Crooked Numbers

by Tim O'Mara

  “What else did he say?”

  “Ah, I don’t know. That he had ‘connections’ through his school. People who knew stuff. Who helped people like me get better.”

  “And you have no idea what he was talking about?”

  “Nope. Said he couldn’t tell me too much; I’d find out soon enough.” He turned to face me. His eyes were tearing up again. “That kid,” he said. “I think he really believed he could help me. I tell ya, Mr. Donne, that school and those people he was hanging with, they put some ideas in his head. That ain’t always a good thing.” He shook his head. He turned back to the TV set and got that lost look again.

  “You may be right.” I put my empty pint glass on the bar and looked at my watch. I had a couple of hours before I had to meet my sister, but it looked like this conversation was over. I put my hand out to Bill Lee. “Thanks for talking to me, Bill. I know you didn’t have to, and I appreciate it.”

  He took my hand. “And I ’preciate everything you did for Dougie. I might not’ve been around much, but I know you helped put him on the right track. Not like the one I found myself on, know what I mean?”

  “I’m not sure I agree with you,” I said. “I’m also old enough to have learned most people choose their own paths. Like you said: life doesn’t care about fair and unfair or who’s at fault. Most of us end up where we put ourselves.”

  He placed both hands on his knees. “So, you’re saying I’m the reason I’m here? At this bar, living from paycheck to paycheck?”

  “I just think we have more control than most of us think we do. Like when you were pitching.”

  “Yeah, well,” he said, taking a long look around the bar and giving me a pathetic smile. “I ain’t pitching no more, am I?”

  “No. You’re not.” I gently touched his shoulder. “Take care of yourself.”

  “I am and I will, Mr. Donne. You make sure and do the same.”

  With that, I turned, threw a good-bye salute to the bartender, and made my way to the front door of the bar that may or may not have once been called Ruth’s.

  Chapter 17

  “BIG BROTHER,” Rachel said as she slid into the empty stool next to mine and placed a sisterly kiss on my cheek.

  “Little sister.” I gave her a kiss on her forehead.

  “Thanks for your flexibility, Ray.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Rachel had some sort of office holiday thing, so we had moved our date up a day. As per our agreement, I had chosen the place tonight, so it was my check to pick up. The place I picked could not have been more different from the bar where I’d met with Mr. Lee. Beers here were three or four times the price, and all the TVs were high-def.

  “I’d much rather hang out with you than the bunch I work with and those other assholes,” Rachel said.

  “I believe those other ‘assholes’ are called ‘clients,’ and they pay your salary.”

  “I know. And once a year I have to be rudely reminded of that fact.” The bartender came over, and Rachel ordered herself a dirty martini and another beer for me. “What’s that you’re drinking?”

  I looked at the bartender and said, “Brooklyn Pilsner.”

  As the bartender walked away, Rachel patted me on the back. “Way to expand your horizons, Ray.”

  “Hey,” I said. “If I find a better beer, I’ll drink it.” I raised the almost-empty pint glass in front of me. “Until then…” I drained what was left.

  “So…” She slapped her hands on her thighs and rubbed them. “Are we eating here, too, or just drinks?”

  “We can eat here.” I reached over and pulled a bar menu out of its holder and handed it to her. “The wings are really good. The fried calamari is excellent. And they make an amazing sliced sirloin sandwich.”

  “One-stop shopping,” she said. “I like it. Besides, I’ll probably be pigging out tomorrow night. Good idea to take it easy tonight.”

  “Glad I could help you out.”

  The bartender came back with our drinks. I put in our food order, and Rachel and I touched glasses.

  “Here’s to the assholes,” she said. “Long may they continue to employ my services and write me big fat checks.”

  “Here’s to them,” I agreed.

  We sipped, and something registered on Rachel’s face.

  “Hey,” she said. “Mom got a lot of calls about you being in the paper. The poor kid. And his family.”

