Think Before You Speak

by D. A. Bale

  I hoped Reggie realized I wasn’t trying to be pushy or bitchy on purpose. If we didn’t go through this exercise, he just might find himself sitting in a courtroom for real.

  “You do realize this is a dangerous line of questioning.”

  “But it’s gotta be done,” I urged. “Name that gang.”

  “Will you promise to treat this as a path of last resort?” Reggie begged.

  “As all the cop shows say, a good investigator goes where the evidence leads. Gang name, please.”

  He returned my pointed stare before relenting. “The Switchblades.”

  I flipped through the notepad and wrote on a fresh page. “Do you remember the leader’s name?”

  “Yeah.” Reggie’s voice dulled. “Switch.”

  “Switch from the Switchblades?”

  “It was a local group. He kinda started it.”

  I had to work hard to stifle a chuckle. This was not a time to hurt Reggie’s feelings or belittle any concerns. “Did you ever know his real name?”

  He scrunched his forehead in concentration. Lips pursed before the light of remembrance widened his eyes. “Tomas. Tomas Ricardo.”

  “Two first names?” I questioned. “Seems a bit odd. Are you sure that’s his real name and not another cover?”

  “Oh, yes. I remember stories about him being teased as a little kid. That’s why he created the gang when he got older, to give himself a cool nickname.”

  I raised a brow.

  “Well, it was cool back then.”

  This time I didn’t bother trying to hide my laugh. “When would being called Switch ever be considered cool?”

  “Because that was his signature. He always took a switchblade to his enemies.”

  “You mean to warn them off?”

  “No.” Reggie’s tone sobered to a whisper, as if fearful of being overheard. “To kill them.”

  Oh, what new hell was this?

  Chapter Nine

  If there’s one thing my mom and I agree on – besides the spending power of her credit card – it’s that warm chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk cheer all woes. Scraped knees in pre-school? Chocolate chip cookies. Boy troubles in middle school? Chocolate chip cookies. Rescuing my apartment from a tornadic terror? Freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies saved the day once again.

  Besides the Oreo stash, I was pleased to discover several tubes of cookie dough in the freezer when reclaiming my space. Figuring out the new all-digital oven was the only thing standing in the way of chocolate satisfaction and a milk mustache.

  But I prevailed by dragging a full plate of not-too-scorched confections downstairs to apartment 102, the home of my would-be and wounded savior. The sanctuary of the only person I knew with the potential of gang ties. The pad of Jimmy-the-Super.

  Hey, I never promised Reggie anything.

  The building’s superintendent and I once had an avoid-at-all-costs relationship, meaning I paid my rent on time and hightailed it out of there during the bi-annual bug hose down. Gave him no reason to bother me in the interim, mainly because he kinda creeped me out with all the scars and tattoos. But after his attempt to save my sorry carcass from being thrown off the roof – and taking a bullet in the process – I realized Jimmy had a heroic streak. Therefore, he might also have a softer side I’d yet to see through the hulking three hundred pounds of bulk and muscle.

  Plus, I was pretty sure there were some past gang associations in his closet that might put me on the right path in my quest to help Reggie. But when Jimmy opened his apartment door with his arm in a sling, that creepy skull tattoo on his bicep winked in the varying light between the thresholds and brought my earlier assumptions to the forefront.

  I smiled – or at least tried to – and held up the cookie plate to the brawny man. “Welcome home?” I squeaked.

  Eloquent I wasn’t – at least not around Jimmy. There was something about the tattoos across his arms and the jagged scars across his face that had me swigging a shot of discomfort and a chaser of fear. Or perhaps my unease stemmed from the fact that the guy always seemed too interested and knowledgeable concerning my comings and goings.

  Still, he deserved thanks for coming to my aid that night, even though it didn’t turn out so well for him.

  Jimmy grunted like a good Texan. “Been home for a month, unlike you and that cat.”

  What’d I tell you? “Call this a thanks offering then, for saving my life.”

  That got me a hard stare. “I was little more than a distraction for all of two seconds.”

