by A. J. Lape
A light frown lined his forehead. “The mementos, yes. The baseball card collection, however, Raymond gave to me to pay Boozy’s debt.”
“How much did Boozy owe?”
“At least a hundred times less than Raymond’s collection, but I think Raymond wanted to ensure the problem went away. Tipping the scales in my favor gave him the upper hand in case I ever decide to renege on our agreement. Raymond’s name still holds weight, Jester,” he said. “If my associates discover I’ve wronged him…that I ever float his son a loan again…it will look bad on me. And I would gain some enemies in the process.”
Mercy, hunger still clawed at my stomach. Digging around in the bottom of the bag, I found two fries and moved them through the ketchup. “That’s not fair you kept the collection. Give him the cards back,” I demanded, biting my fries in half.
“And who’s going to repay Boozy’s gambling debt?”
“I will…give me a month…and I’ll repay it in full.”
He paused, narrowing his eyes as if he tried to ferret out my motivation. I had none…other than I liked Raymond and wanted him to regain something he’d lost through no fault of his own. “One month,” he murmured, “but no longer.”
Snatching the remaining fry from his hand, I tossed it in my mouth along with the last bite of my burger, wadding up my part of the meal and throwing the wrappers in the wastebasket. The moment I stood to leave, Twenty Bucks spoke. “May I have another moment with you, Jester? This won’t take long.”
“Speak. My proverbial meter is running.”
“Let’s talk about Alfonso Juarez.”
My tongue forgot how to work. Twenty Bucks wasn’t going to let the man’s name die. He’d inquired about Juarez the first time we had a meeting, and I’d successfully sidestepped the subject. In hindsight, all I’d done was delay the inevitable. Alfonso Juarez was a hitter for AVO—I’d discovered his body in a dumpster outside my high school. Weird day.
“Why, Jester,” he said, “you never struck me as the type that went speechless.”
“I’m not speechless. I didn’t hear a question.”
Twenty Bucks gave me a look like he was impressed. “So do you deny your association with Juarez?”
“We weren’t associated,” I said determinedly.
“Let me paraphrase then,” he murmured. “Were you responsible for bringing his murderer to justice?”
Deflect. Deflect. Deflect. “Am I on the stand here? Because I haven’t been sworn in.”
Twenty Bucks pulled on his mob boss. His voice went sharp, confrontational, and unforgiving all in one breath. “When you walk into my office, asking a favor and then try to make a deal for someone who has wronged me, you sure as hell are on the stand.”
My lungs grabbed some air. How in God’s name had this happened? We’d just been besties sharing burgers and fighting over fries. “To answer your question,” I finally said, “Alfonso Juarez’s killer was fingered when I became target practice. Like now, I answered questions which solidified that the person shooting at me would go to jail. And just like now, I was told I had no choice but to answer. I am loyal to whom I need to be loyal to. The person who shot at me sophomore year will never have my loyalty. As I’m sure you understand.” Rage flowed through me like lava, and I heard Jaws in my head instructing me to leave the building, ASAP. “May I ask you a question?” I added. He tipped his head in a yes-gesture. “Did I cut into your cash flow?”
“Me, personally? No.”
“Then I find this round of questioning exhausting,” I shot back. “I’m just a little fish in AVO’s all-encompassing pond.”
Twenty Bucks gazed at me like buzzards circling an almost dead corpse. When he was angry, his thick accent resurfaced. “From where I’m sitting and what my relationships have shown me in the past is that it’s the little fish that can sometimes eat off your toes. Never take your eye off your enemy, Jester,” he suggested. God help me, I got the feeling he insinuated that to be him. “Relax. I’m not going to kill you,” he said. “I find you too enjoyable, and I’m not a fool. I know who you live with. I became acquainted with Lincoln’s reputation during his days in vice crimes. He’s not a man I want pissed off and will avoid that headache at all costs.” He leaned back in his chair and threaded his hands behind his head. “Still, I do appreciate your entrepreneurial and opportunistic side. Work for me. We could rule LA.”
