I followed her down the stairs to her apartment. She fumbled nervously with the key and turned to say, “Please don’t mind the mess. I was not expecting company today.”
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll keep my eyes closed.”
“Ah,” she said. “I see. You are a kidder, aren’t you?”
“Guilty as charged,” I said.
She pushed open the door, and I followed her inside. She turned on a lamp, and I stopped dead at the threshold. Holy crap! Everything was red. As in tomato. Bright red, huge, tiny and every size in between, tomatoes.
“I kind of have a thing for tomatoes,” she said. “I know it’s pretty silly. You could say tomatoes are my life.”
No shit, Sherlock. She loved her tomatoes. Every surface, every square inch of wall space, every picture frame starred tomatoes. Hundreds of salt and pepper shaker tomatoes crowded onto a set of narrow shelves. Little boxes shaped like tomatoes clustered on a glass-topped table itself a giant tomato. A tiny gleaming gold crate held a pile of crystal tomatoes. There were little tomato twinkle lights strung and hung around the doorways. A large poster of Andy Warhol’s Tomato Soup Can decorated the far wall.
A foam hat in the shape of a tomato draped over an arm of a chair; a shawl with a repeating tomato pattern hung on the other arm. Bowls in the shape of tomatoes clustered on an end table, and on the wall behind it, a framed chart that looked like an antique listed every conceivable type and color of tomato.
“I feel like we’ve met somewhere before, it’ll come to me. Would you like something to drink?” she asked. “I have beer.”
“That would be great, ma’am.” I didn’t know what to call her.
“Oh, please, call me Patricia.”
“Everyone calls me Junior.”
“Oh, what’s your father’s name?”
“Nothing good.”
“Okay.” She busied herself at the fridge. “Make yourself at home while I get us something.”
I wandered around a bit, stunned by it all. On the wall beside the giant soup can, a framed stock certificate for one hundred shares of Campbell Soup company congratulated Ms. Patricia Keystone on her “joining the Campbell’s family.”
“Here we go.” Patricia set two bottles of Heineken beer on the table. “I hope it’s cold enough.”
“I’m sure it will be fine,” I said.
We clinked bottles, and an hour and a half and two beers later, we were laughing about teachers and classes and college in general.
I dug this lady. She sounded so nice. I hadn’t been near nice in maybe, ever.
“Come on, Junior. What are you afraid of? You’re a smart guy. I can tell.”
“But Patricia, psychology? You think I could take psychology? I can’t even spell it. Pottery would be more my speed.” I frowned.
“Don’t you dare sell yourself short, Junior. I won’t have it. You can do this. You go every day, read the required textbooks, take tests, and be surprised you’ve passed another class.”
“I don’t know.”
She put her hand on my arm. She did that a lot as we talked. After a while I realized that was just her way. How she related to people.
“What’s the worst thing that can happen?” she said. “You learn something. Take the basics; English, math, history. You get your feet wet. Try psychology. Heck, give chemistry a shot. You might like it.”
“What about weightlifting? For me it’s a piece of cake.”
She patted my arm and smiled. “Your muscles are big enough. Let’s work on that brain of yours, shall we? Oh my god.” Her hands flew to her mouth. “Piece of cake? I know where we met. The accident. You saved my life.”
“Yeah, that was me.” My face felt hot. Crap, I must be blushing. “I pulled you out of your car. Anyone would have done the same.”
“You’re my guardian angel, Junior.” She stood and came over and hugged me. “How can I ever repay you?”
“Get me through that?” I pointed to the college catalog and my papers. “We’ll be even.”
“We’ll start with that.” She snapped her fingers. “Come on, bring them here. Let’s get you enrolled.”
With Patricia’s help I decided on a list of classes. She helped me fill out the forms and I signed them.
I felt excited and hopeful, two emotions that were strangers to me. I made a vow to get to know them better as time went on.
I couldn’t help thinking I’d made a friend in Patricia. Made me almost feel guilty about staring at her tits all those times and beating off.
Almost. Shit, I’m human, aren’t I? Mostly?