  He had a point. “Well then here’s to those few seconds of distraction that kept me from becoming a pavement pancake.”

  That got me another tattooed skull wink as he opened the door wider. “You wanna come in?”

  I gulped. Cross the threshold into the unknown? Enter the lion’s den? Those gang-related questions begged to be asked if I was going to be useful to Reggie. I stepped inside.

  The apartment was surprisingly clean for a man. I mean, for a currently one-armed man. It was a mirror image of what mine used to be – you know, that whole eighties theme. Furniture was older, but in good condition with newer slipcovers. The electronics were state-of-the art. A bank of small, dust-free monitors took up most of the space on the corner desk.

  So that’s how he knew so much about my comings and goings. I’d never before noticed cameras scanning the parking lot and each floor’s main hall, providing Jimmy with more than a bird’s-eye view of everything in and outside of the building.

  I unwrapped the plastic wrap from the cookies and set the plate on his coffee table, while Jimmy opened the fridge and grabbed a jug of milk.

  “Milk?” he asked.

  “Uh…sure,” I hesitated, wracking my brain to come up with more than small talk – and failed. “I like your place. It reminds me of what mine used to look like BB.”

  “BB?”

  “Before Bombing.”

  The chuckle sounded more like a bulldog’s growl. “Believe it or not, your remodel kinda lit a fire under the new landlord. Sounds like the whole place is gonna undergo a refresher.”

  Two words in those sentences caught my attention: new landlord and refresher. Both portended an increase in rent, something I could ill afford with all the time off I’d been forced to take while looking into Amy’s death and then recovering from injuries. Nearly two months later, I was still in catch-up mode with some of the bills – and no, I wasn’t about to ask for anymore assistance from my mom.

  “Sounds expensive,” I said.

  Jimmy shrugged and handed over a glass before snagging another and sitting on the sofa before the cookie offering. “It’s overdue, and so far there’s been no talk of rent increases.”

  “That’s good to hear.”

  “They’re gonna start on the couple of empty apartments first then others as tenants move out.”

  He popped a cookie in his mouth and then grimaced. Picking up another one, he flipped it over to study the slightly burned underside. Jimmy tossed me a smirk before shoving the cookie in his mouth then took a careful drink of milk to mask the flavor char. Oh well, a gourmand I will never be.

  I tentatively picked up a morsel and nibbled the crisp edge. “What about your apartment? Are they going to renovate it while you live here?”

  A little drool dribbled at the edge of his mouth, caught quickly with a napkin. “Nah. They’ll move me over to the empty one across the hall after renovatin’ it.”

  “Well that’s good. It’d suck to work here and not get to enjoy at least one of the perks.”

  I took a sip of milk. Nice and cold, perfect with a good chocolate chip cookie. Too bad mine strayed a bit from the good category. Okay fine, they strayed more than a bit.

  I nodded at his sling. “How long are you going to have to wear that thing?”

  “Until the doc clears me. The bone is pretty well healed by now.”

  I almost spewed milk. “Bone? What bone?”

  “Think I was we
arin’ this from a little gunshot wound?”

  “Well I…”

  “When that asshole shot me, the bullet bounced off my collarbone. Doc had to bolt the shattered ends together with titanium and what amounts to crazy glue.”

  “Ouch,” I cried. “No one told me that.”

  “Like I said, it’s pretty well healed, but the doc won’t release me for anythin’ other than light duty for a few more weeks. Might even order me to some punk-ass physical therapy.”

  With that attitude, I already felt sorry for whoever got assigned to that duty. I might be the one who owed the guy, but count me out for physical therapy chores. “Do you need some help around here until then? It’s not like I owe you my life or anything.” I smiled.

  “No thanks.”

  He returned the smile – a little lopsided – which brought me around to the real reason for my visit. Okay, okay, I had an ulterior motive with the cookie reception after all, and Jimmy’s civility lulled me into seeing him as almost human.

  “So what happened here?” I asked with a gesture toward the corner of my mouth. “Was it a gang fight or something?”

