by A. J. Lape
Better yet, I thought, why do you act like you know her personally?
I twirled my hair as if bored, trying to keep it factual. “Just curious, and by your reaction, I’d say you know her well.”
“Maybe I do know her,” he said evasively.
“Well, then you’d be happy to know that I’m positive I saw her son.”
Hector’s eyes bugged wide, his mouth dropping open like a Venus Fly Trap’s. “Are you a cop?”
“I’m 15!” I laughed.
Hector loosened up but still cocked an inquiring eyebrow. “Your eyes say you’re innocent, but your smile suggests juvenile detention.”
I had visions of working on the chain gang yesterday. Evidently, I needed to work on my appearance. I gave him a flirtatious wink. “Takes one to know one.”
Hector tweaked my nose. “Okay, chicky, so we’re both bad news. What’s your name?”
I looked over at Sydney who thankfully appeared to have forgotten I’d accompanied her. I saw no harm in giving him my alias. “Call me Jester … on the down-low, of course.”
“Okay, Jester … on the down-low,” he chuckled. “You’re cute, but I’ll only give you information if you help on my commission. So what’ll it be? Tattoo or piercing?”
With no forethought whatsoever, “Can I make a call?” tumbled out of my mouth.
Hector said, “Be my guest,” and rearranged his piercing tools while I whipped out my iPhone and speed dialed Dylan.
“Let’s get a tattoo,” I said when he answered.
“Interesting opener,” he chuckled. “That’s the last thing I would’ve guessed was going to come out of your mouth. My first guesses would’ve been, I love you, let’s get married, I think you’re the hottest guy around, and I’m dying to procreate.”
Yep, vintage Dylan. I chewed on my lower lip, stopping when my mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood.
“Tattoos tell everyone who you are,” I diverted.
Dylan groaned, “You’re not putting a tattoo on your cute, little body.”
“What if we get matching Ds?”
He stopped to think, sighed, then jumped back on the moral high horse. “Maybe someday, just not today.”
“When?”
Dylan’s voice went harsh. “Exactly where are you, and why is the when suddenly important, Darcy?” I looked at Sydney who laughingly took a finger and made a switchblade movement across her throat. Not sure whose throat she referred to. Hers or mine. She resumed her perusal of Spike’s piercings when it dawned on me she might be leaving here looking like a pincushion.
“So you’re in?” I laughed in his ear.
“I’m going to perform a little litmus test,” he murmured. “Do what you want to do, sweetheart. Have fun.”
The world had ended. If it hadn’t, then I was pretty darn close to a sinkhole that had my name on it. “Is this reverse psychology?” I laughed.
“Is it working?”
“No.”
“Then I’m merely supporting your impulsivity,” he chuckled. “That’s love, sweetheart. Love at its finest.”
“Is it painful for you to be so supportive?”
“Shredding me in two.”
Dylan’s voice grabbed mine. Latched ahold. Traveled to my insides then settled some place in the pit of my stomach. He was toxic to me and destroyed my resolve to grab the bull of life by its bucking horns and hang on. “You’re toxic to me,” I groaned.
Dylan chuckled naughtily, and I instantly had this X-rated picture of the two of us alone—sweaty, heavy-breathing, furniture overturned, maybe some bruises … oh, gosh, I literally slapped myself in the face. “Think about that, sweetheart,” he murmured as if he’d read my mind. “Wouldn’t that be a great way to go?”
I hung up on him.
Rather than chance him calling, I switched off my phone altogether. Sydney’s immediately rang. She fumbled around in her purse, looked at the number, and shut it down with a sigh.
“We’re in trouble,” her voice graveled out.
“I know,” I smiled … on more than one symbolic level. “So what’s the verdict?”
She lifted her shirt, pointing to her navel. “I’m getting my navel pierced.” Ouch, I shivered.
Hector and Spike pulled out their selection of jewelry: gold dangly squids, gold Mother Marys, and gold almost Olympic-sized barbells. Description? Not expensive enough for Sydney.
Predictably, Sydney turned up her nose. “Do you have any real diamonds?” her voice cooed. “I don’t want any cheap, tasteless knockoffs.”
The merchandise didn’t appear cheap to me … although, Jesus’ mommy didn’t need to lounge in my belly, and my navel didn’t anticipate doing the clean-and-jerk anytime soon.
Hector narrowed his eyes on Sydney, frowning, “Can you pay for real?” Seriously? Her trust fund could buy this strip mall on the interest of one month alone.
She glowered, thinking him an idiot. “Does it look like I can pay?”
Hector took the time to eyeball her up-and-down, adding up everything from the clothing, to the haircut, to the pedicure. Not to mention the unseen underwear that weren’t the Hanes-packaged-deal like mine. After he made a decision, he turned and opened a drawer of what I assumed contained his secret stash. Lifting out a black velvet box, he stole a glance toward the door, popped it open, and pulled out two diamonds with long studs, the optimum size for belly button rings.