Chapter Twelve
Kailey and Shinto
The police department gym smelled of sweat, old leather and liniment. I felt stronger just being there.
“Shinto? Why do I love boxing so much?” Shinto pulled the laces tight on my second glove and I clapped them together.
“Because you get to hit shit,” she said. “And it feels good.”
“The first time I got hit didn’t feel so good. I was fifteen and mouthed off to my boyfriend of the moment. He socked me in the jaw and pain went off in my head like a bomb. When I came to, he’d gone and my jaw hurt for a week. I’ve been picking losers like that ever since.”
Shinto held the heavy bag steady for me and grinned around it. “Now’s your chance, Tyson. Hit ’em back.”
I slammed that thing with lefts, rights, combos, jabs. Over and over, dancing on my toes. I put my hips into it, swiveled, shifted weight. “I will never—” Bam. “Get caught like that—” Bam. “Again.” Bam. Bam.
Shinto rocked back on her heels. “Not bad, killer. My first fist in the face? When I turned thirteen and told my dad that I’m gay. Pow.” Shinto grimaced. “Asshole didn’t quit until he got tired. One last kick to my stomach and he went out to the garage for another beer. I gathered my wits and what stuff I could cram into a duffle bag and split. Been on my own ever since.” She smiled. “Off and on.”
“Until we got our paws on you.” Uppercut. Roundhouse. “Mom was so happy when we did. Made me kind of jealous.”
“Your mom has a cloud waiting in heaven, Kailey. A big fat one.”
“You had some older girlfriend back then, right? A redhead.”
“Flame Gallagher. You think you made bad choices? That bitch was a piece of work. Haven’t thought about her in forever.”
I switched to southpaw. “Whatever happened to her?”
Shinto shook her head. “Don’t know and don’t care. Come on Kailey, hit the damn bag.”
I stepped close and popped its middle with uppercuts until my arm ached.
“That’s better. Dad’s still alive, you know.”
“What?” A good excuse to stop and catch my breath.
“Yep,” Shinto said, “and it’s all my fault.”
“I don’t understand. What’s your fault?” I panted in through the nose, out through the mouth.
“Mom died when I was five. I got scared and prayed he would live forever. He’s seventy-eight and still going strong. Bigger asshole than ever. Guess I have to be careful what I pray for.”
“You goob,” I laughed.
Right about then a vision in pink sweatpants, department-issue tee and matching hairband bopped into the gym. “Ladies,” it said.
Shinto turned and smiled. “Heather. What are you up to, girl?”
Heather barely cleared the minimum height requirements for the force at five-foot three, a life-sized doll with brown hair pulled into a French braid down her back. Her big green eyes glittered as she shook out a jump rope. “Sweat is fat crying, people.” Her wiry muscles flexed as the rope became a blur, crisscrossing in front of her and then behind, slapping the cement.
I sniffed. “My sweat’s about all cried out. Let’s get out of here Shinto, before I get too awesome. How about the Bar Steak House?” I grabbed a towel and mopped my face. “I’ve been craving a Goldbrick for a while and I can see it, vanilla ice cream in that tall glass with butterscotch
hardened on top and nuts dripping down. Oh, god, and the whipped cream. YUM.”
“Shut up. Christ!” Shinto said. “How do you do it, Kailey? You stay so thin and eat anything. If I ate like you I’d waddle like Barney the dinosaur.”
I spread my arms. “I’m a metabolic marvel.”
“Bitch.” Shinto grunted.
Heather added, “Goldbrick on the lips, a lifetime on your hips.”
We glanced at each other, turned to her, and said in unison, “Bitch.”
Laughter followed us all the way to our lockers.
***
On friday night, the Bar Restaurant on Wall Street filled beyond capacity. People came for the steaks with chimichurri sauce, but I came for the dessert. I couldn’t wait for my amazing Goldbrick ice cream sundae, but first I needed to fight my way to the counter. We worked our cop mojo on a couple of nerds and stared hard until they quit their stools. We high-fived each other and perched on our bar stools like victorious Vikings. I leaned back, taking it all in; the old silver tin ceiling reflecting back loud conversation, the odd shriek of laughter, and the whir of blenders.