  The smile dissipated. “Where did you get the idea I was in a gang?”

  “Oh,” I stammered. “I-I just assumed with the tattoos and all…”

  “Tattoos are from a stint in the Army. The scars are courtesy of shrapnel from an IED in Iraq.” He dabbed at his mouth again. “The Bell’s palsy? I guess you could say that’s from God.”

  Warmth flooded my face – and trust me if you haven’t figured it out yet, I don’t blush easily. There were plenty of other things I’d done that had never caused me embarrassment. Much. But once again, that dreaded foot-in-mouth disease had reared its ugly – um – heel?

  “I just assumed. Sorry. I mean, how many people can say they have Bell ’s palsy anyway? I didn’t mean anything by the gang reference.” I’d descended into full-blown babble mode.

  “It’s why I couldn’t get a good bead on that guy who manhandled you without endangerin’ you too. If you can’t properly sight your weapon in a shootout, you’re a greater liability than an asset. It’s why I got an honorable discharge from the Army after multiple episodes.”

  That was the longest speech I’d ever heard the super make. Normally it was a couple of words. Better yet, a grunt. “Will it ever go away?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Looks like I’m one of the lucky four percent. At least it hasn’t permanently affected my taste buds though.” When he shoved two cookies in this time, I had my doubts about that last statement. Guess Jimmy had adjusted to the flavor of chocolate chip charcoal. “So why’re you askin’ about gangs?

  “Well, I’m looking for someone.”

  “Who?” he asked around the crumbs.

  “Some old gang leader in the area. Someone who goes by the name of Switch.”

  Jimmy gave me the once over as if determining whether I was a worthy opponent. Don’t think I made the cut.

  “Let me tell you somethin’,” he said, setting the glass of milk down a little too hard. “The last thing a girl like you should be doin’ is tryin’ to get in touch with that man. Believe me…he’s already a little touched. Touched in the head.”

  The last point he emphasized with a finger to the temple like a gun. I really could’ve gone without the reminder of my rooftop dalliance with Bud. And hey, I was a bonafide woman, not just some girl. That kinda twisted my catnip all sorts of wrong – and for a second, I forgot who I was talking to. That lulled with civility thing came right around and bit me in the butt.

  “I need to find out some information…”

  “Then find it another way,” Jimmy bellowed, standing straight up off the couch and marching toward the door without consideration for his healing collarbone, my ears, or those of the other tenants in the building. “Don’t even consider that direction. If somethin’ happened to you, your…” Jimmy stopped and his lips thinned into a hard line.

  “My what?” I asked intrigued, lurching to my feet and following him toward the door.

  “Just take my advice. Avoid gettin’ involved in some gang turf war. You might find yourself at the wrong end of a switchblade...or worse,” he said, slamming the apartment door in my face with a rattle to wake the neighbors.

  Hmm. Was that as a threat? The closed door was centimeters from my nose, the rough grain in need of a good sanding and a fresh coat of shellac. Maybe I could sic Reggie and his crew on the super to bid on this remodel project, though it was doubtful the landlord would be willing to pay the designer’s fees. Still, it’d be fun just to witness Jimmy’s discomfort while Reggie played the role to the hilt – a last hurrah for my friend before retirement claimed him.

  It’d serve the super right for his belligerence. So much for trying to be nice to the guy. I brushed the newfound camaraderie with Jimmy aside and started up the stairwell. It took all of trudging up one floor before it hit me.

  If Jimmy had no gang ties, how did he know Switch?

  ***

  This week’s semi-final round of the alcohol X-games kept the bar hopping all night long. With me slinging out drinks in such rapid succession, I had no time for even a sip to wet my whistler – or to stew on the conversation with Jimmy.

  While keeping beer and the shot-of-the-night prepped and ready for Grady to hand out to game participants, I also had to serve those sitting at the bar. With Rochelle taking on the extra server duty the games required, we were in danger of draining every keg and bottle within a five-mile radius.

