by A. J. Lape
I blurted out, “Was one of them Jinx King?”
She narrowed her eyes as I did my best to describe Jinx, adding that he was overall bad news, a little on the secretive side, and probably a future assassin.
When Jubilee didn’t recognize the name or description, we talked about the fact the victim was Alfonso Juarez, a mob heavy for AVO. Justice caught up to the conversation with eyes as big as a flying saucer. “How in the world did I miss a dead body yesterday? I thought I was in-the-know.”
She propped her eleven-and-a-halfs on the table, back to watching Jagger and Ivy. The atmosphere around them gripped with tension, those closest in proximity caught in a torrential downpour of profanity, tears, and threats that probably weren’t idle.
“Do you think they’ll live to see eighteen?” Justice muttered. “I mean, I’ve never had a boyfriend or anything, but that’s not normal, is it?”
For the sake of argument, I looked at her and said, “No.” That statement immediately gave me a feeling of disquiet, as though it were a foreshadowing of doom to come. Justice technically didn’t want an answer, and suddenly, I wished I wouldn’t have provided one.
With time running short, I went back to Jubilee. “Could you get the names of those students?” Once again, the light went on in her brain, and I knew she was debating whether that was a good, bad, ugly, or somewhere in between. If anything, Jubilee was a rule follower.
Reaching out slowly as not to spook her, I gently touched her on the forearm. “It’s for a good cause, Jubilee.” One that remains nameless at the moment, but a good cause nonetheless. “I promise I won’t cause you any problems.”
Jubilee hummed when she was nervous, and it was growing louder and more nasal by the minute. Locust-swarm level. I couldn’t dissect the current tune, but it honest to God sounded like that 70s tune Convoy. Ah, to walk around in that brain, I thought. It would either make me the true genius people thought me to be, or kill me from overstimulation.
She mumbled, “I’m not trying to nebulize things, Darcy. I just—”
Justice rolled her eyes, interrupting. “Yes, you are...whatever this nebulizing thing is. You don’t have to broadcast the fact how smart you are every five freaking seconds, Jubilee. Who even knows or uses that word?” Justice and Jubilee acted more like sisters than cousins, but seriously, call me a kindred nerd because I knew the definition for nebulize meant to be vague.
Jubilee named Juan Salas. Well, no surprise there. Juan was an 18-karat thug who’d been in trouble since grade school. A junior, he and I had Spanish 3 together, but it wasn’t like we spoke a lot. The other was Fisher Stanton. Fisher surprised me...sort of. He was on Student Council, and if he was in trouble, it was probably for his mouth. He had an over-acute capacity to get on anyone’s nerves. The last two were Oscar and Frank Small. Once again, no big surprise. Frank wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed (in fact, I called him a “frank up”), but Oscar had some brains. Just last week he placed a live chipmunk in the locker of an upperclassman and used M-80 firecrackers to rouse a construction worker using a porta-potty. I committed the names to memory but grabbed a black pen and inked their initials on the inside of my hand as backup.
Right then, Mrs. Lowe walked up the stairs making a beeline for Jagger and Ivy like her life depended on it (well, probably like their lives depended on it). She fumed, “Stop the nonsense, or you’ll both be kicked out permanently.” Lord have mercy, Jagger painted on this smile that was mass seduction mixed with sincere apology and an invitation for whatever services you wanted him to render. Mrs. Lowe frowned, clearly taken aback, but a blush was slowly creeping up her neck.
Brushing back a stray wisp of graying, bobbed hair, she headed for a closet in the back. When she was out of sight, a look at Jagger and Ivy showed them making peace. Hugging, touching, consoling. The type rated PG-13.
Ugh. So unbelievably freaked-up.
And this is why I didn’t have a boyfriend. I didn’t understand the game. Ivy and Jagger had just berated one another publicly with words and phrases that in my opinion were unconscionable and unforgivable. Now, they were tangled together like two octopuses mating. Lots of lip action, chairs squeaking, it made me want to barf.
