by Alan Lee
Kix loved Roxanne’s. She stayed at home with her daughter Lucy, who was the same age as Kix. Roxanne’s husband taught at Roanoke College.
On my return trip, sans stroller, an impressive unmarked squad car slowed beside me and kept pace. Dodge Charger, eighteen-inch performance tires, 340 horsepower. I did the math in my head and decided I couldn’t outrun it. Maybe with fresh legs. I decelerated to a walk.
The driver’s window buzzed down. Sheriff Stackhouse. “Give you a ride?”
“I’m disgusting.”
“Just the way I like it. Hop in.”
I did. She cranked the air. A manila envelope rested on the passenger seat with my name on it. Inside were papers and photographs of teenage girls lying dead on asphalt. I shuffled through, trying not to flinch. Five years of carnage in homicide hadn’t completely inured me. “Local? Recent?”
“Three in the last twelve months. All Roanoke City. Know what they are?”
“Rites of passage. Especially violent.” I glanced down the medical examiner’s report. Raped, beaten, shot. Gang markings on the ankles.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think you need to crank the air-conditioning.”
She hit a button on the dash and a greater volume of cold air rushed forth.
“I think your gang problem is getting worse,” I said. “None of these girls are white. They make the news?”
“One of them. Barely. Two of them are undocumented illegals, so… You know.” She shrugged, an angry motion. There was a note of steel in her voice I hadn’t registered yesterday. “If they were white, it’d be a national story. How messed up is our planet.”
“Rites of passage aren’t usually this brutal. Not even in Los Angeles. You think it’s the presence of this new General causing escalation?”
“Exactly. And I figured you out.”
“Yikes.”
“I asked you to be a narc. A professional squealer. And insulted you, in so doing. I apologize.”
“Think nothing of it,” I said.
“There are worse things than working undercover, though.”
“Teachers do not work undercover. Which are you asking me to do?”
“I’m getting desperate, Mackenzie. Let me take another shot at you.”
“Sure.”
“I want you for ten months. After that, I’ll quit molesting you. You never have to meet with me or Sergeant Sanders, unless you so desire. I’m after additional eyes and ears, not more meetings. We know the gangs have infrastructure within the school, but we don’t know how they communicate. Despite all security measures, the schools are infested with drugs. Raids turn up stashes but few culprits. The gangs recruit soldiers within the halls, arrange hits, rumble between classes, you name it. We’re making no progress, and those gang initiation murders scare the hell out of me. If I could get some intel on the structure and hierarchy…”
“The General could be identified.”
“I’m worried about escalation, so I’m throwing myself at you. Find this guy. Whatever you want. You run the show, you set the terms.”
“I enjoy Krispy Kreme doughnuts.”
She smiled. “I will hand deliver them weekly.”
“You show up even once at the school, I’m out.”
“Understood. I was being funny. Like you.”
“I have prior obligations, so I’ll need additional days off.”
“I can arrange that with school administration.”
“No meetings. No hassles. I know your number. No reason to bother me.”
“None.” She was nodding.
“When does school start?”
“One week.”
“Okay. You’ve got me for ten months.”
Chapter Three
A few months ago I overheard a couple guys at the gym talking about a local mixed martial arts club. They met twice a week after-hours in a local karate academy for sparring. No full-time professionals, but these were legitimate fighters coming from surrounding areas to train for events like Spartyka and Titans of the Cage. Many of them ranked top five in the state in various weight classes. So I joined and trained, twice a week.
Tonight was my first fight since California, over two years. Nate Silva was ranked second in Roanoke for heavyweight and fourth in Virginia, and I was going to be a snack between ranked matches. The dojo was crowded and I knew no one, but before the match a couple guys kneaded my shoulders and tightened my black sparring helmet.
“You fought before?” he shouted above the din.
“Not recently.”
“You a big dude. So get him to the ground. He’s nasty, amigo. Tough and strong.”