“Pretty soon I’m going to work for the city of Los Angeles. I’m not so sure they would understand,” I said sarcastically.
He winked. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” Again, he chuckled some low, evil sound.
I changed the subject, back to the original reason I came and headed for the door. “I would like to respectfully request information on York,” I said over my shoulder, “and I’m serious about Raymond. One month. And you know what? I get a bonus if I come up with the money before the thirty days is out.”
With shoulders squared, at the last second, I power-walked to the crystal bowl of candy, picked it up, and dumped its contents into my purse. Placing the heavy bowl back on its perch, I moved for the door and threw the AVO sign over my head. It was the “hang loose” gesture with the AVO tattooed initials on the index through ring fingers turned outward. After a dramatic pause, I morphed the visual into the middle finger.
Pounding down the stairs, I heard Twenty Bucks’ booming, psychotic laughter behind me.
Chapter 5
BAD THINGS COME IN THREES.
My feet met the rubber of the treadmill in a rhythmic thump-thump. Monday morning opened with a classroom discussion on criminal law and ended with a treadmill test. As police officers, our jobs were to look at a situation, analyze it, twist it over and over, and predict the bad things that could happen. Engaging in that process oftentimes required that we ran in pursuit. A treadmill test measured aerobic aptitude, programmed to stimulate X-amount of miles in a specific time period, designed to see how in shape we were. So if it ever came to a pursuit, would we be able to perform? Best I could tell, I’d run the required miles and then some, so if I had to pursue on foot, I should technically be able to meet up with a perp.
What I did then was up to me.
As I ran, Roper struck up a conversation while he nursed a cup of coffee. “So how are you, Walker? Other than the obvious,” he muttered. Anyone who halfway knew anything about YouTube knew what had happened to me. Just when I thought I would dodge it all, right before lunch, Roper called up my video and dissected it in class, stopping frame by frame in a play-by-play and teaching exercise of what to do and what not to do. I wasn’t positive I absorbed much of his analysis. Honestly, even showing my face was something to be proud of. One thing he did tell us, though, was the Los Angeles District Attorney had decided he wouldn’t press charges against the girlfriend—who had enough problems of her own recovering from a stab wound.
I released a sigh of relief at that news. If it hadn’t been for her quick thinking, God only knew what Anthony would’ve done next.
“I’m good, sir. And you?” I asked.
He paused, and I knew what the faraway look in his face meant: how had the LAPD Academy misjudged Eugene Anthony and what he was capable of? In retrospect, perhaps they hadn’t misjudged him, to be honest. His credentials, I’m sure, were stellar. But maybe that was the crux of the ballad of Eugene Anthony. Maybe he’d never lost anything, and when you lost something of value (like your dream job), then the deepest, darkest parts of your psyche could surface.
“I’m fine, Walker,” he murmured, “but how are you holding up…with everything?”
Hello, Dr. Phil.
The twist in my gut told me he hadn’t just been referring to my neck but to what had happened to Dylan, Finn, and Willow. In case I’d been in error, I didn’t broach the subject.
“Other than the obvious,” I said, using his words, “I had a really weird dream last night.”
A sip of coffee. “Summarize,” he said nonchalantly.
“I
dreamt I was standing nude giving a speech on unprotected sex of the earthworm in captivity. Want to venture a guess what that means?”
He raised both eyebrows, giving me a double-eyed stare. “It means you have a foul mouth and dirty mind.”
“Common knowledge,” I said, concentrating on my gait. “One worm waved a bikini top over her head while the other set hers on fire. At the best of my recollection, the first one’s boyfriend was a mechanic.”
Roper succumbed to the urge to laugh, both eyes squinting with humor. No one thought it more bizarre than me, but I couldn’t help how my subconscious worked out its problems. Roper then asked what I would do the next time I encountered a perp while he stared at my neck. I kept my answer brief, telling him I had much to learn. He issued no comment, zeroing in on my throat. Classmates had eagle-eyed the injury since he’d covered it in the morning lecture. A nice shade of purply-black, I’d tried to cover the bruising with makeup, but after applying half a bottle of foundation, I decided the task was futile and to own it.
