-friend Nash Pierce attempted to introduce us to what he thought was a memorable band—the totally unworthy Rat Finks.”
    The crowd seemed about evenly split between those who cheered the Rat Finks and those who jeered.
    “Yes, it was a pathetic attempt, Nash. But tonight, it’s my turn to invigorate your musical senses, so without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Colonoscopy!”
    With that, the band scrambled onto the stage, took up their instruments, and began thrashing away. It was nothing but noise, and not good noise. Those guys looked like eighth- or ninth-grade fake juvenile delinquents. The bassist and lead guitarist even had tattoos that had obviously been drawn on with Magic Markers. The keyboardist twisted his face into a snarl, but you could tell, by day, he was really a band nerd. Still, the crowd cheered as if the all-time greatest dead rock stars had risen from their graves just to play a gig at Gangland.
    “Hey, I like these guys,” said Randy, and Audrey’s like, “Are you kidding me? They’re the most terrible band that ever existed.”
    “Damn, you’re right,” Nash said, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. “They are the most terrible band ever. That Rowan has one-upped me again.”
    Audrey pulled her camera out of her bag, but Nash clamped his hand on her arm. “No pictures,” he said.
    “Why not?” she asked.
    “You know I like you,” Nash said. “But we’re trying to keep this place on the down-low.”
    Audrey looked at the crowd. Several people were taking pictures of the band with their cell-phone cameras. “What about them?”
    “They’re members.”
    “Members, huh? Okay.” Audrey slid the camera back into her bag, but I could tell she didn’t like it.
    By the middle of the band’s second tune, Rowan walked up to Nash, slapped him on the back, and