Chapter 9
I’m in my closet about to change my outfit for the third time when my mom walks into the room.
“Marco just pulled up, but he’s waiting in his car. Or someone’s car.”
“His mom or dad’s. Marco’s car is in the shop,” I say, hoping she doesn’t ask for details. I never told Lana about the wreck. She’d blame Marco’s driving skills, not the paint bomb or the black ice, and keep me from going anywhere with him unless we took RTD.
“Anyway, a gentleman always comes to the door.”
“Unless Lana Evans is on the other side. What do you think about this?” I ask, holding up a skirt and sweater.
“It’s too cold for a skirt, even with tights. And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think he’s afraid of you since he found out you carry a gun.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of unless he’s a criminal. Or treats my little girl wrong. I can’t be so bad if I’m letting you go out on a school night.”
“Only because we’ve missed going out the last two weekends since the playoffs started, but thank you.” I add a kiss on the cheek to make sure Lana knows I appreciate it. “Don’t think we’ll make a habit of it.”
“I know you won’t. Where are you guys going, anyway?”
Sounds innocent enough, if my mother was like most parents. But she isn’t. That was the opening line of the interrogation she’s about to launch. It’s true that I’ve given her plenty of reasons to suspect I might be up to some trouble, but not tonight. Lana knows Marco hates my sleuthing as much as she does.
“Just a movie and dinner. No big deal.”
“Which movie theater?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, walking back to the closet so she can’t see my face as I lie. “Marco didn’t say.”
“Well, don’t let him take you to the one downtown.”
Yep, I knew that was coming.
“They still haven’t caught that group of kids assaulting people on the Sixteenth Street Mall,” Lana continues. “It’s been months, cameras everywhere, witness accounts, and they can’t stop it. District six might need a little shake-up. I should ask my boss to send me over there on assignment. I bet I’ll catch those delinquents.”
“That would be awesome,” I say. What I don’t add is how awesome any assignment would be that would give her something to do besides working the desk, then coming home to take out on me all her pent-up need to police someone. “You think they’ll send you back to burglary?”
“I hope not. It just isn’t as fun.”
“Crime-solving isn’t supposed to be fun.”
“So why do you like it so much?”
Advantage: Lana. I don’t respond, just throw my chosen outfit on the bed.
“That’s a little skimpy for March, isn’t it?”
“You’d say the same thing in July.”
Still, I return to the closet for a pair of jeans. I don’t want to be wondering the whole night if I look like I’m trying too hard.
“That’s better. You can never go wrong with jeans and a sweater. Classic.”
“So . . . any updates on the sperm donor?”
“I really hate when you call him that, Chanti.”
“Well, I’m not calling him Dad. I don’t even call you Mom most of the time.”
“You would if I weren’t an undercover cop and it wasn’t the safest way to keep my perps from knowing I have a kid.”
“People called Dad contribute something more than DNA.”
Lana can’t argue with that, and lets it go.
“There’s nothing new, but I’m still digging into it.”
“Are you? I mean, it’s been a few months since you figured out there’s absolutely no record of him anywhere, which you said means something. You’ve solved way more difficult cases than this. I’ve solved more difficult cases than this.”
“You know I keep my promises, Chanti. I’ll find out where he is.”
I throw three sweaters on the bed, unable to decide on one, and plop down on top of them. For some reason, talking to Lana about the donor always makes me tired.
“I just don’t get why you can’t find anything on him. Are you even sure he went to prison? Maybe that’s why you can’t find his record.”
“Of course I’m sure. I told you—I saw him being arrested,” Lana says, sitting beside me. “But what I didn’t tell you was why.”
“You mean why you were there to see it? Because you already told me why he was arrested. You said it was for breaking and entering, something he should have been out of prison for a long time ago.”
“That wasn’t all of it. He did commit a B&E, but it wasn’t so much what he did but where he did it, and who he did it to.”
“What are you talking about, Mom? Why do you have to keep being so mysterious about it?”
“Those details made it a far more serious crime than a simple B&E, one that should have kept him in prison for years.” Lana stops talking, and I can tell she’s trying to decide whether to tell me more.
I’m impatient now that I’m this close. “And . . .?”
And that’s when the doorbell rings.
“I guess Marco’s not so afraid of me after all. I’ll get the door, and you hurry up. Don’t keep the boy waiting.”
My mother loves a good interrogation—as long as she’s asking the questions. Once I turned the tables, she couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
*
After the movie, I convince Marco the only way to top off this perfect night is with a hot fudge sundae. Not just because I can always eat a hot fudge sundae, but I deserve one for not mentioning Brent Carmody once, even though I came close to saying something about four different times. I didn’t point out how he didn’t take a single one of my suggestions and made the same mistakes in last night’s game, telegraphing his plays and not putting enough spin on his jump shots. Luckily, he turned it around at the last minute and the Knights won. But still, I spent a lot of time learning basketball that I could have spent cleaning the bathroom tile with a toothbrush, which would have been more exciting. And that whole cryptic conversation with Reginald? Haven’t mentioned it once. If you know anything about me, you know keeping my mouth shut when I’m sitting on a mystery with unanswered questions is hard. See? I really do deserve that sundae.