I had some names, but did they have anything to do with Alfonso Juarez? Your guess was as good as mine. What I needed to do was find out who was driving that goddawful, yellow Dodge Charger. He certainly came out of nowhere, not to mention the guy that Jinx was talking to. Who was he? Was I out of my mind for even caring? And by the way, could I swear to it that Jinx was the one that called me last night?
We had English together. Not one bloody thing happened in class today. He sat ramrod straight, taking notes like a good little boy, even raising his hand to answer a question no one else touched with a ten foot pole. That in itself was so odd I came to the conclusion he was trying too hard to blend in.
Right now, it was sixth period, Drawing and Painting, one of my elective courses. I liked drawing—cartoons mostly—and if there were ever a class to skip, this wouldn’t be the one I’d choose. Still, I needed to find out the specifics with the crime scene and there was only one way to do that.
Leave campus.
This was a first. I’d never skipped class. Sure, I’d skipped in my mind, but a part of me was afraid I was taking a step into Loserville and wouldn’t find my way back out.
Shelving the thought, I hustled to my locker, carefully placed my art supplies in the bottom then grabbed my Anatomy book since there was a quiz tomorrow. Before I took another breath, I stopped mid-motion and promised myself I’d study. I said it out loud three times like a brainiac’s mantra. After I shoved the book in my backpack, I checked my iPhone for messages and email, sent Dylan a text that said, I miss you, Stud, and deleted some spam. Lastly, I sent a text to my Nanny, Claudia, telling her I was going to a study group with friends, and I’d be home by 5PM. I had it all planned out.
So...next??? I didn’t know what was next, so I just started walking.
Was I going to call a cab? Hitchhike? Crawl? Blink my way to the police department? The Valley Police Department was about twenty minutes away going west. Twenty minutes wasn’t far at all, but when you didn’t have a car, it was like going to the moon. My immediate plan, I guess, was to walk outside and hail down someone in a car.
And beg.
Yeah, that sounded good.
With my backpack and purse hanging from my right shoulder—and some chutzpah that bordered ridiculous—I took my right hand and zipped my jacket to my chin. My head was down, trying to appear deep in thought, but about ten feet from the front door, I bumped into (gasp!) Liam Woods. Okay, maybe bumped was a mild word. It was more like tackled. He dropped a stack of books five-high, and they scattered all over the floor with a whomping crunch.
Score one for me…
Without even looking at him, I dropped my head even lower and stammered out an embarrassed, “Ss-sorry.”
Liam didn’t say anything, only chuckled. I was momentarily sidetracked by his unique scent: there was no single word for it other than muskymalemouthfulofdeliciousness. Ignoring the desire to throw him down and roll all over him, I stooped down to pluck up his books. In the process, my own purse crashed to the floor, the contents spilling outward in a three foot arc. I blushed like my skin was doused with battery acid. While I clearly looked like an idiot, his warm hand touched mine, silently beseeching me to calm down. One by one, he put my things back in my purse, but somewhere our eyes locked. He gave me a smoldering stare. I studied him: tall, dark, and breathtakingly dressed in stonewashed shorts and a blue and orange striped polo shirt. This was where I was supposed to say something profound, try to impress his inner-female lover, but all I could do was nibble my lower lip and blink, “Whoa.”
He threw his head back with a wolfish laugh.
This guy knew he was nothing short of tantalizing and just might have been making fun of me. I gave him half a smile, shoving his books in his arms. I thought, This is stupi
d. Down deep, I was still reeling from the conversation with Ivy and a case of the I’m-so-uglies. I didn’t have a chance in heck with this guy, but the besotted girl in me was somehow still wishing.
“Are you okay?” he asked genuinely. For the life of me, I couldn’t string a sentence together. I gathered what was left of my wounded pride and scrambled off like a spooked little mouse, tripping over my feet the whole way. “Wait!” he yelled.
I didn’t.
I pushed the door wide, ran down the steps with my eyes closed, and all of a sudden felt like I’d kissed a MACK truck. I tripped backwards, landing right on my arse, shaking off what might be a concussion. When my vision cleared, Vinnie materialized out of the blur. We’d sacked one another like two offensive linemen—his belly bouncing, what little chest I had now deflated and concave. He wobbled, tipped back on one foot, fell down on the sidewalk, and shook the entire school. I think we were alive, but I fingered the pulse on my neck to be sure.