  “I’ve been keeping in contact with Dennis, and he’s got a lot more questions than answers at this point.”

  “He told me,” she said. “He called me last night.”

  That didn’t take long, I thought. “What’d you two talk about?”

  “You, mostly. A little me, a little him. How it ended between us, and how much we’ve both changed.” She looked for a reaction. I gave her none. “Change is good, Raymond.”

  “Most of the time.”

  “Anyway,” she said before taking a sip of her drink, “we’re getting together one of these nights. Dinner.”

  There were half a dozen responses to that. The one I chose was, “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Just dinner.”

  “It’s never ‘just dinner,’ Rachel.”

  “Well, that’s what it is, Ray. Two adults having dinner. Just like we’re doing right now.”

  She was right. I knew it, but still, the thought of her back with Dennis.…

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I hope you have a good time.”

  “Thank you. Now we can enjoy our dinner. When did you talk to Denny last?”

  “Yesterday,” I said, leaving out the part where he asked me if it was okay for him to call her. “I had some info about the case I thought he should have.”

  “Of course you did. Far be it from you to let the police do their job without a little help from Raymond Donne. Didn’t you learn your lesson the last time?”

  “The last time?” I spun my pint glass around a few times before picking it up and taking a long sip. I loved my sister, but she was starting to sound like Uncle Ray. I didn’t want to talk about last time. Hell, I didn’t want to talk much about this time. “He was my kid, Rache,” I said. “His mom asked me to give the cops a little push, so I set up the interview with Allison. It worked. She got Dennis to put in a little more effort, and we’ve made some progress.”

  “We?”

  “We. They. What does it matter? Some new developments came to light, which may help Dennis.”

  “New developments?” She did nothing to hide her sarcasm. “Ray. The last time you behaved like this, I had to leave town and you had to get Uncle Ray to help pull your ass out of the fire. Remember?”

  “This time is different, Rache.”

  “Different how?”

  I told her about what had happened with Paulie Sherman and Jack Quinn and how it seemed to me—and Allison—that they were more than just a coincidence. I told her how I just wanted to point Murcer in the right direction and then back off. I’m not sure she was buying it. But, being my sister, she chose to focus on something else.

  “Allison, huh?” she said. “Is there something going on I should know about?” I took too long to answer. “Oh, there is, isn’t there? You in with the lady reporter from the newspaper, Ray?”

  I waited for her to stop laughing before answering. When Rachel finally settled down to just a smirk, I said, “You’d like her. She’s a bit of a smart-ass, too.”

  “Are you seeing each other?”

  “We had … a date, I guess. But I haven’t seen her since Monday. She’s been busy with the story on Dougie and this basketball player thing.”

  She slapped my knee. “Well, okay. She’s got a life of her own.”

  “So?”

  “So don’t try to push things, Ray. She’s a woman and a reporter. She smells the tiniest bit of desperation coming off you, and that’ll be all she wrote.” The smirk got a touch bigger. “Pun intended.”

  “I am no
t desperate, Rachel.”

  Rachel took a quick sip of her martini. “I know I’m your little sister, Ray, but I know about these things. Women with jobs—especially jobs they like—don’t want to feel pressured.”

  “I’m not pressuring her.”

  “I’m not saying you are, but let’s be honest. It’s been a while for you.”

  “Thanks for the reminder. Anyway,” I said, trying to shift the conversation back, “she’s been real good at keeping this story in the paper, so Dennis has gotta be on his toes. He can’t just push it aside.”

  “And you’re more than willing to help put some pressure on him.”

  “Yeah, you know what? I am. And it’s got nothing to do with Dennis. Hell, I used to be part of the system. It’s sad, but it’s true: If it’s in the press, the top guys pay attention and the guys on the street hear it. Everybody works a little bit harder. Pressure from the brass runs downhill. Like shit when it rains.”

  “You sure it has nothing to do with my ex being the detective in charge?”

