by B K Stevens
“So, you might take classes,” Mr. Kelly said. “You kids live in Richmond?”
“In the area,” Graciana said. Pretty quick, I thought, and not quite a lie, not if you consider about a third of Virginia an “area.”
“I see,” he said. “Why’d you decide to start now?”
Graciana must’ve sensed the hostility in his voice, but she didn’t back down. “Today seemed like a good time.”
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the tournament in Ridgecrest, would it? With the stories on the news?”
Graciana sighed. “Why do you ask?”
“Because ever since yesterday afternoon, my phone’s rung every five minutes—cops, reporters, parents, total strangers. And you’re the third group that’s dropped by today, saying you wanna observe a class, when obviously you’ve really come to gawk at the Killer Dojo, hoping Bobby Davis will stroll in and give you a thrill.”
“You’re partly right, Mr. Kelly,” I said, “but partly wrong. We’re from Ridgecrest. The man who got killed, Randy Colson, was our martial arts teacher. He meant a lot to us, and we’re trying to understand what happened. We thought learning more about Davis might help. That might not make sense, but it’s how we feel.”
His face softened. “No, it doesn’t make sense, but I understand. Well, I’ll tell you what I told everyone else. I’ve never met Bobby Davis. I never heard his name until yesterday. He’s never been a student here. I checked my records. Never.”
“Why would he say he’s from your school?” Berk asked.
“Everyone in your tournament had to be from a martial arts school in Virginia, right? That’s what the cops said. Probably, Davis wanted to compete but wasn’t taking classes, so he picked my place out of the phone book. Did you ask for proof people went to the schools on their registration forms?”
“No,” Graciana said. “We never thought people might lie about their schools.”
“People lie about everything.” He smiled grimly. “You seem like nice kids. Forget this guy. From what I hear, he got mad because your coach was winning, and he lost control. People with nasty tempers got no place in martial arts—I tell my students that, all the time. Don’t mess with him. You wanna do something for your coach, have a bake sale, raise money for his favorite charity.”
“Good suggestion.” Graciana shook his hand. “Thanks, Mr. Kelly.”
We went outside and stood around, not knowing what to do.
“Now what?” Berk asked. “We go home and bake cookies?”
“A bake sale’s actually not a bad idea,” Graciana said. “But I want to find out more about Davis, too.”
The skinny guy who’d been listening in on us came outside. “Hey,” he said. “This Bobby Davis at the tournament—sorta short? Orange hair, snake tattoo?”
“Right.” I turned to face him. “You know him? Mr. Kelly said he doesn’t take classes here.”
The guy grinned. “The Bobby Davis I know wouldn’t take classes anywhere. I just wondered if it’s the same guy. Guess so.”
“Do you know where he lives,” Graciana asked, “or where he works?”
“Where he lives? No. Where he works—lots of places. I see him around sometimes.”
“Where?” Berk asked.
His grin got bigger. “No place you kids should go. Your coach—black belt, right? What degree?”
“First.” My stomach tightened. “Does Davis have a higher degree belt?” If he did, he must’ve lied on his registration form. The judges made sure fighters were evenly matched.
“I don’t know what degree belt Bobby has. I don’t think belts go that high. Did anybody tape the fight? Can I get a copy?”
This guy was seriously sick. “I taped it on my phone,” Berk said. “If you tell us how to find Davis, you can watch.”
“A cell-phone video?” His lower lip curled up. “Can you really see anything?”
“Yeah,” Berk said. “Where can we find Davis?”
“Video first.” He held out his hand.
Berk gave him the phone, and the guy watched the video, complaining about how blurry it was. He watched it twice, though. “Not worth copying,” he said, handing the phone back. “You can barely see the best parts.”
The best parts. “So tell us how to find Davis,” I said.
“He hangs out at this bar downtown. The Range, on Erewhon. But you shouldn’t go there.” He started to walk away, then turned back. “If you find someone with a better video, let me know. There might be money in it for you. If I’m not around, tell Kelly you wanna see Craig. He’ll know how to find me.”
“My God,” Graciana said when he’d gone inside. “Why would anyone want to watch someone get killed?”
