Instead of dwelling on the topic, Brett suggested a couple places we could go for dinner. I repeated how a good burger would suit me perfectly, but Nash insisted that nothing would do but a steak from some place called Geoffrey Mercer’s. The odd thing, though, was Brett pulled up in front of what looked to me like a house—a very modern cool-looking house maybe—but there was no restaurant sign or even a parking lot that I could see.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“This is it,” Nash said. “This is Geoffrey Mercer’s.”
I looked the house over again. If it was really a restaurant, I figured it had to be pretty exclusive. Apparently, customers had to just know about it somehow because there certainly wasn’t any advertising going on.
“Do you think we’re dressed right for this place?” I asked Nash. “I mean, I’m just wearing a T-shirt, and you have Kool-Aid stains all over you.”
And real nonchalant he’s like, “No, it’s cool. They know me here.”
Inside, there was a cramped foyer decked out with fancy vases and flowers and a couple of paintings with gold frames. I kind of liked the one of this pretty lady in a white bonnet, but the one that was nothing but haystacks didn’t do much for me.
An incredibly hot waitress or hostess, or whatever you call her, greeted Nash with a wide cheery smile. Here he was, covered in Kool-Aid, and she didn’t seem to notice. It was the same as she led us through the small dining room to our table. Several parental types waved at Nash, and he even stopped to talk to a couple, never bothering to apologize for how he looked. He might as well have been wearing a thousand-dollar suit. He just had this incredible cool about him, like everywhere he went he not only belonged but ruled.
Me, on the other hand, I felt like every customer in the place was giving me the evil eye. I didn’t think it could be my Beatles T-shirt. Who doesn’t love the Beatles? So I guessed it must be the porkpie. I took it off as we walked to the table, but then I didn’t really know what to do with it, so I ended up stuffing it under my chair when we sat down.
I could describe the upscale décor, but here’s all you really need to know about Geoffrey Mercer’s: the menus didn’t tell the prices. That didn’t matter since Nash was paying, but still, it’s kind of creepy—you keep looking for the prices, but they just kept not being there—it’s like you’re an amputee trying to scratch your missing leg. On top of that, they didn’t have any burgers either, so I had to go with some kind of steak that was supposed to have wine sauce on it.
After we ordered, Nash leaned back in his chair and told me that, in addition to the steak, he and Brett had another little surprise for me. “How would you like to come back to Gangland?” he asked, smiling his big ultra-whitened half-moon smile. “And this time you can stay after ten o’clock with the rest of us members.”
“Uh, wow,” I said. “That would be cool.” Of course, I was honored, except for one thing—someone could very easily think I was still on the Ashton Browning case if I went back there.
“What’s the matter?” Nash said. “You don’t sound so sure.”
“You’re not worried about that guy who threatened you, are you?” Brett added.
And Nash’s like, “Threatened? Who threatened you?”
“To tell you the truth, that’s what I really wanted to talk to you about.”
“You mean you aren’t really writing an article about the football team?” He clasped his hands to his chest like he was wounded.
“Uh, no, sure, I’d like to write that sometime, but right now I’m kind of more worried about who wants me off the Ashton Browning case, and I thought maybe you could help me figure out who it is.”
He smiled. “Sure. We can talk about football any old time.”
So I laid out the Mr. Browning-Smiley-Sideburns story again, and Nash congratulated me for dealing with the switchblade situation like a regular action hero. This time, unlike when I told the story to Brett, I listed the people who were most likely to be behind the threat. Not wanting to get ridiculed again, I left out Rowan, but I did include Beto. This was the first time I told anyone about meeting up with him on Ashton’s FOKC route. What I didn’t tell, though, was that there could be a connection with Hector Maldonado.
“Very interesting,” Nash said. “Yes, I think it would have to be someone else who wanted to get the reward before you could get it.”
And I’m like, “Yeah, I thought of that. But I also wondered how Mr. Browning got hold of my newspaper articles.”
Before Nash could respond to that, the waiter arrived with our food. Everything was very artistically arranged on the plate, but the portions were way small.
When the waiter left, Nash admitted he’d made copies of my articles and handed them out to a lot of Hollister kids, mainly Ganglanders, as a way to keep Ashton’s story alive. But he was certain none of them would be involved in making a threat to cut off my nose. That included Mr. Browning. Maybe it was because Ashton’s dad was one of their own kind, but he and Brett both insisted Mr. Browning was only after one thing—finding his daughter.
“Besides,” Nash said. “None of them are worried about beating you to the reward. No, I’ll bet it’s the Mexican guy—what was his name?”
“Beto.”
“Right. I’ll bet Beto is working on his own way to score the reward and, since you know who he is, he hired this Sideburns character to scare you away. Why else would he specifically tell you that the reward money was not for you?”