by A. J. Lape
Frank looked over sideways as he corrected the tires. “You okay?”
Most of my stomach was still in my mouth; I really wasn’t sure.
Ten minutes later, he cut the lights and slowly pulled into a new development in the city of Monroe. Several houses were being built at the same time, but no electricity was on in either of the homes that looked finished. My guess was they weren’t occupied yet.
We parked the car behind a portable white trailer that said HQ on its door. I quickly filled Frank in on what I thought happened the day Alfonso Juarez was discovered—that someone killed him before Oscar found him (probably the night before), but when they saw Oscar, the person or persons got the bright idea to frame him. Frank frowned, undeniably confused. I explained if I could get certain evidence (unfortunately, the specifics were vague), then we could hopefully set Oscar free. When his frown grew even deeper, I realized that was too many caveats in a brain that couldn’t harbor the complex.
I then asked if he knew of a relationship Oscar had with Annie Hughes. Frank had no clue, so strike-out on that point, too. That meant Oscar was hiding something—something he kept personal even from his own brother. I hadn’t verified a relationship with Oscar, but there had to be one—especially if the social worker was correct, and they were trying to pin a double murder on him.
Pulling my hood over my head, I creaked open the door and stepped into a sloshing mixture of mud and sawdust. Frank came to my side, the cold rain hitting our heads so hard it felt like wayward golf balls. We quietly hurried to a parked backhoe and crouched down, peering between a large wheel and the space right underneath the engine. At first, it was hard to make out details, but once my eyes adjusted I could see bodies. Standing in front of the headlights of a dark SUV were who I recognized as Jinx King, Juan Salas, and Adam Neeley. They seemed oblivious to the thrashing rain, Juan intent on drilling Jinx, whose body language was defensive—like someone taking a verbal beating. I almost felt sorry for him, but before I could take that emotion further, a dark sedan pulled up and another individual entered the scene wearing a dark trench coat with a hood. Their back was toward us, and they stood taller than the others and broad shouldered. Each of them gave this person the hand signal, yet the hooded figure didn’t return it. Justin Starsong? If so, why ditch the signal? Especially when you were the one that insisted Jinx attend this meeting anyway?
Even though this meeting was odd, I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. So, Jinx was the butt-end of an argument...so what?
I got antsy. “Frank, I don’t see—”
“Be patient,” he whispered. “Watch the hooded one.”
Right then, Mr. Hood walked toward the trunk of the sedan and removed a bundle of what looked like pipes. Even if this wasn’t Justin, I recognized that gait; it was a no-nonsense walk of determination and confidence, but from where? “Who is that?” I asked.
Frank was silent for a spell. “I don’t know, but once you cross evil like that, you recognize it when you feel it again.” Come to think of it, I was catching the same vibe. I’d only seen Justin standing at the dumpster and a few other times I could count on one hand. Could that be him? God knew he felt evil enough. I didn’t have time to go through my mental white pages because the sky cracked, and a beam of lighting caught the pipe’s reflection.
It was reddish-brown. What the heck? “Copper?” I gasped.
Frank nodded, “They steal it and sell it. Oscar and I ran into them at Trader’s World where they were trying to unload it.” You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. Trader’s World’s a well-known outdoor flea market off I-75, only a few miles north of the school. Vendors sell things like antiques, clothing, bicycles, crafts, etcetera. It’s so large you could take an entire day to discover its contents, but I’d never heard of anything illegal going down there. In fact, it’s a pretty reputable landmark, but there must be a black market connection the Smalls had discovered.
“Does the buyer have their own booth?” I asked.
He vehemently shook his head. “No, Trader’s World has no part of it. There’s a guy up there that acts like he’s with Trader’s World, but he takes you over to his van where he sort of feels out your intentions.”
So, was Oscar cutting into Juan’s copper profits? If so, was cutting into his profits reason enough to frame him for murder? That means you had to “happen” upon a body and get the bright idea to get Oscar out of the picture so you could make more money. But copper theft was big, I remembered. At least three “busts” a week according to Jinx King’s father.