I ordered for both of us, and when the kid at the counter slid my Goldbrick in front of me, I swear it gave me an out-of-body experience. I’d been away in Dallas for a long time and dreamed of this moment. I bragged on Goldbricks to Derek every late night we went out drinking. Enough to give him a contact sugar high. Which reminded me—
“I never told you about Derek,” I said casually, as I slid a spoonful of caramel-laced vanilla into my mouth.
Shinto scowled at my dessert. “Derek who?” She looked up and seemed pleased with the distraction.
“Derek, who kept me sane in Dallas,” I said.
“Finally, something interesting.” Shinto propped her chin in her hand. “Spill. And don’t leave out the juicy parts.”
“You gotta remember, that FBI forensics school was pretty tough.”
“Ah, poor baby.”
“After classes me and some of the others would leave campus to unwind.”
“Including Daryl.”
“Derek. Yes. After a while it became just me and Derek.”
“He on the job?”
“Police sergeant from Nacogdoches.”
“Hot?”
“Like a scruffy Brad Pitt with edges. Let’s say he gives a whole new meaning to classmate.”
“I knew it,” Shinto said. “You seemed way too happy.”
“I’ll show you happy.” I pulled out my phone and thumbed through a few of the dozen selfies we took. I gave up and handed her the phone. “Slide to the right.”
She busied herself with my Dallas love life and I got busy with my melting dessert. I slid one drippy spoonful of into my mouth and glanced up to see a busboy palm a customer a small glassine bag with one hand while he took money with the other.
Seriously?
“Shinto, I’m witnessing a drug buy.” I mouthed the words around my ice cream.
“What?” She didn’t look up from my phone.
“Shinto, gimme the phone. Concentrate. Drug buy, nine o’clock.” I swallowed. “Latin kid. Busboy with the weird hair and Joe College in the Midland Tech sweatshirt.”
Shinto followed my gaze. “Got them. Thing is do we care?”
“I do if you do,” I said.
“I sure don’t want to watch you suck down any more of that dessert. You ready?”
I stood and felt for my off-duty Sig Sauer. “If they split up, you take the short one. Oh, and Shinto—”
“What?” She was already up and moving.
“Try not to kill anybody.”
The busboy a short Hispanic man, shouldered a tray of dishes and headed for the kitchen when I tapped his other shoulder and whispered in his ear. “Busted, asshole. I’m a police officer. I want you to walk quietly to the end of the bar and put down those dishes.”
He did as he was told and turned to me all attitude. “Shit, chica. You ain’t no cop. You’re too fuckin’ pretty to be a cop. You need little Pepe to make you feel better?” He cupped his crotch and licked his lips, enjoying himself. “We can go out back for a little piece of heaven.”
I grabbed his shoulder and felt him tense. Awesome. He was going to bolt. Sure enough, he pulled the tray of dishes to the floor between us and ran. I slogged through the plates and caught up with him in the kitchen. He whirled and kicked me hard in the shins. Son of a bitch.
I hooked his arm and twisted it behind him. He yanked loose of my grasp and hauled ass toward the back door, yanking pots and pans off shelves to trip me up. Little sucker was quick but I gained at every step. He made the back door about the time I got close enough and I launched myself.
We crashed through the door and out into the alley. Our momentum carried us into a row of dented metal trash cans. We knocked them over and fell wrestling into a slick mess of discarded food, papers, cans, and unidentified slime. He punched and kicked me. We rolled together, squishing in the goo. He clawed at my neck, and that did it. I spit out a piece of soggy carrot and slugged him hard in the eye. My fist slid off his cheek into a piece of liver.
He rolled over, scuttled to get away. I yanked him back by his pants, and they slid to his ankles. His hairy brown butt smacked me in the face as he pried frantically at my hold on his khakis.
I seized his balls hanging right in front of my nose and squeezed. Maybe I twisted harder than I needed to? Nah.
He howled and cupped his wounded nuts. I stood up to cheers from the wait staff, cuffed him, pulled up his pants, and marched him toward the street to search for Shinto.
