picked up one of her drinks. “How about I make a bar chart?”
“Jenny,” Julie said with a laugh.
“I’m counting on it.” I sketched them both a good-bye and took off. If Dwayne wanted me to infiltrate the high school group at Do Not Enter, I was going to have to figure out who they were. All Dwayne had been able to give me was a description of one car—a tomato-red Taurus—which he thought one of the Wilson girls drove. The guys all showed in black macho SUVs or BMWs or something of that ilk. Dwayne had been able to catch part of one of the SUVs’ vanity license plates through the mask of bushes and trees that hid the drive access to the construction. DOIN had been visible.
Tonight’s game was at Lake Chinook High’s football field and I saw the stadium lights long before I encountered the tons of cars parked for a good half mile all around. There’s a small war going on between the nearby residents and the school about those lights. The residents scream light pollution and general blinding annoyance; the school is relatively mum but I’ve heard grumblings from athletically minded kids’ parents, the gist of which is: what part of living next to a football field didn’t you get when you moved in?
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been to a high school football game. Had I ever, since high school? Even then I’d steered clear of the jocks as a rule. Their obsessive dedication to sports worried me, like there was nothing else on the planet that mattered. Not that I’d been any kind of role model. I’d spent most of my time wondering how my twin brother, Booth, could ace tests when I worked harder than he did and only managed to cough up a B. I learned much later that he had phenomenal retention, which only goes to show you how unfair nature is. I mean, why should Booth get that attribute? He also got the great hair.
But I got the snarky attitude, sense of irony and excruciating self-awareness, so we’re probably even.
I cruised around the cars in the stadium lot and found four possibles on the tomato-colored cars, but only one of them was a Taurus. I memorized the license plate. My retention might not be as stellar as Booth’s, but I’m not a complete slouch, either. There were simply too many black cars to check them out one by one, so I left that for later.
I headed into the game, which was nearly over, and so therefore no one was at the gate, asking for my ticket. Lake Chinook was ahead of Lakeshore High and there was much discussion about some highly disputed call that had the Lakeshore fans growling and booing. I ordered a hot dog and was pleased that it was cheap and hot. I really could have used a beer, but it wasn’t on the menu and there were a whole lot of Don’t Drink and Drive ads plastered about. There were also some warnings about the evils of underage drinking.
In the end Lake Chinook High beat Lakeshore by a field goal with seconds left. The Lake Chinook fans ran out onto the field and the Lakeshore fans left quietly or with suppressed rage. The referees were escorted off the field by a burly-looking group of men in black rain gear. Some kid named Keegan had played “flawlessly, just flawlessly!” and there was speculation about a girl on the dance team who seemed to have either (a) an anorexia problem; (b) an obsessive/compulsive disorder; or (c) was top student in the Talented and Gifted program—TAG. She might have been all three. I wasn’t paying close enough attention.
I moved back toward the tomato-red Taurus and pretended to be talking on my cell phone as I watched the crowd surge into the parking lot. My own car was a couple of rows over, close to the road, so I stood on the balls of my feet, ready to sprint to it as soon as I got a visual on whoever claimed the car.
It was a high school girl who’d done up her long hair in pigtails on either side of her head, one tied with a blue ribbon, one tied with a white ribbon, Lake Chinook High’s colors. She was with two friends, a boy and a girl. The girlfriend was hanging on the boy and giggling. I suspected alcohol might be the culprit, regardless of the warning signage. The boy was grinning like a goofball, one hand around girlfriend’s waist, though it was sitting a little low on her hip. They all wore blue jeans and hooded light blue sweatshirts monogrammed with a big white L. The driver of the Taurus wasn’t near as giddy as her two friends. In fact, her eyes looked big and solemn and though she tried to smile in response to the friends’ antics, there was no joy anywhere. Her mouth wanted to be an upside down U. I figured she was one of the Wilson sisters, but I wasn’t sure which one. I was going to have to learn their names.
I was sprinting for my car when I nearly ran down a group from Lakeshore who were hauling a large box of sweatshirts and caps to a waiting black Hummer. “Hey,” I said, slowing to a stop. “Can I buy one of those?”
“I guess so,” one of the guys slamming the box into the back of the car said. He looked unsure.
“How much?” I pressed.
“Umm…I dunno. The sweatshirts are fifteen, I think.”
“Thirty,” a prim, female voice corrected him, shooting him a glare. “Jesus, Carl, why don’t you give ’em away for free?”
“Thirty?” I rued the fact that I’d had to purchase my drink at Foster’s on the Lake. Damn. I didn’t think I had the cash. “Any chance on a discount?”
The girl made a face. “They’d be worth more if we’d won. They’re going on sale next week anyway. I guess I could sell one to you for twenty,” she said reluctantly.
I quickly pulled out the cash and forked it over. As soon as I had my prize I dragged it over my head, running the rest of the way to my car. This sweatshirt was navy blue with a red and white sailboat over the left breast, Lakeshore’s colors.
I was barely behind the wheel when the Taurus whizzed by, traveling fast toward Lake Chinook proper. I had to jockey the wagon as I’d been boxed in pretty tightly, but my turning radius is about the best thing on my car and I was after the Taurus in less than a minute. I had to push the speed limit, which is dangerous in the heavily patrolled area around Lake Chinook. I swear to God they’ve got more traffic cops per square mile than’s legal.
I caught up with the Taurus in the center of town. At this particular intersection two lanes are forced to turn south, so I pulled up right next to the car, both of us ready to make the turn, and slid a sideways look at them. They were on my left side and the girlfriend was in the passenger seat. Her boyfriend was in the back, leaning forward, his head between the bucket seats. The driver’s eyes were on the road. She was disengaged from the goings-on, but her friends either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
To my good, and bad, luck, they drove all the way around Lakewood Bay and took the turn off on Beachlake Drive. I was pretty sure this was the road across the bay from Dwayne’s cabana. I didn’t follow them onto Beachlake as the road’s kind of a boxed canyon, and I didn’t want to have to turn around where they could see me. Also, I wanted some time to pass to allow the members of the football team to join the party. I kept on going up McVey, then parked in a deserted parking lot. Nearly an hour later, I drove down Beachlake and past the houses in Dwayne’s sights, trying to figure out which was which from this view. It’s surprisingly hard to tell. The lakeside view is vastly different than the street-facing facades. However, Do Not Enter was easy, the entry staked out by a temporary electrical pole and a Honey-pot Porta Potti. From there I could count back and match the lakeside view to the street frontage. I should’ve paid more attention to the house colors, but I got it figured out in the end.
I saw taillights winking red down the lane to Do Not Enter’s construction site and could just make out the house’s plywood and black Visqueen covered roof. A black Jimmy with the license plate DOINOU sat cheek to jowl with the red Taurus. It took me a moment; then I got it. The license plate was an abbreviated acronym for Do I know You?
Hmmm.