“Who’s your contact up there?”
Frank wiped water from his eyes. “His name’s Buggy. He used to sell garden tools, but when Trader’s World got wind of his illegal activities, he was banned forever. Before he was caught, we’d lay our copper under a tarp by his truck. We ran into Juan doing the same thing.”
As I struggled to make sense of it, a car slowly crept up behind them, lights off, engine barely making a sound. I wouldn’t have noticed, but moonlight bounced off the chrome on the front bumper. Thing was, it was a yellow Dodge Charger. No waaaaaay, I whispered to myself. Just who all was invited to this little party anyway??
The only Charger I’d encountered was the day I found Alfonso Juarez, and I thought that was by chance. Were they friends? Acquaintances? Competitors of some kind? The way he was laying low, it was obvious he wanted to remain as incognito as me.
As God as my witness, right then the rain let up. Just stopped on a dime. Like it was a message from Heaven for me to get out while the gettin’ was good. Pulling my iPhone out of my jeans, I activated the video camera. Stupid, since it was dark, but I decided to pan the crowd anyway. Zooming in on Juan’s mouth, I tried to capture his words. He kept barking at Jinx who acted like a kicked dog, periodically saying something I assumed was to defend himself. That went on for a while, but then Mr. Hood went bonkers, getting in each person’s face releasing his inner-snake.
Juan immediately corralled the chaos and railed something at the group. One-by-one they stopped—like a chorus of trained Chihuahuas—all attention immediately falling on Adam Neeley. In the course of a few ords, scrawny little Adam Neeley was suddenly Public Enemy Number One.
Omigosh. It dawned on me who Adam was.
It was easy to lose track of someone in mega schools. Adam fell into that category that life made invisible. He was the kid always picked last on the playground. He was the kid that if he did make an organized athletic team, his uniform was a size too large. He was the one you played with in preschool, but when you went on to bigger and better things, you inerrantly forgot about him. Adam was the definition of “eternally overlooked,” so why was he hanging with people I felt were in no way fair?
A few words passed between Juan and Jinx, then both their attentions riveted on Adam. If the calm before a storm meant something tornadic was coming, then the feeling in the air was so quiet, nothing short of mass destruction was next. Juan took one purposeful step toward Adam, both his hands clenched like he was holding something valuable he didn’t want to drop. Adam shifted left then right, his eyes glued on Juan’s face that was contorted with an emotion I’d never seen before. Taking a frantic step backward, next thing you knew, he was penned-in like he was a piece of meat and they were a hungry pack of dogs. Juan launched forward with an uppercut so fierce my head shot back. Adam went down on his knees, splashing in the mud, catching himself on the ground with all ten fingers splayed wide in a puddle. One leg at a time, he shakily righted himself, but a look of fear landscaped his face. It wasn’t fear that he was being attacked; it was fear of what he knew was to come. Understanding came faster than a speeding bullet...I knew what this was. Adam was being “jumped in” to their particular gang, ergo getting the tar beat out of him as initiation.
It was organized chaos. Jinx came at his jaw in a right-footed kick while Juan wailed away on his lower ribs. Adam coughed and sputtered then glanced upward, but there was no chance to say, No thank
you, I’ve changed my mind. Right then Mr. Hood joined the group, and the three swung and punched like they were ridding society of its deadliest vermin.
Tears slid down my cheeks. I wanted to help; I wanted to end his pain and send them to jail. When I looked at Frank, however, in no way whatsoever was he behooved to intervene. He stood transfixed, almost as if he’d seen this before and wasn’t shocked at the level of violence.
Going into a fetal position, Adam took a blow to the lower back then erupted into little girl tears. I couldn’t help it, but I cried harder. I needed to go home, I was nauseous, and I wanted to put this whole thing behind me. When Adam took Mr. Hood’s heel to the head, inadvertently he moved by instinct—just enough for Juan to land a punch on his jaw that left him lights-out.
I screamed at the top of my lungs, but Frank shoved his hand over my mouth. It was too late. I’d given us up, and the three standing practically laid rubber barreling toward us. The Charger revved its engine and blinked its lights, trying to get the attention off Frank and me and onto it.
