My parents were impressed, though. They told us to have a good time, and let us squeeze out the door without too much damage. It was a cool, clear night, a little too cool for just the Notorious B.I.G. T-shirt, but I wasn’t about to go back for a jacket now. And let me tell you, Nash wasn’t kidding when he said we’d be riding in style. Was it Brett’s Mercedes parked out front? Nash’s Lexus? No, a glimmering white limo sat idling next to the curb, as out of place as a diamond in a sparrow’s nest.
I’m like, “Are you kidding me? You rented a limo?”
“Sure,” Nash said. “We do it all the time. It adds fluidity to the night.”
I didn’t know what he meant by fluidity, but it sure added something.
We got into the back of the limo, and Nash rattled off an address to the driver—not the address of Gangland—and then pushed a button that raised a window partitioning off the back from the front. I didn’t really see why that was necessary. It wasn’t like this driver was likely to gas us out with an unrelenting fart attack.
“I thought we were going to Gangland,” I said, and Nash goes, “We are, but we need to make a couple of stops first. Just sit back and enjoy.”
As soon as we cruised out of my neighborhood, he opened the cover on this little bar and pulled out a bottle of champagne. “You have to try this, Dylan,” he said. Apparently, it was supposed to be excellent as far as champagnes go. He even pronounced the name with a French accent, which I thought was pretty cool.
“I’m not much of a drinker,” I told him. This was a bit of an exaggeration because actually I wasn’t any kind of a drinker.
“Don’t worry,” Brett assured me. “It tickles a little going down, but it’s all good from there.”
Nash filled a glass for each of us. Not plastic cups like kids from my school would drink liquor from, but actual champagne glasses.
“Here’s to a winning night for the O-Town Elites,” he said, and we all clinked our glasses. They both took healthy drinks, but I barely wet my tongue. It wasn’t bad, though, so I downed a little more.
“You like?” Brett asked.
“Excellent,” I said.
So we rode and chatted with the hip-hop pounding from the speakers. For a while we got on the subject of crappy teachers at our schools. It’s funny—kids from any kind of background all have their teacher war stories. Except Nash and Brett tended to sound more like they were talking about the incompetent hired help than some enemy commander. Me, I didn’t lock into interrogation mode. Not yet.
The first place we stopped was even further from being limo-worthy than my neighborhood. I mean, this place could’ve been on the cover of Better Crack Homes and Gardens. Our driver pumped the horn a couple times, and a minute later there was a tap on the roof of the car. The window glided down next to Nash, and in looks this enormous face that more than a little bit resembled the face on my T-shirt.
“Nash, my man, you riding slick tonight.”
“You know it, D-Stack,” Nash said.
“When you gonna invite me to cruise with you and the lady?”
“Right now, if you want.”
D-Stack laughed. “I would, but me and my lady’s got our own party happening tonight.” He nodded toward the porch, where his big-boned girlfriend lounged on the steps, flicking her awesome hair extensions away from her cigarette smoke.
“Another time, then,” Nash said. “You have anything for me?”
“You know I do.” D-Stack lifted up his shirttail, revealing two items tucked in his waistband, a small brown paper bag and a shiny, pearl-handled pistol. Luckily, he only pulled out the bag.
Nash traded it for a little package of his own, which I assumed contained a wad of bills.
D-Stack grinned warmly. “Always nice doing business with you, man.”
“You too,” Nash said, and the window glided silently up.
As we pulled away, I’m like, “What the hell?”
“Just a little pre-party purchase,” Nash said.
“Let me guess—something to help make the night more fluid?”
“Something like that.”
“But did you have to come here?”
“Hey.” Nash knocked back his champagne. “If you’re going to run with Gangland, you have to live the part.”
From there the stops didn’t get any classier. Next we hit the Vietnamese pool hall, but this time not to play. Nash went in alone and was back in five minutes. After that we pulled into the parking lot of the Virgo Club, which I judged from the neon dancing girls on the sign was obviously a strip joint, and not an upscale one either.
“Are you kidding?” I said as Nash opened the door. “We can’t get in there.”
“You’re right,” Nash said. “You can’t. But I can. You should know by now I can get in anywhere.”
And it was true—he walked right in the front door. I asked Brett how he was able to work it, and she explained he’d visited the Virgo earlier in the week with his big brother and a hearty helping of cash to look over some prospects.
I’m like, “Prospects?”
She tossed me a flirty smile. “Just some of our after-ten-o’clock entertainment.”
“Let me guess. He’s hiring the ugliest stripper he can find.”
“You’re catching on,” she said.
I’m like, “Really? You mean I’m right?”
She just laughed.
When Nash stepped out of the dark entrance into the neon glow outside, I swore he had a child with him, but then I realized that his stripper of choice was actually a little person—as in dwarf. The bowlegged walk gave her away.