Silva was across the mat. Shorter but thick with muscle. Snarled face, calloused from previous fights. Shaved head, eyes lidded like a snake’s. I’d seen him practicing other nights; mean, vicious kicks, threw a hard left.
I pulled the thinly padded fight gloves tight. Three five-minute rounds. To win, score the most points or manage a submission move. The dojo maintained a standing gentlemen’s agreement to not maim one’s opponent. We met in the middle. Sweat trickled down his head. I tasted the familiar coppery adrenaline. The ref issued standard rules and we touched gloves. Back to our corners and the bell rang.
He led a feinting straight kick, but I didn’t bite. It surprised him and jolted his rhythm. He was proud and expected a fifteen-second knockout. I shifted back, let his right hook pass, and I hit him with a short hard left. Should’ve dropped him but he moved like lightning. Instead of removing his nose, I caught him in the check. Bells rang in his eyes. Disoriented. Pop pop to his vulnerable nose. His eyes watered, and he shifted to protection. I chased for four minutes, peppering his defenses, but his superior footwork and quickness saved him.
Bell rang. I got water, firmly ahead in points. He sat down to recover. Murmurs of approval rippled among the onlookers.
Next round, and he came out aggressive. A fury of fist attacks. I could see why he was ranked fourth in the state. His hands landed hard and my arms and shoulders bruised. After a minute he saw an opening, stuck a foot behind my leg and forced us both to the mat. He landed on top and I lost my air. His mat work dwarfed mine and I spent three minutes avoiding submission. He snarled and spit and punched and kicked and wouldn’t let me up, but I was concrete, and he couldn’t break.
The bell rang and my helmet was torn off. Round over. I relaxed. But Silva raised up and drove the heel of his hand into my unprotected temple. Pow.
Stars, roaring black.
Outraged fighters bounded into the ring and hurled him back. He kicked and bit like a madman. I sat up, woozy. Lungs burning. Men I didn’t know told me to follow their finger, brought water.
The refs announced, “Silva’s disqualified. Judges are unanimous.”
Silva swore and paced on the far side of the ring. I rolled my head and shook my limbs. No concussion.
I owed him. Wanted to bust his ass. I told the ref, “Let’s finish it.”
“You’ve won, big guy. No need.”
I tugged my helmet back on and took water. “Had worse. Ready to go.”
The ref walked away. Silva smirked from his corner. The crowd was conflicted. I thought to reassure them with a pithy comment but talking hurt.
The bell rang and he came on. As in the previous two rounds, he attacked. I assumed defense. Playing possum. As he closed I struck a jab that startled him, then hit a right-left combo. Dodged a weak counter, and lunged. Shoulder in his chest. My hands circled under his thighs and lifted. Textbook pile-drive. The air leaving his lungs was audible. I spun him and ground his face into the mat. He clawed and kicked, but my knee was in his back, forearm across neck.
“You’re not getting up,” I said.
He hissed.
“Surrender when you’re ready, sweetheart.”
The crowd chuckled and cheered. I could put him into a painful submission move but, alas, I am virtuous. He growled and squirmed until the bell. I released and
he shoved me as he rose.
I won the points. Won two out of three rounds. And he’d been disqualified. Three out of three wasn’t bad. Except I could barely move.
* * *
I went to Blue 5 for a beer on the way home. A trendy restaurant and bar with a modern blues theme, polished hardwood, muted lights, no live music tonight. I sat on a tall wooden chair at the busy bar with a view of the Washington Nationals game. We were up three against the Mets with two innings left.
Ooooooouch, everything hurt. My adrenaline high was wearing off.
The bartender came for my order. She was, perhaps, the most fetching person I’d ever seen in real life. Aphrodite herself. Under the hanging bulb, her hair was the color of sunlight, pinned up. Easy smile. White button-down and black slacks worn like evening wear.
Cool it, August. Never let ’em see you sweat.