“I hated to give him my phone,” Berk said, “to let him get a thrill that way. But now we know where to get started. Not that it does us much good. We can’t go in a bar.”
“We can park across the street,” I said. “We might spot Davis coming out, and then we can follow him. We drove all this way. I don’t feel like giving up yet.”
“Neither do I,” Graciana said, and got in the car.
We weren’t surprised when The Range turned out to be a crummy-looking bar in a crummy part of town. Graciana parked down the street, and we settled in to watch. She’d stowed a cooler in the backseat, with Cokes and chicken sandwiches, so we had those while we talked about what Craig said, about whether he’d been telling the truth or making stuff up to scare us.
A girl who didn’t look much older than us strolled down the street, swinging this small, glittery purse, stopping outside the door to The Range and leaning her back against the wall. She lit a cigarette and stood watching cars drive down the street. Maybe she was waiting for someone, or maybe she was killing time. She was real thin and sort of pretty, with long, straight blonde hair, wearing a short black silk dress and a shiny blue jacket.
“You should talk to her, Matt,” Graciana said. “Ask her if she knows Bobby Davis. If she does, ask her to go inside, see if he’s there, and come back and tell you.”
I hope I didn’t actually jolt back in my seat. “Why would she even talk to me?”
“Because you’re a good-looking guy,” Graciana said, “and she looks lonely. Flirt with her.”
“It won’t work,” I said. “She’s gotta be five, ten years older than me. And I’m not much for flirting.”
“I’ve noticed.” Graciana smiled. “Give it a try, okay?”
“I’ll talk to her,” Berk offered.
Graciana hesitated. “No, let Matt try. He’s taller, and he looks older.”
She thinks I’m better looking than Berk, I thought, and felt myself start to blush. All of a sudden, getting out of the car seemed like a good idea. “Okay. I’ll try.”
As I opened the car door, Graciana lowered her voice. “Say you’re a friend of Bobby Davis. Say you owe him money and want to pay him back. Don’t use your real name.”
I walked toward the bar, feeling like an idiot. I stopped five feet short of the girl and shoved my hands in my pockets. “Hi,” I said.
She turned to face me and broke into a big smile. Close up, she looked older, not as pretty. “Hi,” she said. “I haven’t seen you here before. What’s your name, honey?”
“David Foley,” I said, and instantly wished I could call it back. Why had I used my father’s name? But I was nervous, and it came out before I could stop it. I’d spoken three words to this girl, and already I’d messed up. “What’s your name?”
She moved closer. “Valerie. I hope you think that’s a pretty name.”
“Sure.” I wished I was back in the car. “I’m trying to find a friend of mine. Bobby Davis. I heard he hangs out here. Do you know him?”
She backed off a step. “Yeah, I know Bobby. I’m surprised you know Bobby. You don’t look like one of his friends.�
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“I owe him money,” I said. “I need to pay him back.”
“Oh.” Her face relaxed. “That kind of friend of Bobby’s. Bobby has lots of friends like that. Yeah, he hangs out here. Why don’t we go in, have a drink, see if he’s around?”
“I can’t. I’m nineteen.” Actually, I’d turned seventeen last month. “Could you step inside and let me know if he’s here? If he is, I’ll wait and pay him back when he leaves.”
She frowned. “That might take hours. I’ll tell you what. Give me the money, and if Bobby’s inside, I’ll give it to him, say it’s from David Foley, and come right back out.”
Damn. She’d remembered the name. And I only had about five bucks on me, and if I did have money and gave it to her, it was a good bet she’d slip out a back door, and I’d never see her or the money again. “I’d better pay him in person. Would you see if he’s here?”
She shrugged and went inside.
That’s when I realized what a bad plan this was. What if Davis came out, expecting money, and saw me? Even if Berk and Graciana tried to help, it wouldn’t do much good against a guy who’s apparently an nth-degree black belt. Should I make a run for the car?
Before I could decide, Valerie stepped back out, alone. Thank God. “He’s not here.” She walked up close, stopping just short of pressing against me. “I bet we can find something else to do with your money. Wanna come to my place? I’ll give you a drink. It’s okay you’re nineteen. I don’t card.”