“Police brutality, you fucking bitch. I’m going to report you, pig.” He sneered.
“Are we through here?” I said.
He kicked at me and slipped on a piece of wet lettuce. I yanked him to his feet.
“Now Pepe, this has been a little bit of paradise.”
Shinto rounded the corner. Her arrest had been uneventful and she practically glowed. Me on the other hand? Smelly slop dripped down the front of my shirt.
“Nice look.” Shinto smirked.
“Thanks.” I raked a clump of cold frijoles from my hair and heaved it at her.
Chapter Thirteen
Junior
Took me a while to find the Fine Arts building. I didn’t mind. It felt unusually cool this morning, and I liked the walk. The grounds crew on mowers wheeled up and back on the thick green lawns. The smell of mown grass added the right spice to the air. A white sign with a black arrow pointed the way. I checked my schedule before heading upstairs. Elementary Drawing. On the second floor.
First door I came to, I peered through the frosted window and saw people sketching at easels. Bingo. I opened the door and a woefully overweight woman with neon pink hair flounced over to me.
“My god, you are beautiful,” she said. “Turn around. Yes. You could pose for GQ. That jaw, your nose. Love the shoulder-length black hair. Where have you been all my life gorgeous?”
I pushed her hand away from my face. “Lady, I don’t know who you are. I’m here for the elementary drawing class. Is this it?”
“No. Oh, I’m so sorry.” Her hands flew to her mouth, and she giggled. “I thought you were the nude model I hired. I’m Mrs. Young.” She wore some kind of multicolored tent-looking dress and large hoop earrings. Bright blue eye shadow caked on her eyelids. She extended her hand and smiled shyly.
“Junior Alvarez.” I shook her damp hand. “I take it this isn’t elementary drawing?”
“Sorry, sweetie. That’s next door. By the way if you do ever want to model, nude or clothed? Let me know. It pays well.” Her hand traced its way down my bicep before I could pull away.
“Pay?”
“Handsomely.” A small grin played across her face.
“What do you have to do to model?”
“Sit on that podium over there, and let students draw you. You have to sit still for at least twenty minutes at a time though. Harder than it sounds. You get a ten-mi
nute break, and that’s about it.”
“I could be interested. How much?” I stared deep into her eyes, dialing up the mojo.
She flicked her hair back and cooed, “Decent money.”
“What’s decent?” I jumped up on the podium and sat on the chair.
“One hundred dollars an hour.” She stared at my crotch.
“You’re joking.” I switched positions, opened my legs, flexed.
“Remember you can’t move.” She licked her lips. “I could teach you some tricks to stay still.”
“Teach away, teach, I’d do about anything for that kind of money.” I winked.
Did she just moan?
“Come back later, after your classes are over, and I’ll help you. I’ll get a list of agents, if you like doing it. They can hook you up with more jobs.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Young. I’ll be back around three.” I jumped down off the chair and slowly made my way out of the room whistling, watching her.
“See you then, Junior.” She turned and gathered drawings up off her desk.
“One hundred dollars an hour to sit still. What the hell?” I laughed to myself. “Free money. I don’t have to smash anyone’s face in. I think I’m beginning to dig this school thing.”
Three o’clock came around, and I swaggered into Mrs. Young’s classroom. The male model finished wrapping a robe around his white, saggy body. No wonder she went wild when she saw me, if that’s what she’s used to. I might make some serious cash at this gig. Mrs. Young busied herself rubbing a finger and smudging black stuff on paper at an easel propped on a table. A lanky blue-eyed girl in jeans and a green-striped long-sleeved shirt, hair in a ponytail pulled high on her head, kept nodding with each stroke of the teacher’s pudgy finger, as if Young were drawing a masterpiece.
Mrs. Young saw me, patted the girl on the back, and headed my way. “You came. I’m glad to see you.” She smiled.
“Yes, ma’am. I thought I’d get a feel for what you want me to do from earlier.”
“Craig, come here.” She motioned to the model returned to the room now fully clothed.
West Texas Dead: A Kailey and Shinto Mystery Page 4