“There’s this old-time ice cream parlor that actually sells malted milkshakes. That’s what people are always drinking in those old movies you force me to watch. It’s a few blocks off the mall, but I can’t remember on which street.”
“Wouldn’t you rather just go back to my house? My mom will be at our neighbor’s place for a book club meeting and they never break up before eleven. My dad’s working a late shift. We can watch some TV. Or whatever . . .”
“Your dad got his job back? That’s so great.”
“I wish,” Marco says, sounding like there’s really nothing in the world he’d want more. “He just picked up some part-time work through a temp agency. But I think you missed my point.”
“No, I got it. Maybe we’ll take the shakes to go,” I say, grabbing his hand. We’re both wearing gloves, but I imagine the warmth of his hands, and suddenly want to find this place so we can get our shakes and get going. “We should take a right here. I think.”
“It’s in the single digits, Chanti—not the best time to be getting us lost.”
“I’m not lost. I’m just not completely sure where the parlor is. Let me check the address.”
Marco releases my hand and jams both of his into his coat pockets while I do a phone search.
“I can’t believe as cold as it is out here, and after my irresistible offer, you still want ice cream.”
“That’s an important detail you should know about me. I can eat ice cream in all weather conditions. Besides, we’ll be indoors when we eat it. If I can just remember what the place is called.”
“But you’ll be cold when we leave and have to walk all the way back to the car o
n the other end of the mall, and the heat in my mother’s car sucks,” Marco says, pulling me close to him, his arms around my waist. “Guess I’ll have to try to warm you up some other way.”
I’m about to reconsider the ice cream and tell him we can just go back to the car and start the warming up part when two guys appear out of nowhere. I don’t notice until now that we’re several blocks away from the mall, on a Wednesday night. This block is all office buildings from what I can tell, no apartment high-rises or restaurants to draw people after business hours, so it’s pretty deserted. I don’t think these guys got lost looking for an ice cream parlor. They’re both wearing sunglasses even though it’s way past dark. They have the hoods of their coats pulled up, obscuring most of their faces. It’s clear they aren’t about to ask us for directions, especially when one of them pulls a gun.
Marco steps in front of me. I don’t know what he plans to do next, but I don’t want him to think he has to “be a man” on my account and do something crazy.
“Just give them what they want,” I say, stepping from behind Marco and offering them my bag.
“Your girl is smart. Better listen to her if you don’t want to see her get hurt,” says the guy with the gun, before both men turn and run, disappearing down an alley.
I don’t know what spooked them into running before they even took my bag, but I don’t wait to find out. I start running back toward the crowds of people on Sixteenth Street and I’m halfway up the block before I realize Marco isn’t running with me. I turn back and see him still standing in the same spot I left him. I know people react differently to being a victim of crime, but unless you’re the obligatory helpless screamer-chick in every horror movie ever made, I figure everybody’s instinct is to run. Apparently not so for Marco.
“What are you doing? Let’s get out of here,” I say, out of breath from my roundtrip jog up the block, which is why I have a C in PE.
“They aren’t coming back.”
“Um . . . okay. Let’s say you’re right. I’d rather not hang around to find out.”
He hesitates for a second, like standing there is going to help anything other than possibly get us killed if he’s wrong and those guys do come back. He doesn’t move until I pull on his arm. Once he starts to follow me, I break into a run knowing he’ll have to follow. By the time we reach the mall, I am in serious need of oxygen. Or at least a paper bag. I make due by sitting on one of the park benches in the middle of Sixteenth Street and lean forward, my head almost between my knees. It really is sad how out of shape I am.
“I can’t believe we just got mugged,” I say, when I can finally talk.
“We didn’t get mugged. They didn’t take anything.”
“Well, maybe they had a passing moment of regret about being criminals, but when you have a gun held on you, it’s a mugging. We need to call the police.”
“No,” Marco says angrily, like I’m the one who just pulled a Smith & Wesson on him. “No cops.”
“I know you have a cop aversion because your cousin was here illegally, but David is in Mexico now, safe and sound with his parents. So why can’t we call the police?”
“Because . . . because they didn’t take anything. I mean, what’s the point? Between the hoods and the dark glasses, we didn’t see enough of their faces to get a decent description.”
“There were two male assailants, one probably Hispanic or light-skinned African-American, short—about my height—and bow-legged. The second was approximately six-three, maybe six-four, Caucasian, fair skin. He’s likely right-handed because that was his shooting hand. They jumped us under a street lamp, which wasn’t very smart as muggers go, but it was enough light for me to see he had a large port wine mark covering most of his right hand. He was probably the leader because he did all the talking, and he spoke with a pronounced sibilant S.”
“Of course. I was forgot who I was with.”