Now she did press against me, hooking her right hand around my neck, resting her left hand on my hip. I could smell perfume in her hair, feel her body beneath the flimsy silk. Too much. Way, way too much. “I don’t drink. Anyway, I’d better get home. My mother—”
“Your mother’s fine,” she said, her grip on my neck tightening, her breath warm on my face. “I know you’re young. I don’t mind. I like young boys. Come home with me, David.”
That did it. Hearing my father’s name totally freaked me out. Out of nowhere, the choke-hold release Coach taught us came to me. I lifted both fists in the air and brought them down hard against the insides of her elbows, sweeping her arms aside. She jerked her head back, eyes wide. I stepped back. “Thanks, Valerie. You’ve been a big help. I gotta go.”
I ran like hell for the car. Berk and Graciana were almost spitting with laughter. “Drive,” I said. “Get me out of here.”
Graciana drove, still laughing. In one minute, I started laughing, too.
“You used a choke-hold release on a girl trying to kiss you,” Berk said. “I don’t believe it.”
“She’s a hooker,” I said. “Graciana knew she’s a hooker. Didn’t you?”
“I didn’t. I swear. I just thought she looked lonely. When she got so friendly so fast, though—yeah, I started to wonder.”
It took us fifteen minutes to calm down enough to really talk. The trip to Richmond hadn’t been a total waste. I told them what Valerie said, and we decided Davis might be a drug dealer or a collector for a loan shark. Sort of cautiously, Graciana suggested Coach might’ve owed Davis money, and maybe that’s why Davis killed him.
Berk and I shot that idea down fast. No way would Coach have gotten mixed up with drugs or loan sharks. Besides, if Davis had been squeezing him for money, Coach would’ve recognized him at the tournament, and he obviously hadn’t. And if Davis wanted money from Coach, killing him wasn’t exactly the best way to get it. Graciana backed off, saying she hadn’t really thought that could be the explanation, either.
“One thing’s for sure,” I said. “From now on, we don’t do anything without thinking it through. If Davis had come out and seen me, it could’ve been bad. We’ve gotta be more careful.”
“I agree.” Graciana took the exit leading back to Ridgecrest. “And I already know what we should do next.”
Five
Coach had told us stories about Mrs. Dolby. He’d rented a three-room apartment at the back of her house, and they’d gotten friendly. Most days, he’d said, he didn’t have to cook, because she’d ambush him before he got to his door and force meatloaf or tuna casserole on him. When we got back from Richmond, we bought some daisies and rang her bell.
She’s sort of heavy, with short, sparse reddish-brown hair. The loose purple-and-yellow thing she wore looked like a cross between a dress and a bathrobe, with big yellow buttons down the front.
“Mrs. Dolby?” Graciana said. “I’m Graciana Cortez, and these are my friends, Matthew Foley and Berkeley Widrig. We belong to the martial arts club at Ridgecrest High. We know you were special to Coach Colson, and we’re sure he was special to you. So we got you these flowers.”
“Goodness!” Tears pooled in Mrs. Dolby’s eyes. “Isn’t that the nicest thing! Come in, come in. I’ll get you some cookies.”
I’d figured there’d be cookies. Mrs. Dolby’s living room is cluttered but friendly, with sagging red-flowered couches, different shapes and sizes of end tables, and lots of little statues—glass dolphins, brass owls, ceramic squirrels. She lowered herself into an armchair and sighed.
“Randy was special to me,” she said. “It felt like having one of my sons home again. Old ladies need someone to fuss over, you know. When I got the call yesterday—goodness!”
“We’re broken up about it, too,” Graciana said. “And we want to do something. We thought we’d have a bake sale and donate the money to his favorite charity.”
“Goodness!” Mrs. Dolby looked ready to cry again. “I’ll definitely bake something for your sale. Lots of things.”
“That’s great,” I said. “The problem is, we don’t know what his favorite charity was. Do you?”