“Wow. What happened to you?”
“Walrus,” I said.
She laughed. Yessir, old Mackenzie still got it. “You need a drink.”
“I need a drink.”
“Beer?”
“Got Stella Artois?”
“Only douchebags drink them,” she said.
“Better make it two, then.”
She shook her head and smiled. Such a sight I was nearly struck blind. Forcefully I turned full attention back to the game. I didn’t come here to hit on bartenders.
Focus on the game.
Focus on baseball players. Gross, nasty baseball players.
She brought a draft, set it on a napkin, leaned her hip against the bar, and watched the game as she dried glasses.
“Bryce Harper.”
“Yep,” I agreed.
“I’d marry that man,” she said.
“Me too.”
“Except you’re straight.”
“Still. That was a long home run.”
“You’re big. Why are you so big?”
“The good Lord and His infinite wisdom,” I said. “Now shush. I’m watching the game.”
“This is my bar, jerk. I don’t shush. I can tell you’re new because I’d remember that swollen sweaty face.”
“It is neither swollen nor sweaty in perpetuity,” I said. “Normally I’m gorgeous.”
“Too bad. Kind of a good look. Did you move here recently?”
“Spent much of my life in Roanoke, southwest. Came back last year.”
“Where’s your accent from?”
“Formative years spent in Louisiana.”
She was called away by a patron down the bar. I did not watch her walk away.
Well. I did. But I’m not proud of it. The view was worth the self-loathing. Light on her feet, constant motion, good muscles.
Guy two seats down, already a little over-served, leaned my way. “I think Ronnie likes you.”
“Is Ronnie what you call yourself? Because that’s cool.”
“What? No. Idiot. Her. She usually deflects conversation.”
“Maybe because you refer to yourself in the third person,” I said. “Big turnoff.”
“What? You’re being a asshole. I’m just saying.”
“An asshole.”
“What…”
“An asshole, not a asshole.”
“You weren’t so big, I think I’d like to kick you in the teeth.”
“Yeah, sorry. I’m a little punchy tonight. My apologies. Next round’s on me, Ronnie.”
“Her name’s Ronnie, not mine.”
“I think you’ve had too much to drink.”
He swore and left.
The bartender from Elysium returned a few minutes later and said, “Are you running off my customers?”
“He said you have a boy’s name. I pointed out that you can be any gender you want and we won’t judge.”
“You’re a mess.”
“But on the bright side, I’m sweaty.”
“Did you look at my ass earlier?” she asked.
“Ahhh…no?”
“Because you should. A girl in my building believes she has better hamstrings than me, so I’ve been busting it. I need to prove her wrong. These things are important.”
“Maybe I should be the judge of your contest,” I offered.
“She was a gymnast but I was a dancer. Perhaps it’s a tie. Where’d you go to high school?”
“Cave Spring,” I said.
“Shut up. I went to Franklin County. When’d you graduate?” She speared olives three at a time.
“We’re not in the same decade.”
“Never know. I’m old, but I take vitamins by the fistful.”
I told her. She told me. Not old. I was two years her elder.
“You played football,” she said. “I can tell.”
Her eyes were a shade bluer than hazel. I think she actually glowed.
Yeowza. Mackenzie, going off the rails. Gotta get out of here.
“You don’t look like a Franklin County girl. You’re a little too…eye-catching,” I said.
“Spoken like a boy from Cave Spring. There are three types of Franklin County girls. Cute farmers. Cute lake girls. And trash.”
“Seems harsh. You’re…” I squinted. “This is a tough one.”
“Better get this right. Don’t say farmer. I was starting to enjoy you.”
“I haven’t even flexed yet.”
She left to fill a raft of drink orders. Ronnie didn’t look like a bartender. More like an A-list celebrity here on a hidden camera show. She returned as I finished the beer.
“I just figured out who you are,” she said.
“Knight? Shining armor?”
