When Bob returned to HQ after his date with Gracie, Ty and Jupiter were waiting. They told him what they had found.
“The Lemon Tree? Yeah, it’s a roadhouse club in the woods out in Topanga Canyon. It’s pretty big for the Piranhas. We can’t get in there, Jupe.”
“What if you’re with me?” Ty said.
“Maybe. Depends on how much they’ve been raided.”
“We’ll take a chance,” Jupiter decided.
The three of them piled into the yard pickup and headed up the Coast Highway. At Topanga Canyon they turned onto a dark two-lane road into the mountains. The Lemon Tree Lounge was five or so miles from the highway. It was a rustic building standing under tall oak and eucalyptus trees, without a lemon tree in sight. Cars were parked in an open field around it, and the music already rocked out into the night.
The place was jammed. No one seemed to be watching the door. The guys found an unobtrusive corner in the mobbed room. The customers were talking, laughing, and drinking. They weren’t paying much attention to El Tiburon and the Piranhas, who were already pounding away. In front, Tiburon gyrated in his white suit, belting out the words. “La bamba… bamba… bamba…!”
“Is that him?” Jupiter pointed at the bandstand. Ty studied the showman.
“I still don’t know for sure, guys,” he admitted. “He looks awful different up there, singing and dancing around. I mean, he sort of looks like the guy I met, but I’m really not too good at remembering faces, you know?”
“Maybe if you watch him for a while,” Bob suggested.
So they watched the smiling Latino do his act with the four Piranhas pounding behind him. The same four girls sat at a table by the dance floor. Couples were slamming and rocking and doing Latino steps the guys had never seen.
They weren’t worried about having to order drinks and being carded by a waitress — there were no waitresses. Ty went to the long bar and got a beer and a couple of Cokes, just so no one would hassle them about not drinking at all.
The first set ended with Ty still not sure if he recognized Tiburon. After the second set, they followed Tiburon and the Piranhas out into the parking area, where the band took their break.
“I’m pretty sure, but I’m just never going to be dead sure,” Ty said finally.
Through the third set the mob gave no sign of thinning, not even after Tiburon finished the last song with an extra flourish. He ended up in a complete split out on the dance floor, the sweat glistening on his flushed face. The Investigators had seen nothing that connected to stolen cars.
“They sure don’t act like car thieves,” Ty said.
“You can’t swipe cars from a bandstand,” Bob added, discouraged.
“We’ll follow them,” Jupiter said. “Maybe they steal the cars after their gigs.”
Outside, the moon had risen. The two Investigators and Ty waited under the tall trees and listened to the whisper of the wind. Almost no one left the club, even though the music had ended. Music wasn’t the main attraction at the Lemon Tree, which probably explained why Tiburon and the Piranhas had gotten the gig — The moonlight cast long shadows on the mountains all around. A few cars passed on the road through the twisting canyon. They heard a dog bark in the distance. But mostly the only sound was the steady rumble of voices from the open tavern doors.
Tiburon and the Piranhas finally came out with their equipment and instruments. Their graffitied low-riders and an instrument van were parked in a far corner of the field. The band loaded the van and got into their cars. There were more than five cars this time. The girls who always came with them were obviously driving their own.
“It sure doesn’t look like they’re going off to steal anything,” Bob whispered.
Jupiter stared at the colorful cars. They stood like painted ghosts in the moonlight of the mountain canyon.
“Guys! Come on. We have to get closer.”
“You don’t want them to spot us,” warned Ty.
Jupiter kept on moving among the parked cars. The guys stayed in the shadows as they crept closer to the exit lane. Tiburon, the Piranhas, and their girlfriends were starting their motors to roll slowly out of the parking field.
“They’re not in lowrider position,” Bob said.
“They wouldn’t be, Bob,” Ty said. “They have to drive this mountain road and then the highway to get back to Rocky Beach.”
The shoelace on Jupiter’s sneaker had come untied. He crouched down to retie it, keeping one eye on the approaching lowriders. Suddenly he fell to the ground.
“Jupe?” Bob was alarmed.
“Jupiter!” Ty exclaimed.
“I spotted something,” Jupiter whispered. “Get down and look under those cars.”
The three guys lay on the ground as the lowriders passed. In the high position, with their hydraulics pumped up, they rode like normal cars.
“They look like any other cars now,” Bob said. “Except for all those painted messages on them.”
“Yes,” Jupiter said, barely able to contain his excitement. “Too much like any other cars! Guys, look underneath. Look at what’s missing!”
Ty and Bob stared under the cars as they rolled out of the lot. The cars rode slowly over the bumps and ruts of the dirt field.
“They look pretty ordinary to me,” Bob said.
“Yeah,” Ty said, and then he became excited. “No! They don’t have any bump plates underneath, front or rear! They’re not lowriders in the up position. They’re just ordinary cars!”
“Ordinary cars all graffitied to look exactly like the lowriders the band does drive,” Jupiter said. “And what kind of cars? Look really close.”
Bob stared. “That’s a Mercedes! And two Volvos!”
“There’s a BMW and another Mercedes!” Ty said.
“That’s what I spotted in the dark, guys — the shapes of Mercedes and Volvos!” Jupiter said. “The cars we saw at The Shack were completely different makes. I’ll bet the band doesn’t steal these cars. They just drive them to Rocky Beach. No one looks closely at them under that graffitti. It’s just a rock band with their painted cars returning from a gig.”
He jumped up as the last car turned out of the field toward the ocean. “Hurry, guys, we’ve got to see where they take the cars!”
They ran back to the pickup and bumped and swayed across the dirt out onto the road. Since Tiburon and the band weren’t in their lowriders, they could drive a lot faster. But Ty gunned along the narrow, twisting road while Bob and Jupe hung on. Soon, they caught up with the rear car in the procession of phony lowriders.
“If those are stolen cars,” Bob said, “how did they get into the parking lot. And where are the real cars the band drives?”
“My guess is that the cars were stolen earlier, graffitied, and parked by other members of the ring,” Jupiter said.
“Yeah, stealing cars right takes experience,” Ty said. “Lots of cars are swiped by joy-riding kids, and they get caught fast if they don’t dump the car after a quick spin. But pros spot the car they want and pick the safest time to grab it and get off the road pronto. I’d say Jupe’s right — the real thieves grab them, paint them, and park them. Then the band drives them home.”
“But how does the band get here?” asked Bob.
Ty shrugged. “Somebody drives them! Maybe in the van. Or maybe the band picks up the stolen cars someplace nearby and shows up at the gig in them.”
“Okay, if pros steal the cars,” said Bob, “why do they need Tiburon and the Piranhas? Why don’t the pros
