Mojo by Tim Tharp

Author:Tim Tharp [Tharp, Tim]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-375-89580-7
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2013-04-08T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 27

Except for Smiley’s complaints about how the inside of his car now smelled like hamburgers, the drive back to Topper’s was pretty quiet. After the way he talked to me in the guesthouse, I wasn’t in a hurry to strike up any further conversation with him. The whole experience left me feeling like I’d gotten myself into something that was over my head. With one call from the likes of Mr. Browning, Detectives Hair Gel and Forehead would be only too glad to haul me down for some more grilling.

It was good to get back to my own side of town, and when we pulled into Topper’s parking lot, I was more than eager to hop out of that black sedan and get gone. Smiley wasn’t in such a hurry to let me escape, though.

“Wait a second, kid,” he said as I opened the door. “Let me see your phone.”

I’m like, “What for?”

And he goes, “I want to enter my number in there so you can call me if you come across anything new we need to know about.”

I told him I’d enter the number myself, and when I finished putting it in, he grabbed hold of my arm and stared into my eyes. “Son, if there’s anything you haven’t told us or if you find out anything, you’d better call my number. You need to understand that if you don’t, you’re going to be in a lot of trouble.”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem.”

Once I had my feet firmly planted on Topper’s parking lot and the black sedan had disappeared around the corner, I tried to muster up as much of a sense of relief as I could, but something told me I wasn’t completely free of Smiley and Mr. Browning quite yet.

“How about that mansion?” Randy said. “I’m going to get one like that someday, only I’m going to decorate it all in NASCAR stuff.”

“Go for it,” I said as I pulled my phone out, this time to check on who called while I was in the media room with Mr. Browning. The call didn’t come from Audrey. No, it was from Beto Hernandez.

He’d left a message asking me to call him back. He didn’t say what it was about, but the first thing that came to mind was that somehow he knew where I was and wanted to find out whether I suspected him of working for Mr. Browning. Or maybe whether Mr. Browning was ratting him out.

I wasn’t so sure I wanted to call him back right then, but it didn’t matter—I never got the chance. Just as Randy and I walked up to my parents’ car, who came walking out of the shadows but the scruffy sideburns dude who’d been sitting across the room in Topper’s earlier that evening.

He’s like, “Hey, losers, what’s up?”

And Randy’s like, “I don’t know, loser. Why don’t you tell me?”

Sideburns grinned a sly TV-serial-killer-type grin. “Well, look at you,” he said to Randy. “The ant with the almost-mustache can talk.”

And Randy goes, “You know what? We can’t all be werewolves like you.

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