Son of the Mob by Gordon Korman Page A

one on Dad.
    He takes a sip of his drink and steps up to the microphone. With each passing second, this night is turning into a comic opera of the absurd. Uncle Pampers singing? This I’ve got to hear!
    Twangy guitar swells, and the Grim Reaper of the vending-machine business launches into a whiny, nasal rendition of an old country song called “The Lowdown Blues.”
    A cocktail umbrella bounces off his nose, and I hold my breath, waiting for Uncle Pampers to perform the first-ever karaoke bar splenectomy. But he keeps wailing away. And because the music is so grating, it takes everybody a minute to realize how fantastic he is. He’s not just singing—he’s moaning, howling, lamenting, and yodeling. Yodeling! If somebody told me that either the moon was going to fall out of the sky, or Uncle Pampers would yodel, I’d stack all my chips on the moon. But here he is, putting on a performance worthy of Hank Williams himself. And not Junior. I’m talking about Hank Williams Senior !
    When he finishes, Rio Grande rocks with thunderous applause. Uncle Pampers has pulled off the karaoke feat of the century. I’ll bet not a single soul in the building actually likes that kind of music, yet he won them over. I mean, he usually wins people over. But this time he didn’t have to threaten to kill them. Oblivious to the adulation, he returns to the bar to sip quietly at his drink.
    Kendra’s face is pink with excitement. “That was awesome!” she raves. “Let’s go congratulate him!”
    Uh-oh. “He seems like a pretty private person,” I put in quickly. “Maybe we should leave him alone.”
    It takes a while for the place to get back to normal. Nobody wants to be the act to follow Uncle Pampers. Eventually some poor sap decides to brave the abuse, and things get rolling again. Kendra goes up a few more times, but I demur from my backup singing job—at least until Uncle Pampers leaves. He gives an encore performance of yodelmania before he takes off, singing a pathetic song about a broken-down pickup truck and a three-legged dog.
    I breathe a sigh of relief once he’s gone.
    It’s almost eleven when I finally signal our waitress. She shoots me a questioning look.
    â€œWe’re ready for our check.”
    She seems confused. “It’s already been taken care of.”
    I’m amazed. “By who?”
    â€œThe tall man who sings Hank Williams. Good tipper, too.”
    All the way out, Kendra is on my case. “Why didn’t you tell me you know him?”
    â€œBecause I don’t,” I defend myself. “He’s just a guy who sometimes does—odd jobs for my father. I wasn’t even sure it was him at first.”
    She doesn’t say anything, but I catch a glimpse of her reporter’s face as we head out to the parking lot. Either that or it’s the expression of someone who can spot a gangster a mile away after she’s just heard one yodeling.
    Everything’s okay back in the Mazda, though. We fold readily into an embrace that’s become both exciting and familiar. “I had a great time, Vince,” she murmurs in my ear. “Thanks for making me have the guts to do it.”
    â€œYou were the hit of the show,” I assure her. Strictly speaking, she was only runner-up, but I’m definitely not in the mood to bring up Uncle Pampers again.
    â€œHey, what are you doing next Friday?” she asks suddenly.
    â€œThis,” I reply, kissing her.
    â€œSeriously,” she laughs, pushing me away. “How about dinner at my house?”
    They say when you’re in a car accident, there’s a split second where you know what’s going to happen, but you can’t do anything about it. That’s me. Agent Bite-Me’s dinner table is hurtling toward me at sixty miles an hour, and my foot can’t find the brake pedal.
    She senses something is wrong.