Amos's Killer Concert Caper (2 page)

The old man scratched his head. “Job?”

“You said we could sweep the center to get it ready for this weekend's concert.”

“I did?”

Amos pulled on Dunc's sleeve. “He obviously doesn't remember. Come on, it's not too late to make it to the intersection and hold up that sign.”

Dunc shook Amos's hand off. “Don't you remember, Mr. Whitman? The Road Kill concert. You said you needed some help getting ready for it.”

“Well, why didn't you say so, sonny? Of course I do. You boys follow me. I'll show you what to do.”

Amos fell in behind Dunc. “I hope this doesn't take too long. I really need to get those tickets this afternoon at the latest. They're selling out fast.”

Mr. Whitman leaned close to Dunc. “Who's the skinny one with the beady eyes?”

“That's my friend, Mr. Whitman. He's going to help clean the center.”

The little man looked Amos up and down, then he leaned close to Dunc again. “If I were you, son, I'd keep an eye on him.”

Mr. Whitman unlocked the back door and hobbled down the stairs. He showed them where the cleaning supplies were kept. They were in a closet next to a door marked “Office.”

“Is that your office, Mr. Whitman?” Dunc asked.

“No, sonny. The city doesn't see fit to give me an office. That's for those slick guys who manage the different shows that come in here. They use it while they're here, and then I clean it for the next show.”

Mr. Whitman handed Dunc a mop and Amos a push broom. “You boys start up there in the balcony section and work your way down. It'll only take you two or three days to do the whole building.” The little man slapped Amos on the back as he hobbled away. “Don't just stand there. Get to it, boy.”

Amos tried to pick out the last row of seats in the shadows of the balcony. “Two or three days? This is going to take the rest of our lives.”

“I wouldn't worry too much about it,” a honey-smooth voice answered. A nice-looking young man, about twenty years old, walked up behind them. “The kids who come to the Road Kill concerts usually trash the place. If I were you, I wouldn't spend too much time cleaning up before the concert. It's after it that I'd worry about.”

The young man stuck out his hand. “I'm Roy. Roy Freeman. I'm with the band.”

Amos stared at him wide-eyed. “You're—you're Raunchy Roy.” Amos was in shock.

The young man was embarrassed. “That's my stage name. My manager thought of it. You guys can call me Roy.”

Amos continued to stand there with his mouth open. Dunc reached out and shook the young man's hand. “I'm Dunc.” He jerked his thumb toward Amos. “This is Amos. He wanted to see your concert, so
we're cleaning the center to earn money to buy tickets.”

“Hey, maybe I can help.” Roy reached into his pocket and pulled out two tickets. “Here you go. On the house.”

“Wow.” Amos kept staring at him. “I actually know Raunchy Roy. Melissa is going to be so impressed.”

“Who's Melissa?” Roy asked.

“This girl he's got a case for.” Dunc headed for the supply closet. “It was nice meeting you, Roy. Come on, Amos. We better get busy, or we won't be through in time for the concert.”

“Here.” Roy reached into his pocket again. “If Amos is taking Melissa, you'll need another ticket.”

Amos held up his hand. “Don't bother. Dunc thinks your music stinks.”

Dunc gave Amos a hard look. “I didn't say it stinks.”

“No, you're right. I think what you said was, they had the musical ability of leftover vegetables.”

“Amos.”

Roy smiled. “That's okay. I understand. Probably more than you know. Hey, I have an idea. How would you guys like to come to one of our practice sets? Who knows, maybe you'll hear something you'll like.”

“Oh, hey, thanks for asking but—”

Amos stepped around Dunc. “Sounds great. We'll be there.”

•
3

They were in Dunc's kitchen making lunch. Amos bit into his newest creation—a sour pickle, whipped cream, and potato chip sandwich. His face puckered. “I think it needs something.” Amos took another bite. “I don't want to rub it in or anything, but you were way off base about Raunchy Roy and the band.”

Dunc put a piece of cheese on his ham sandwich. He carefully lined up the two slices of bread and cut off the crusts. “Maybe I
was
wrong about Roy. He seems like a nice enough guy when he isn't
dressed like an imitation Dracula and wearing that porcupine wig. But I wasn't wrong about his music. It's junk.”

“You sound like my dad. Amy wanted to hear what Road Kill sounded like, so she took some of my hard-earned money and bought a CD. After my dad told her to turn it down for the third time, he completely lost it.”

“What happened?”

“Let's just say, Amy's CD player is now a permanent fixture on our neighbor's roof.”

“Oh.”

“Don't waste pity on her. My mom felt bad about it, so she bought her tickets to see the concert. Can you believe it? Amy spends my money in the first place and ends up with free tickets too.”

“Some people have all the luck.”

“I'll say.”

Dunc finished his sandwich. “Are you going down to listen to the band practice?”

“Yeah. Aren't you coming?”

“No. I think I'll stay home and work on my mold experiment.”

“Great. I'll tell Roy and the band that you couldn't come because you had a pressing engagement with some mold.”

“Maybe I'll come down later.”

Amos grabbed another pickle. “It probably won't matter. I think they're getting used to things not working out for them. I was talking to Roy while you were disinfecting the handrails, and lately they've been having a string of bad luck that seems to follow them everywhere they go.”