Frank and I gasped at the same time then took off like we were running with the bulls in Pamplona, waiting for them to spear us from behind. I didn’t want to die—not like this. I figured I’d meet someone that didn’t mind settling; we’d have 2.5 kids and fight over the unpaid bills every month. Amidst voices and a cyclone of profanity, I realized this might be the last thing I ever did.
We jumped over wood frames and drywall scraps, and dodged puddles swollen with an unapologetic rain. Stepping in one a foot deep, I lost my sneaker in a quicksand of mud. I felt as naked as the day I was born. Chuck Taylor had been with me since seventh grade. My first instinct was to dig him out then run even faster. Instead, my mind cursed, @#$%^&* as I made mental plans to come back for him at daybreak...that is, if I saw the light of day again.
16 TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT
HANDS. DOWN. BEST. Night. Ev-uh.
Except I lost Chuck. Moment of silence, people. He was first on the to-do list—well, actually second—because I needed to have a conversation with Jagger Cane. Like Liam insinuated (darn him for not being more direct), I was under the impression it was a gang meeting. Jinx delivered something, perhaps only information, but whatever it was, his status with Juan was on shaky ground.
They sure as heck embraced teamwork, though, when it came to Adam Neeley.
My soul clenched with the memory. When Frank and I peeled out of there, Adam was still lights-out, facedown in the mud. Surely, they took him home, right? Just to make sure, we made an anonymous call to Valley Police from a “burner” phone Frank snagged during a picking escapade. We told them we’d witnessed a vicious beating and wanted to make sure the victim was still breathing.
Short...to the point...and hopefully enough to get some manpower on the scene.
I picked up my iPhone, realizing calling Jagger was stepping into sin expecting your body to stay pure—but he identified Juan Salas as the man with answers. If I was going to play this game, I had to follow up on every tip. No matter how uncomfortable the circumstances or the ramifications that may come to pass.
“Babe,” he groaned in greeting. It’s a little early, was left unsaid. Ah, crap. I never even considered the time, and unless the world stopped spinning, it was 6:23AM on Tuesday morning.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“No apology necessary.” I lay there for a few seconds wondering what to do next. Dive right in? Make small talk? Apologize again and claim I misdialed? How about hang up, Darcy, and do what normal teenagers do on Spring Break? Oh, I don’t know, my conscience snorted, like maybe sleep in? No wonder I couldn’t get a date. I was crossing the normal boundaries that made you too much of a freak to join the dating pool.
Jagger broke the awkward silence. “Babe, this is where you’re supposed to tell me why you called.”
“Oh,” I said embarrassed. “I’ve got a question for you.”
Jagger laughed, the cameo of a rogue. “Well, I’ve got something for you, too, but it involves our lips getting better acquainted.”
I imagined myself hosing down with Clorox. Even though he couldn’t see me, I pulled the blankets all the way up to my chin. “L-llisten, I didn’t call to flirt,” I stuttered. “I just have—”
“A question,” he repeated groggily.
“Yeah, it’s about Oscar. You said Juan Salas had answers, but Juan isn’t exactly the friendly type. At least with me.”
I could almost hear Jagger’s pulse rise through the phone. “Did he hurt you?” he snarled.
My mouth paused wide open. Jagger never struck me as the gallant type. “No,” I quickly answered, feeling like I might’ve started something.
“Then tell me exactly what he did, what he said, and how he said it.”
I held my iPhone out from my face, squinting at the number. Yep, it was Jagger, so why did it feel like he was channeling Dylan’s voice and emotions?
I explained, “When I asked him if he knew anything, he got really testy.”
“Babe, you’re going to have to give me a little more than testy.”
I rolled my eyes. “I couldn’t find an appropriate opener, so I told him I knew they were good friends, then asked if he’d heard of Oscar’s predicament.”
“And how did he answer?”
“Not very friendly. He said he’d heard, that they weren’t friends, but Oscar was always in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad, Babe.”