The cross dangling from Vinnie’s neck was weaving back and forth in the breeze. Once again, Vinnie was dressed in navy sweatshirt material wearing too much bling. Honest to God, his gold crucifix was four inches long and had to weigh close to a pound. Maybe he felt like he needed a lot of Jesus.
No argument from me there.
“Are you alright, Dolce?” he gruffed, exasperated.
My voice was as limp as the rest of my body. “I dunno.”
I feared a permanent eye twitch settled in my left eye. It was nothing short of a miracle that Vinnie and I both somehow stood. “Where are you going?”
“Deep sea fishing,” I muttered.
“Deep sea fishing,” he repeated.
Another eye twitch. “Yeah, the thing I’m looking for is far off campus. Are you in or not?”
Vinnie gave me that look like his invitation got lost in the mail. He cocked his head to one side. “Are you going anyway?” Probably not, but I knew I needed to answer yes if Vinnie was going to provide the wheels. Vinnie gazed hard into my eyes and even harder back toward the school and the academic rules I’m pretty sure he didn’t care about. He put his hand on the handle of his Bug that was parked illegally up on the sidewalk, and squeaked the door open. Even though I told them not to, my legs reluctantly slid into the tattered, brown leather seat.
7 THE 11th COMMANDMENT
THIS WAS A mistake of meteoric proportions, but no one wanted to sin alone if they could help it.
We pulled into Skyline Chili for five Cheese Coneys, tiny chili-covered hot dogs that were heaven on a bun. We demolished them before we were even out of their parking lot and now were headed toward the office of “Valley’s Finest.”
I was sitting on the edge of my seat, wondering if I was knee-deep in sin or all the way up to my eyeballs. It wasn’t until Vinnie said, “What’s wrong?” that I realized I’d been counting road signs out loud, my OCD undeniably in the driver’s seat.
Vinnie deserved an explanation why I told him to drive west. I opened and closed my mouth three times, thinking I was talking, when I realized not a darn thing made it out of my mouth.
“Dolce,” he gruffed, “I don’t even know where we’re going.”
One breath in, one breath out, then I sighed. “We’re going to the Valley Police Department. I’ve got to get my hands on that dumpster if I want to figure out who did what to Alfonso Juarez.”
This behavior was all kinds of crazy. Speaking the address into the navigation system on my iPhone, I waited for Vinnie to pull the plug, whip into a disgusted U-turn, or open the door and boot me out. He just kept driving. His Bug coughed a few more miles, and before you knew it, we were idling in front of our destination. Trouble was, parking was like finding a needle in a haystack. Vinnie went down an alley and found a space. Unfortunately, he clipped the side of a black Camry as he attempted to parallel-park then backed up and bumped a white Honda Civic. Cursing, he tried the whole thing again and lost three eyelashes off his right headlight. Heaven help us, we’d committed three hit and runs, and he’d blinded his Bug.
Circling the building two more times, he finally decided to park a block away.
Switching off the ignition, he scooted his body around with one arched eyebrow. “Now what?”
I turned to face him, crossing my arms over my chest. “Are you going to snitch to Dylan or will this remain on the down-low?”
Vinnie played with the hair on his right lamb chop sideburn, twisting as he replied, “I promised, Dolce.”
Just what you needed—a reformed delinquent with a sense of morals. Somehow I had to switch Vinnie’s loyalty before Dylan’s two-week stint in paradise was over. Vinnie proved to me he was up for a good adventure, and well, I needed someone like that on the payroll.
“Okay,” I said. “Just do as Darcy says. That’s like the 11th commandment or something.”
Vinnie frowned, confused. I didn’t know if I should tell him it was a joke or just let it slide.
We pushed our way out of the Bug, not having a clue what was next. By the time we got to the entrance, Vinnie was huffing and puffing with beads of perspiration clinging to his whiskers. Once he wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve, he opened the door to the smell of stale coffee and microwaved lunches.