“Really?” Dunc sat up. “Like what?”

“Crazy stuff has been happening. One of the band members got locked in the bus right before they were supposed to go onstage in Texas. Two weeks ago, some of their equipment mysteriously disappeared right before a show. And last week, the electricity went out in the middle of a concert, and they had to refund all the tickets.”

Dunc rubbed his chin. “Hmmm.”

“Oh, no. Did you have to do that?”

“What?”

“Don't play innocent with me. I know what that sound means.
Trouble
. You always
make that noise right before you convince me that we should stick our noses into somebody else's business.”

Dunc took a bite of his sandwich. “This case has possibilities.”

“ ‘This case'? I take it that means you're coming to the practice?”

“Wouldn't miss it.”

•
4

Dunc opened the back door of the civic center with the key Mr. Whitman had given him earlier. “That's funny. I don't hear anything.” He looked at his watch. “Roy said they'd be here at six, didn't he?”

Amos followed him down the balcony steps. “Maybe they decided to call off the practice.”

The boys emerged through a dark passageway on the bottom floor, directly in front of the stage. The band's instruments were set up, but no one was there.

Amos started up the stage steps. Dunc
grabbed his sleeve. “Where do you think you're going?”

“Are you kidding? This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Haven't you ever wondered what it would be like to be up there playing to a huge audience?”

“I really don't think we should—”

It was too late. Amos was already sliding across the stage playing air guitar and pretending to sing to his fans.

Dunc started after him. “Amos, I'm serious. I think you better call it quits before you break something.”

“What do you kids think you're doing?” a loud voice boomed at them from across the room.

The boys turned. A large man with a long red handlebar moustache was glaring at them from behind the opened door marked “Office.”

The man stepped around the door and headed straight for them. Amos moved behind Dunc. “This area is off limits. How did you two get in here?”

Dunc cleared his throat. “Uhum.… We have a key. We're the cleaning crew.”

“The cleaning crew. That's a good one! You little twirps are after an autograph, just like the rest of the dolts who listen to Road Kill.”

Amos peeped out from behind Dunc. “That's not true, mister. It's like this. My friend here was trying to help me earn money because I flooded my mom's room and my sister stole my money, and Melissa likes these guys, so—”

“I'll give you punks exactly five seconds to clear out of here.”

“Hold off, Mange.” Roy and the band walked in from the stage door. “I invited them.”

The redheaded man glared at him. “Are you out of your mind? You of all people should know we can't afford to trust anybody. You know what's been happening lately.”

“These two are okay.” Roy picked up his guitar. “They can stay.”

Mange's look turned ugly. His eyes narrowed. He spun around and stomped back toward the office door.

“Whew.” Amos sat on the stage steps. “That guy is scary.”

“Don't let him bother you.” Roy winked at them. “He thinks because he's our manager, and because he used to have his own band, that he's in charge around here.”

The drummer, a thin guy with a long pointed nose, greasy hair, and beady eyes, sat down on his stool and picked up his sticks. “We gonna play or what?”

Roy frowned. “This charming fellow is Lizard. He's a heck of a drummer but a little short on manners. The one that looks like a mountain plays bass. We call him Horse. The lead guitar is Hairball.”

The expressions on the band members' faces didn't change. They stared at the boys like stones.

Amos glanced from Horse to the one they called Hairball. He looked like a round puff of fuzz. It was hard to tell if there was even a body under all that hair unless he moved.

Dunc pulled Amos toward the first row of seats. “Why don't we just sit over here, out of your way, so you can practice?”

Roy laughed. “Don't mind these guys. They've been on the road so long, they've forgotten how to be normal.”

The drummer hit his sticks together four times and the band started playing. They were loud and the song they were working on was about either smashing things and hurting people or running over a cow with a locomotive—Dunc couldn't quite tell which for sure.

When they were finished, Roy turned to the boys. “Well? What did you think?”

Dunc scratched his head. “To tell you the truth, Roy, I think it was—”

Amos elbowed him. “Interesting. He was about to say your music was definitely interesting.”

After a few more songs, Roy turned to the band. “That's enough for today. You guys can go get some sleep. We'll practice again tomorrow before showtime.” He sat down on the edge of the stage and hung his
legs over the side. He looked at Dunc, who had a look on his face like he had just swallowed cod liver oil. “I can't say I blame you for not liking it. I'm not too crazy about it myself.”

“Then why do you play it?” Dunc asked.

Roy shrugged. “Mange wrote it. He says it's the kind of music the kids want nowadays. Mange says if you want to stay on top, you have to play what kids like.”

“Amos and I are kids, and we don't like it.”

“Yes, we do,” Amos blurted. “Well … sort of.”

Roy looked up. “Maybe you have a point. If I had my way, I'd play my own stuff.” He reached back for his guitar. “Songs like this one.”

Roy started playing. The song had a rowdy beat, but the words were different from before. There were more of them—it actually had lyrics. It was a song about growing up in Roy's hometown. Amos started playing air guitar again. He was really getting into it. He moved up on the
stage and twirled around. He accidentally tripped over Roy's guitar cord, pulling it out of the amp.