Her forehead scrunched up. “He never mentioned one. But he loved Ridgecrest High. He talked about it all the time, and he loved hearing me tell stories about the school’s early days. I had lots to tell, since all my children went there—my oldest graduated two years after the school opened, and my youngest graduated the year Dr. Lombardo became principal. Maybe you could donate the money to Ridgecrest High, and start a scholarship in Randy’s memory.”
“Good idea,” I said, disappointed. We hadn’t learned much about Davis, so we’d decided to try learning more about Coach by asking Mrs. Dolby about his favorite charity. We’d do the bake sale, too—we wouldn’t lie about something like that—but mainly we wanted to learn about his interests, stuff like that. Hearing he’d loved Ridgecrest High wasn’t exactly news.
“Perfect,” Graciana said, and paused. I could practically feel her thinking, searching for ways to get more information. “Also, I’m the editor of the school newspaper, and I’d like to put out a memorial issue in honor of Coach Colson. We’d interview people he knew well and talk about what made him special. Could we start by interviewing you? Then maybe you could point us to other people he was close to.”
“A memorial issue! How lovely!” Mrs. Dolby smiled at us. “Are you boys on the newspaper staff, too?”
“Not usually,” Graciana said, jumping in so we wouldn’t have to make something up. “But Coach Colson was their social studies teacher, and they’re on the basketball team, so they knew him well. And Berk’s interested in film and photography, and Matt won a prize for this amazing essay he wrote last year. So they’ve both got skills we can use. Right, Matt?”
I nodded but felt too stunned to speak. I couldn’t believe Graciana had come up with such a great idea off the top of her head. I couldn’t believe she’d managed to weave in practically everything she knew about Berk and me and not tell any flat-out lies. Mostly, I couldn’t believe she’d remembered that dumb essay.
I hadn’t wanted to enter the contest. Some college sponsored it, asking for essays about citizenship, and my English teacher made us all write on the topic. For some reason, she submitted mine. When I won, my parents went nuts, sending copies to everyone we’ve ever met in our lives, and the guys on the basketball
team called me Shakespeare until I threatened to flatten them. The savings bond I got as a prize was good, but otherwise the whole experience was pretty much a nightmare. Now this. I wouldn’t have guessed Graciana had even read the essay, and for her to remember it a year later—that didn’t make sense.
Mrs. Dolby wiped her eyes. “You’re simply the nicest young people. I’ll be happy to talk to you about Randy. Let’s see. Where should I start?”
She started with the day Coach called to ask about the apartment, and she went on for over an hour. Graciana whipped out a notebook—I bet she always carries one in her purse—and asked lots of questions. Berk and I mostly listened, nodded, and ate cookies.
“Randy did lots of favors for me,” Mrs. Dolby was saying. “If a window got stuck, for example, or I needed to change a light bulb I couldn’t reach. And whenever I ran errands, I always asked if I could pick anything up for him.” She sighed. “Just yesterday morning, I told him I was going to the public library, and he asked me to check a book out for him.”
She pointed to the coffee table. Graciana picked up the black-and-red book and raised her eyebrows. “The Bell Jar? Coach Colson asked you to get him The Bell Jar?”
“Yes, he was quite a reader. Not novels so much—that is a novel, isn’t it?—but he’d gotten very interested in Virginia history since moving here, especially Ridgecrest history. He’d bicycle all around the area, taking notes and pictures.”
“Was he writing an article?” Graciana asked.
Mrs. Dolby nodded. “He wrote a draft of one for the local paper and showed it to Heather Quinn. That’s right—you asked for suggestions about other people you should talk to. You should definitely talk to Heather—but I should call her Ms. Quinn.”
“That’s okay,” I said. Ms. Quinn’s the head of the social studies department, and she’s married to our guidance counselor. “She was close with Coach Colson?”
“Oh, yes. During Randy’s first year, she was his mentor, since she’s been at the school so long, and they became good friends—lots of times, he mentioned having lunch with her.” Mrs. Dolby’s face crinkled around a soft, wistful smile. “Randy had other friends at Ridgecrest High, too, like that pretty young Asian teacher, Katie Somebody.”