  Not to mention keeping residents within that same perimeter awake. The decibels increased throughout each heat until the roof threatened to tear right off like a direct hit from an EF-2 tornado. When one of the final two contestants drunkenly stumbled out of his lane to fall headlong into a thirty-two triple D, I suspect we may’ve even registered somewhere on the Richter scale.

  By closing time, I was ready to make an appointment to see an otolaryngologist. See, there’s a reason why they go by the more simple term of ear, nose, and throat doctor. At this rate, I’d need hearing aids well before my thirtieth birthday.

  Since Rochelle was now familiar with the rigors associated with tending bar, I welcomed her assistance with clean-up and had her heading home within the closing hour. A final alcohol tally, and I carted the till to the boss.

  Grady didn’t even glance away from the bank of security monitors until I chucked the cash drawer on his desk with a clatter.

  “Did good tonight,” I said. “But we’ve got an emergency on our hands.”

  “Late for a date with the pretty boy?” Grady asked.

  “No.”

  “Out of clean panties?”

  “Grady!”

  “Then what kind of emergency?” he asked, rewinding a post-closing view of patrons congregating in the parking lot.

  I handed over the bottle count tally. “The tap is just about tapped out and spitting foam. If we don’t get a few more friends like Jack Daniels and Jim Beam in here pronto, there’ll be a lot of crying going on tomorrow night.”

  “Can I assume the cryin’ will be led by yours truly?”

  “Are you kidding? I didn’t have time to drink tonight.”

  That got me a full-fledged stare as Grady stopped what he was doing and turned the chair toward me with a squeak. I wanted to smack the mustache tilt right off his face – and I didn’t mean with my mouth either, folks. I think. Maybe.

  “Sit down, Vic.”

  Have you ever had a boss tell you to take a seat? From what I’ve heard, it rarely portended anything good. It put you on the defensive quicker than a possession change thirty seconds before halftime.

  “Don’t you dare fire me, Grady,” came spurting from my diseased mouth before I could think straight. “I’ll…I’ll…sic my mother on you.”

  That sent the boss into a rumbling belly laugh. “Why on earth would I fire ya?”

  “Well, for one because you’re afraid I’ll spill the beans on your other
job.”

  That shut him up right quick – for a second or two. “If you can avoid sharin’ my secret when you’re drunk, ya sure as hell can hold onto it when you’re sober.”

  “Unless I wanted to blackmail you,” I quipped, thinking again of Reggie’s need for secrecy with his past.

  Grady shook his head. “Ya ain’t the type.”

  Unless it pertained to the sperm donor, but I wasn’t about to open that bottle and pass it around the barrel. Besides, I kept those pictures safely tucked away less for a blackmail opportunity and more for insurance purposes.

  “So then why’ve you been acting all weird around me these last few weeks?” I ventured.

  The squeaky chair released a full-on screech like an opening door in a horror movie when Grady slowly leaned back. “I’m not the one who’s been actin’ weird, Vic.”

  “Then what do you call all the tiptoeing around you’ve been doing lately? Avoiding flirting all the time or coming behind the bar with me? You’ve been staying cooped up in here so much too, and it’s not just me who’s noticed.”

  “Again, I’m not the one who’s been tiptoein’ or avoidin’,” Grady declared. “And what I’ve been cooped up in here doing so much has to do with that other job, which is why I asked you to sit so I could pick your brain and get some insight.”

  The rebuttal ready to spew from my lips dissipated like the crowd after a missed last-minute two-point conversion. Suppose he wasn’t totally wrong. After all, I’d had the boss pegged as the culprit until our former co-worker revealed his hand.

  Don’t you dare tell him.

  “You’re on a case involving the bar?” I asked.

  “I’m always on a case. This one may or may not involve this guy.”

  Grady had stopped the surveillance frame on a grainy image of a couple of guys talking in the parking lot. I leaned in closer to get a better look at the group.

  “Do ya recognize anyone?” Grady asked.

  “I’m not sure, but that one there looks like…is it?” I focused on the thinning top of the head and the stiff bearing lodged in a suit. “I think it might be Banker Boy.”