The positives? I was here. I’d survived. And I hadn’t bailed when things got tough. Eugene Anthony and the Superjock were a different story. Grief pressed on my eyelids when I thought of Anthony. If he’d just stuck it out, he would’ve landed somewhere. The Superjock female, however—who’d relinquished her gun when the real part of being a cop hit her—was as friendly as a raccoon with rabies. A good chance existed she would be just as rabid and anti-social wherever she went.
My machine kicked off, and I jumped off the rubber in a side dismount, backward jogging until I cleared it in a little show of “top that suckers.”
“Always going for the heroics, aren’t you?” a voice said, referring to my dismount.
“Not really,” I said. “I just thought it would be fun to jump.”
Those words came from Grant Coker, the retired Army helicopter pilot. At first, I thought his remark to be snide until we made eye contact, and I studied the worry in his blue-green eyes. His temperament was much like my boyfriend’s and Jaws’—the latter who’d phoned during my break, reminding me to kill the next effer who put his hands around my neck. And above all, he’d cautioned me to not appear spooked in class.
I wasn’t spooked. I was too dumb to be spooked. It appeared I was allergic to common sense.
Coker touched me on the arm, gripping it with a hand that could snap me in two. “You’re my favorite, Walker,” he said softly. “Don’t die before we graduate.”
Coker had been made the official class spokesperson, collecting votes and/or bringing concerns to Roper should the need arise. He’d been the obvious choice—the type that assumed the strident position of leadership because it was inborn or perhaps because one saw the need and rose to the occasion. So far we hadn’t had many needs, but it was only week two.
Taking a towel from his hand, I wiped my forehead and gave him my one hundred percent, unguarded truth. “Even though crap happens to me…a lot…I’ve begun to think my curse is to live in this world, Coker. Even if I’d been trying to die, I don’t think it could happen.”
He sighed, gazing at the ceiling as though he recalled a recent memory. “You and me both, Walker,” he muttered. “You and me both.”
While Coker assumed position, and Roper went through his spiel about what the test would measure, I talked to Chan Park. He reminded me of an old saying, As one leader falls, another rises. With the departure of Anthony, it appeared that also applied to nerds. Chan Park had taken his place, and in all honesty, he’d made a footnote impression on me the first day of class. Park was Asian and so small he’d barely make the height requirement for a rollercoaster. He had large anime eyes and was a criminal justice major from UNLV with a separate degree in mortuary science. Okay, weird. But I guess someone had to do the job.
“About that video,” he said, “were you scared?”
“Didn’t have time to be scared,” I answered. Striding to the water cooler, I popped one of the little paper cups out of its slot and filled it. Downing the H2O, I crumpled the cup and rainbow-shotted a three into a nearby wastebasket.
“I’m afraid of recyclables,” he told me. “People with curly hair. Tomatoes, thunder, cats, avocados, hairy noses…”
Please, Lord. Make it stop.
Twenty minutes later, Coker was off the treadmill and Park had taken his place—cuing a part B of things that frightened him. I honest to God questioned how he’d made it past the interview process.
“Afraid of bullets? Knives? People who are bigger than you?” Roper asked, reminding him of weapons he would possibly encounter on a daily basis. Roper swallowed a long drink of coffee number three. I could see him fighting an eye roll.
“Nope,” Park answered. “Don’t scare me at all. I’m afraid of things that are smaller than me. I have entomophobia.”
Roper progressed with the next natural question. “Which is?”
“The fear of one or more classes of insects,” I answered, outing myself as just as big a nerd as Park. Roper threw his head back and laughed I even knew the answer. “Hey,” I grumbled, “don’t nerd-shame me just because I like trivia, okay?” Roper raised a brow at my tone, hiding behind his coffee cup. “Respectfully said, sir…of course,” I quickly added.
“If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck,” he said.
I curled my lip and stuck out my tongue, mentally giving him the finger. Roper wasn’t offended. His eyes crinkled with humor.