Funny thing was, we smelled that behind a bulletproof glass. The Department of Homeland Security made it mandatory a few years back that all offices are locked and you speak to a receptionist through a bullet-resistant glass. Vinnie and I were milling around the waiting area, biding our time until our number was called. I understood the concept, but by the looks of the crowd, it sounded sort of stupid. All you did was put an overabundance of crazy people in the same waiting area together.
There were two walk-up windows. One where you wrote your name down at the reception, and the other, I surmised, was to speak to an officer directly. I wasn’t sure if the receptionist referred you to that window or if that was “special circumstances” only. All I knew was if I didn’t get what I wanted from the receptionist, this gig was over before it started.
The entire back wall was glass so you could see what was going on behind it even though you couldn’t always make out the words. To the right of the receptionist was a door. It appeared you were “buzzed” inside once whoever you were meeting was ready. The walls were white and the ceiling high, the room decorated with metal desks, multi-lined telephones, and silver filing cabinets along the back wall. Commendations were hung from the wall along with a large photograph of the police chief.
From what I could see behind the glass, it was fast paced. Black uniforms were doing the cop thing while one police officer was mingling amidst the dozen or so visitors in the waiting area with us. A family of four was at the window with the officer filing what sounded like a missing persons report.
We walked up to the receptionist like we were supposed to be there.
Gutsy move, stupid move, but what other choice was there?
My stomach started churning. The name badge on the receptionist’s uniform said “Dixie.” Dixie looked like a Dixie: southern, big flaxen hair with at least an inch’s worth of dark roots showing down her center part. Dixie had a round face, big blue eyes painted even bluer with shadow, and full-figured. Vinnie took one look at her DoubleDs and his jaw dropped wide. Then he started Vinnie-izing. Elbowing me out of the way, he placed one large, beefy palm on the countertop, practically molding his body against the glass.
Dixie gave him a totally blank smile.
“Well, hell-OOO, beautiful,” he grinned. Then he stopped himself, placing his meaty hand over his heart as if he were apologizing for overstepping his bounds. “May I call you beautiful?”
I think I threw up in my mouth.
Dixie appeared to be pulling double-duty, and by the way she was smacking around her black telephone, I got the feeling receptionist wasn’t in her job description. After she said some words into the walkie-talkie strapped to her left shoulder, she pushed a button and transferred a call.
Fi
nally, she looked at Vinnie, half-blinking, half-smiling. “Sure,” she said. “What can I do for you...uh--”
“Valentine. Valentine Juarez and this is my cousin,” he said, without even a flinch, “Jester.”
Huh…
You know how they say the heavens will speak if you take the time to listen? I just heard a choir of Heavenly angels sing a chorus. I hadn’t thought a lot of things through about this caper (okay, I hadn’t thought anything through), but the first place to start was obviously with a name that wasn’t truly mine. Jester was as good enough as any, and Dixie didn’t seem to dispute or inquire of its origins. You had to laugh, though. Vinnie was the stereotypical Italian; I was an Anglo-Saxon mixed breed just this side of freak. No way in the world could we pass for full-blooded Mexican.
Vinnie was moments from asking for her telephone number; I could tell by the way he’d locked onto her chest. Jumping in front of him, I painted on a face of deep pain and remorse. “Hi, Dixie. We’re family of Alfonso Juarez.”
Dixie spaced out like those trauma victims do when they’ve experienced something their mind can’t deal with. “Oh,” she said in a small voice, covering her mouth with her hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Not as sorry as I’m going to be if I get caught.
The switchboard lit up again as Dixie answered a few then transferred callers. While she yes’d and no’d, I stole a look at a group of three complaining about their missing relative. “She’s a good person,” they said, “she’d never run away; it isn’t her fault she wrote those bad checks.” Blah, blah, blah and blinded-by-love blah. The officer patiently bobbed his head up and down, writing notes in a missing person’s report, while looking intently at a photograph that was produced.
About a minute later, Dixie cradled her phone then looked at us again with a blanked-out expression. “May I help you?”