  “Positive.”

  “Well, then,” Rachel said. “It sounds like you’ve done your part. Now you can just back off and let everybody do their job, right?”

  “That’s all I want. Believe me.”

  I could tell she didn’t believe me.

  “What?” I said.

  “You like it, Ray. Admit it. At least to yourself. You like the excitement, the thrill.” She wiggled her fingers. “The mystery of it all.”

  “A kid of mine was murdered, Rachel. That’s what this is about. Not me.”

  She gave that some thought and took another sip. “I know, Ray, and I’m sorry about the boy. Really. But come on. There’s a part of you—”

  The bartender interrupted her thought by putting our food in front of us. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I smelled the barbecue sauce on the wings and the fried calamari.

  “Yes, Rachel,” I said. “There is a part of me that wants to know the truth.” I touched my cold pint glass with two fingers and a thumb. “I guess if I’m being real honest here, I need to know the truth. Maybe it’s a flaw in my character, I don’t know. I got involved because I wasn’t the only one who needed to know.”

  “The boy’s mother?”

  “Yeah. Dougie’s mom. She’s seen stuff like this her whole life. It probably never got this close, but she’s seen it. She knows how these things go. Why do the missing white girls get all the media attention? No black or Hispanic girls ever disappear? You watch the news, read the papers. Tell me I’m wrong.”

  She reached over and put her hand on my knee. “You’re not wrong, Ray. I guess I just wanted to hear you say it. It was obvious back when Frankie went missing. But it all happened so fast, I don’t think you had time to process it all.”

  “Now you sound like your shrink.”

  “Don’t start with that,” she said. “I know you haven’t told me the whole story about Frankie, and I don’t expect you ever will. But I’m sure you pushed the envelope as far as you could. Learn from that. And be careful. Remember, some of us actually love you.”

  I smiled. “Thanks. I love you, too.”

  “I know.” She picked up a fork and speared a piece of calamari. “Now, let’s eat, and you can tell me more about whatever her name is.”

  “Allison,” I said. “Allison Rogers.”

  “Right. Now start talking.”

  Chapter 18

  “I THOUGHT WE WAS GOING TO talk to the principal.”

  “Mr. Thomas waited as long as he could,” I said. “He had to go to a meeting at the district office. He asked me to speak with you and your son, since I’ll be Jerome’s dean.” I looked over at fifteen-year-old Jerome Dexter, in his sunglasses and black sweatshirt, standing next to his mother. One of them—maybe both—reeked of cigarettes. I gestured toward the conference table. “Have a seat. Please.”

  “Don’t know why I hadda come by anyways.” She pulled out a chair, eased her large frame into it, and let out a deep sigh. “Transfer’s a transfer, far as I’m concerned.”

  Jerome took the seat next to his mother, while I went over to the window and raised it as far as it would go. The room we were in had an overactive radiator. It was uncomfortably warm, and the smell of smoke was getting to me.

  “Jerome,” I said. “Why don’t you take off your sunglasses and hat?”

  He grinned at me, slouched, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Don’t feel like it.”

  I took the seat at the head of the table, rested my hands on the folder containing the file of Jerome Dexter, and leaned forward. “How about doing it just the same?”

  “Why?”

  I waited for a response from his mother. I probably could have gone on waiting for another day or two. She just sat there looking through me, then made a big deal out of glancing at her watch as if I were the one who had been an hour late.

  “Because,” I said, “you’re inside a school, it’s ninety degrees in here, and … a grown-up has asked you to.”

  Jerome sucked his teeth, reached up with both hands, and slipped his sunglasses off. His eyes were bloodshot. He was either on something or had forgotten to go to sleep the previous night.