Park’s timer kicked off, and he attempted to exit the test in the same fashion Coker and I had—jumping up in the air with a side dismount. Problem was, Park might be able to run fast, but God had not gifted him to be coordinated of foot. One foot went forward, the other went backward, and somehow that kickstarted the treadmill for a round two. Park started running triple speed to keep from face-planting. He ran and ran. Bounced and bounced. He might be a little dude, but I was pretty sure one of his ancestors included a horse. The guy needed a jock strap or a large roll of duct tape. Roper immediately sprang to action and went to pull the plug, but disaster did not end there. He had a loose shoestring. It got caught up in the belt, and before you could say comedy of errors, he was on all fours, trying to avert his foot being amputated. Both went for the power cord at the same time. Their heads knocked, and what progress Roper made at standing was quickly kiboshed. Back to all fours, his black tie got in on the act and was sucked up into the machine next to his shoestring. God help me, the man was in the splits.
“Abort, Walker! ABORT!” he bellowed, about to blow an aneurysm.
My mind needed a minute to catch up to what had just happened. It was like viewing Snarknado. No way in the world was it plausible, but you couldn’t help but watch because it was bizarrely enjoyable. Unfortunately, that one second of mental delay was all the time required for me to wind up in the pile of bodies. Roper’s split clipped my leg, and I went down like the pins in a bowling alley. By the time I snapped out of the shock, I found myself moments from my ponytail heading toward a metal death beside his foot. Problem was, I couldn’t stop giggling.
My butt being in the air—tangled up with Park and Roper—left no room for modesty. I should care…I didn’t. Reminded how bad things come in threes, it was possible that was my third thing. I decided to roll with it and let it play itself out.
From out of the blue, Grumpy sprinted over and ripped the cord from the wall. The treadmill screeched one last high-pitched sound and powered down to a slow and steady death. “The three of you were about five seconds away from being tased. What the hell,” he muttered. “I’ve never seen such a clusterf—” He added the F-word.
“Your class is going to kill me,” Roper added in a dead panic. Grumpy found a pair of scissors in a first-aid kit mounted to the wall. Removing them, he snipped Roper’s shoestring and tie, pulling me and the others to a stand. He gazed at my neck, shaking his head like I wasn’t long for this world. We were in agreement it was a transcendental thought. I gave him a shrug, and that was that.<
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“Did that scare you, Park?” Roper added, his breathing elevated.
I envisioned a bottle of vodka and a hot bath in Roper’s future.
Park, however, had a glassy-eyed stare, but I contributed that to being overly exerted. “Nope,” he said. “Worst case scenario I would lose a limb, but I could deal. I could file a worker’s comp claim and then get rich. I could buy the Tesla I’ve always wanted, and maybe Holland Hemming would then go out with me. I would consider it a blessing.”
Monday evening had me driving by Clyde Sargent’s home once more, checking to see if he had truly moved on….He had. I sent a brief text, asking why he’d kept contacting me. But that text produced another dead end. I had no clue what that meant, but I mentally crossed him off my list of things to worry about (again)…at least until I received another message or in-person visit.
After a rare meal with the whole family, Lucky and I set about on our nightly run. Once we made it to the middle of the park, we ran into the Mueller’s dog, Fuzzy, an Australian cattle dog mix. The Mueller’s had tried to do a good deed by adopting her from a local animal shelter, but like that idiom claims, No good deed goes unpunished. And Fuzzy punished the Mueller’s on a daily basis. She literally had three paws in the bottle of a mood stabilizer when she needed to have all four. Unfortunately, Lucky thought she was cute. If he caught the scent of her, he would roll to his back and willingly let her sniff his male parts.
This evening was different. Lucky had binged on six lemon bars sometime during the day, and once we stopped, he had action on both ends.
“Are you sure that’s who you love?” I asked him while he lapped up some water. Lucky swiveled his head over his shoulder and attempted to wag his stub but stopped mid-wag. With a big burp, he barfed up what he’d just consumed. Fuzzy, however, wasn’t offended and quit smelling his balls to slurp up his puke. Her owner just stood there, mouth ajar. I think she hoped it would all go away.