“Well, when he called Oscar a kook, I might’ve blurted out, ‘it takes one to know one.’ ”
Jagger breathed in, breathed out then said to himself he didn’t know how Taylor did it. “Will you take my word for it he’s not someone you want mad?”
Who did he think I was? When you called someone at 6:23AM on the first day of Spring Break that technically didn’t make you someone that rolled over and played dead. I simply answered, “No.” Once again, a breath in and out. “Jagger?”
“I’m still here,” he muttered, sarcastically. “I’m just trying to figure out how to formulate a response that will cause the least repercussions.”
I duplicated his tone, throwing it right back at him. “I won’t tell anyone what you’ve told me, Jagger. I might be a lot of things but a blabbermouth isn’t one of them. So, if you’re worried about repercussions then don’t.”
Wow, I was actually impressed with that line of sarcasm.
“I’m not worried about me; I’m worried about what you’ll do with the information once I give it to you.”
I guess he should be, but that wasn’t really my concern right now. “I’m going to think on it,” I hoped was answer enough.
Jagger groaned like someone was pulling his wisdom teeth. Finally, he conceded to the pressure. “This is what I’ve got, babe. It’s not rumor or conjecture; it’s what I know to be fact. Juan Salas isn’t only a thug; his particular brain borders the sociopathic. I believe he and Jinx King and a few others—that the cocky in me thinks are so unimportant I don’t know their names—are involved…”
“In a gang?” I interrupted.
Jagger laughed loud. “I was going to say they’re robbing construction sites. Gang? That might be your overactive imagination Italianizing this whole thing.”
I stuck my tongue out at him. Made me feel better, and furthermore, it made me feel uncomfortably weird he was reminding me of Dylan. For years, I’d considered him Dylan’s arch nemesis; ergo he was hands-off in the relationship and friendship departments. If he actually had some redeeming qualities I was going to have to throw out my Evil Jagger Cane File and reconstruct a new one.
“And you know this how?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know,” he said evasively.
Actually, I did, but I let it slide. “What’s it got to do with Alfonso Juarez?”
“I have to admit I’ve given the thing some thought.”
Jagger thinking...wow.
“And here I thought you were just a p
retty face,” I stupidly said out loud.
Somebody help me, he moaned seductively. I fought a sigh. I didn’t want to lead him on, but before I could talk myself out of it, I said something dumb like, “Thanks.”
Jagger busted out laughing again. “If I had to answer, Darcy,” he chuckled, “my guess is Juarez was involved in some way, too.”
I couldn’t dispute the logic, but that meant I’d have to get close to AVO. Yeesh, even I wasn’t that stupid...I think.
“Do you think Juan might know what that involvement is?”
“Perhaps.”
“Well, at least we’ve got an arrangement where he’s going to call if he, quote-unquote, ‘remembers anything.’ ”
I heard dirty words I’d never heard before. I steeled my resolve, preparing myself for a thrashing like I’d never experienced. I wasn’t used to this Jagger. Heck, I wasn’t used to any sort of Jagger, and a part of me was worried I might like to keep him around. “Why don’t you define this arrangement, Darcy?” he demanded, “God help me, you’re on the speed train to self-destruction.”
He was channeling Dylan again. “It’s no big deal,” I told him. “He just said he’d call if he remembered anything. Have you ever noticed him do—”
“That hand signal?” he completed.
“Yeah, it’s five fingers then one, repeated twice.”
“I’ve noticed, but I don’t understand the meaning of the digit twelve.”
Huh, I never thought of it being the number twelve, but maybe Jagger was onto something. Jagger used words like devious, cutthroat, premeditated, and five-star manipulator liberally when describing Juan. He knew little about Jinx, however, but I had an early morning epiphany of someone who could fill in the blanks.
It was 6:52AM. By rough guestimate, I’d clocked less than six hours of sleep, but after a stiff cup of coffee, I convinced my neurons it didn’t matter. Remembering I videotaped last night, I can’t tell you how depressed I was when all I got on replay was blah, blah, blah words, Frank’s big fat head, and nothing but blur.