“I think the shorter guy had a—”
“Okay, I get it. You can give the cops a great description,” Marco says, his tone much softer now. “Chanti, please—I’m asking you this one time, don’t turn this into something.”
“But—” I start, thinking how this was hardly “one time,” more like the third time he’s asked me this in as many days, but he cuts me off.
“Even your mom. Don’t mention it to her, either.”
Marco and I have only been together a short time, but one thing I know for sure is he always does the right thing, and he wouldn’t just punk out for no good reason. For him not to want the cops involved, the only thing I can figure is that David is back, and worse, probably in some kind of trouble. I agree to Marco’s request, but the rest of the night was shot. I never got my ice cream, but it was still a very cold ride back to Denver Heights.
Chapter 10
When I got home from my date last night, Lana wanted to know how it went. I had a hard time hiding a secret as big as getting mugged. When I wasn’t stressing over that, I was worrying about what Reginald had said about Marco being more trouble than he was worth. I hate to admit it, but there is some truth in his warning. Marco is carrying around some seriously bad karma right now.
First, he’s getting into fights with Brent Carmody. Then we get mugged Saturday night. Marco says it wasn’t a mugging but clearly they stole his common sense. Every time I’ve been in some dangerous predicament, Marco was the first one telling me to let the cops handle it. Now he’s afraid to go to the police even when scary people stick a gun in his face. Before all of that, he spins out on black ice, wrecks his car, and nearly gets us killed. I know that one was out of his control, but it’s still part of a very bad streak.
But Reginald got it wrong when he said Marco wasn’t worth the trouble, which is why it’s my turn to make up a lie to get out of lunch with Annette. After Tuesday’s fight, I figure it wouldn’t hurt to do a quick background check on Brent Carmody.
I head for Mildred Dacey’s office/supply closet, but get intercepted on the way.
“Ms. Evans, may I have a word?”
I’ve been blissfully under Headmistress Smythe’s radar for a while, but I knew it had to end sometime. Usually I have a clue why she’s gunning for me, but I’ve been keeping a low profile. I wouldn’t put it past her to make something up just so she can give me a hard time. Unless she’s heard about Marco’s fight. She has come to like Marco. Me? Not so much. She thinks I’ll be his ruination—seriously, she told me that once—and if she’s heard about the fight, she’ll find a way to blame me for it.
“I want to tell you how much I appreciate you staying out of trouble these last few months. Your teachers give excellent reports on you. Perhaps you have potential, after all.”
I’m so stunned, I have nothing to say. Let me tell you, that happens about as often as Halley’s Comet.
“As you know, I had my reservations when you joined Langdon Prep.”
Now I have something to say: Reservations? Is that what you call it? You mean like the time you accused me of theft and kicked me out? Or was it when you tried to keep me out of Langdon in the first place but had to accept me because Lana has some secret dirt on you and called in a favor?
“Thank you for giving me a chance” is what I actually say because I’m on a mission and the last thing I need is the headmistress in my business.
“Certainly. I can admit when I’m wrong.”
She leaves without actually admitting she was wrong, but I guess that’s as good an apology as I’ll ever get from ol’ Smythe. At least until I figure out why Lana was able to extort my admission out of her, but that’s a case for another day.
I watch Smythe go into her office before I knock on the supply closet door.
“It’s open.”
I enter to find Reginald’s mom eating lunch at her desk.
“Hey, Mrs. Dacey.”
“I told you to call me Mildred.”
“It doesn’t seem right,” I protest. “Especially when I call everyone else around here Mr. and
Ms. something.
“That’s because your mama raised you right. But it’s my name and I get to decide. I decide you should call me Mildred.”
Mildred and her tell-it-like-it-is approach remind me of my grandmother. She even looks a little like her. Reginald and I are close in age but I’m pretty sure his mom is closer to my grandmother’s. Mildred has grown kids who’ve already had their five- or ten-year Langdon Prep reunions. Lana had me when she was still in high school.
“So what gossip you looking for today? You don’t ever visit me in here unless you looking for dirt on somebody.”
“That’s not the only time—”
“It’s all right because I like dishing it as much as you like hearing it, especially when it winds up with you getting rid of some of these spoiled little delinquents running around here or getting my Reginald back in. Oh, I’m so glad to see my boy walking these halls again, even if Smythe is making him graduate a semester late.”
“Well, Mrs—I mean, Mildred, since you’re offering . . . I was wondering what the story is on Brent Carmody, if he’s as dangerous as people make him out to be.”
I figure since Mildred is from the hood side of the tracks like me, she knows the difference between a gangster and a poser.
“That boy is a mystery,” Mildred says, pointing to the other chair. That means she has plenty to say. I take a seat.
“How so?”
“I always wondered how he can afford to drive the car he does, one of those foreign models, German or Swedish, something like that.”
This wasn’t such a mystery to me. There were plenty of luxury cars in the student parking lot.
“Because he’s rich like everyone else at Langdon?”
“Not that kid. He’s only here for the same reason my Reginald is.”
Guys, Lies & Alibis Page 5