“You wish. You’re the investigator who works with Brad. Usually you’re less clammy.”
“How do you know Brad Thompson?” I asked.
“I’ve been co-counsel with his wife. Twice. We both practice immigration law. You and I were in the same courtroom three months ago.”
“You practice law.”
“I practice law like Giselle wears heels.”
I raised my hands, palms up — who?
“I make law look good,” she clarified.
“A lawyer moonlighting as a bartender.”
“Similar professions. Taking money in exchange for false hope. Brad told me about you. He says you’re excellent, and you shot a teacher.”
“Those two possibly do not belong within the same sentence.” I slid money across the table. “Thanks for the drink.”
“You’re leaving.”
“I know trouble when I see it.”
“I’m the best kind of trouble.”
“And I need a shower,” I said.
“Badly.”
Chapter Four
Kix was asleep. After my shower, I lifted him from the crib and rocked him on the glider. He was wearing the type of onesie that had feet, but it was getting too small. He settled against me and his breathing deepened. Nothing like it.
Ronnie. Wish we hadn’t met. She was in my head after only a few minutes. Shoulda turned and ran the moment I saw her. Bartenders used to be my type, and the source of pain. Had never met one who practiced law though.
I returned Kix and got a water. Dad was in his room with a lady friend, door closed, so I sat alone in a rocking chair on the front porch. Even eleven at night, there were walkers on the sidewalk. Safe neighborhood, and the humidity had lifted.
Going from a lot of sex to none is like being on a diet. I’d been stuck on none for two years, and every girl looked like chocolate cake. Shoulda cranked the temperature down on the shower. I went back inside, and instead of faire l’amour I got into bed with a book by Ursula Le Guin.
Not as good.
Chapter Five
Patrick Henry High School was good to look at. Modern brick, circular atrium, and walls of windows made popular in the early 2000s. Inside was more glass, shiny flecked floor tiles, and lockers galore.
Two women sat behind the counter at the front office, busy with paperwork and their monitors. The woman on the left had
short brown hair, a turtleneck despite the heat, and a necklace, which had clearly made by her grandson. She glanced at me over her bifocals but did not stop typing. “Help you?”
“Mackenzie August, an appointment with Ms. Deere.”
“She’s ready for you.” She hadn’t stopped typing. Must be some kind of superhero. “Go on back through the hallway.”
I obeyed.
Ms. Deere’s office had a particle board desk, a window, two chairs, a particle board bookcase, and just enough room to turn around in. The woman herself looked forty, thin like a runner is thin, chin-length hair tucked behind her ears, and attractive in a severe fashion. “Mr. August?”
“Vice Principal Ms. Deere.”
“Please have a seat.” She nodded to the chair. Her fingers were laced over a newspaper flat on the desk.
Doesn’t matter how old you get. Walking into the principal’s office is never a good feeling.
I sat and tried to look innocent.
“I don’t like it,” she said.
“Can you be more specific?”
“I don’t like you working here.”
“Then don’t hire me,” I said.
“Unfortunately, Mr. August, that is not up to me.”
“I knew I should have worn a tie.”
Assistant Principal Deere cleared her throat and picked up the newspaper and read:
“‘Local hero Mack August is at it again. The eighth-grade English teacher who discovered the recently deceased body of Mackenzie Allen and subsequently aided South Hill law enforcers in the arrest of a local drug dealer, and the discovery of a small stockpile of illegal narcotics, is making headlines once more. Last night, Mack August responded to the distressed telephone call of Emily Newman, August’s coworker and the middle school’s technology resource teacher. Before police could arrive, August interrupted what Emily Newman describes as the worst night of her life. Newman was working late when an unidentified individual broke into the school and attacked her. The assailant fired a small caliber handgun at August while he acted as a decoy, allowing Newman to escape in his car. The mysterious perpetrator, who is believed to be the killer of Mackenzie Allen and Jed David, escaped without injury.’”