  I opened the file and flipped through the pages. I already knew what I’d find, because I had spoken with my boss after he got off the phone with the district office that morning. Jerome Dexter wasn’t exactly sent to us because he was an academic superstar. They never are. How he’d ever made it as far as the eighth grade was amazing. He’d been suspended from another middle school for fighting. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be enough for a transfer, but Jerome had held up his end of the schoolyard scuffle with a box cutter. After missing a week and a half of school and admitting to what he had done, the district office exercised its option and shipped him to us. As if that was going to make any difference in his life.

  “Cut this other guy a little, huh?”

  Jerome Dexter stroked the little wisp of hair above his lip and smiled. “Punk tried to play me in fronta a whole buncha people. He won’t do that no more.”

  “This punk have a blade, too, or was that just you?”

  “Hey. You bring it on, you best be prepared to battle.”

  I flipped through a few more pages and then closed the file.

  “You like middle school, Jerome?”

  He squinted at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Bright guy like yourself. You must like the eighth grade. You should be in high school by now. But here you are, ready to repeat the eighth grade. Again.”

  “Jerome’s fifteen,” his mother chimed in. “Gotta go to high school next year.”

  “You’re thinking of the old rules, Mrs. Dexter. There are no more social promotions.”

  Jerome straightened up, and I heard a small click as his ankle brushed against his chair leg. It was then that I saw the gold and purple beads around his neck. Terrific. “The fuck’s a social promotion?” Jerome asked.

  I ignored the profanity. “That’s where they used to just move you on up to the next grade because of your age. Didn’t want kids shaving in middle school.” I placed my hands back on the folder. “Those days are over. I’m surprised you didn’t know about that. It was in all the papers.”

  The two of them considered that for a while before the mother spoke.

  “What’s he gotta do to get into high school then?”

  “Pass the state exams this spring,” I said. “Demonstrate he can read, write, and do math on something approaching the eighth-grade level.”

  Jerome let out a burst of air. “Fuck that,” he said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand.

  I looked over at his mother. “Are you going to speak to him about his language?”

  “Boy’s got a minda his own, Mr.…”

  “Donne.”

  “Mr. Donne. He don’t pay me no mind.”

  “And yet you expect us to teach him enough to get him into high school?”

&n
bsp; “That’s your job, right?”

  I looked at mother and son, and took a deep breath. “I’m going to explain how this will work. Jerome will have exemplary attendance from now until the end of the school year.”

  Mrs. Dexter looked at her boy and nodded. “Okay.”

  “He may or may not participate in graduation ceremonies, depending on his behavior.”

  She leaned forward. “But he will graduate?”

  “If he passes the exams. If not, he’s looking at summer school. At a minimum.”

  “I ain’t going to fuckin’ summer school,” Jerome said.

  Again, I waited for Mom to say something. When she didn’t, I said, “If your son does not control his language, I’m going to end this meeting and you can reschedule for some other time.”

  Mrs. Dexter reached over and gently smacked her son’s arm.

  “You hush up, Jerome.”

  “You don’t have much of a choice, Jerome. It’s either pass the exams, summer school, or you’re back in the eighth grade come September.”

  Jerome Dexter sat there next to his mother and shook his head from side to side. “Fu—uh-uh. No way.”

  “Jerome,” I said, “this is not a battle you can win with a box cutter.” I tapped the side of my head with my index finger. “Got to use your brain for this one. Try to play the system, and you’re going to lose.”

  He reached out, pushed himself away from the table, and got to his feet. He stood next to his mother, but his eyes were on me. He unzipped his sweatshirt, revealing the Saints jersey he had on underneath. The number on it was ten. Wrong number for Brooklyn.

  “You can’t make me do nothing.”

  There comes a time in many a disagreement when one of the parties involved gets a little too close to the edge. Jerome Dexter took very little time getting there. I stayed in my seat.

  “You sound like you’re ready to do battle again, Jerome.”

  “If I have to.”

  I looked up at the kid. All of fifteen years old, and the only way he could see out of this situation was violence. His mother just sat there, blank-faced and helpless. The thought of Jerome Dexter in this school made my stomach hurt.