I just threw up in my mouth.
“$500 apiece,” he said firmly.
Sydney drew them up to her discriminating eye. After the visual pat-down, she closed her black orbs and sucked in a mouthful of air. As if communing with her inner-diamond.
“They’re legit,” she purred. “Four hundred dollars, and it’s a deal.”
Hector shrieked, “Five hundred dollars is a deal! They’re a carat apiece!”
“They’re also fenced,” I laughed, meaning it as a joke.
By the giggle that erupted from Spike, I hit the nail on the head. Hector pointed a thick finger in her face. “Don’t judge, Spike. My extracurricular activities provided you with a nice Christmas.” Spike closed up her red tattoo book with a wink. My guess was she enjoyed whatever his sticky fingers gave her.
I tried not to act overly eager, but dang it, I liked getting things on my terms. “You’re a businessman, Hector, and I can appreciate that,” I said, “but you have no overhead, and they’re stolen. Let us help you out.”
Hector wasn’t amused. He snapped the box shut with a loud whack. I shuffled in my seat, trying to act as unhappy and irritated as he was.
Registering my balk, he reluctantly flipped the box back open, laying it on his workstation. “$500,” he said stern. “And I’m not going lower. My little girl needs clothes.”
“$400,” I countered again.
Sydney tried to keep her inner diva in check, but the vixen reared her head anyway. Throwing her four-figure bag over her shoulder, she pushed out of her chair and turned up her nose, heading for the door.
Hector tugged on the space between his eyes. “This is highway robbery. Where are you from anyway? Did you just get out of the pen?”
“We’re from Cincinnati,” I answered. Hector still had that I-need-to-think thing going on. Well, he needed to get a move on because it wouldn’t surprise me if Dylan was burning rubber as we spoke. “Okay,” I said softly. “We’ll do things your way. $350 total, and it’s a deal.”
Spike snorted, doubling over in laughter. “My God, I love you,” she snickered.
Hector went berserk. “You lowered the offer again!” he bellowed in exasperation.
Heck, I don’t know why I lowered it, but occasionally, Murphy’s genes staked a claim in my body no matter how hard I tried to avoid them.
“Look at it this way,” I explained. “You’re due a raid, and we’ll help lower your inventory and losses.” Growing up with a father in the insurance industry at least provided me with appropriate buzzwords. And like a good citizen (face
tiously spoken, of course), I wasn’t above using them to my advantage.
“What’s in this for me?” he growled, narrowing his eyes.
Good question. Not a lot, really. “If you answer my questions, then you can be my brother.”
I explained the benefits of being in my brotherhood. Hector gave me a devious smile. He knew the definition for “benefits” more than anyone. I kept secrets for you; you kept secrets for me. When I whispered I’d give him a bonus for his little girl, he was sold.
“I do need another sister, I suppose, but she,” he grumbled, nodding to Sydney, “is a man-eater. I want nothing to do with her.” No kidding. Plus, she looked hungry.
After I inducted him into my brotherhood, he and Spike pulled out their piercing tools as Sydney sat back down. “Are you certified?” she asked rather snottily.
“APP,” Spike said, pointing to a 5x7 framed certificate on the wall.
“And you’re sure you’re sterile?” Sydney pushed. “Let’s light them up to make sure, and that way I can check the diamonds. Cubic zirconium will crumble.” Heck, I didn’t know if it would crumble—she probably didn’t, either—still Hector left through the swinging beads, bringing back a piece of equipment resembling a flame thrower.
I burst out laughing. “And you have that why?”
He gave a wicked shrug. “Sometimes a person needs to change their looks fast.” Cue the nausea. You always hear these kinds of stories, but it’s a totally different situation when you meet the people that participate in them. “I don’t get to use this often,” he said, “but here we go.” He hit a switch on the silver contraption, and a foot of blue flame lit up both diamonds that Spike had placed about six feet away from us on the black tile floor. Nope, they didn’t disintegrate. So, if anything, they were good fakes; plus, all things viral and bacterial went bye-bye.
Sydney stretched over for my hand as we raised our shirts for numbing cream. “Ready?” she purred raspily.
My nervous giggle was a yes.
After Hector and Spike loaded their guns, they gave each other the eye and simultaneously pulled the triggers. For once in my life, I understood what the birthing process must feel like for pregnant mothers. There was a pop, deep burn, and warm ooze, then the doctor told you it’s over while you proudly looked down at the object you were bringing home. But reality set in, and you immediately questioned if it was a good idea or perhaps the dumbest thing you’d ever done.
“That’s it?” I winced.
“That’s it,” Hector said. “How’s it feel?”
“Stupendous,” I lied.
“Grounded,” Sydney laughed.
Hector chuckled as the cold dread of stupidity washed over me. I should’ve consulted Murphy. “Pay me,” he said, “and I’ll answer your questions.”
Sydney and I pulled $175 apiece out of our wallets, and behind her back, I threw in an extra fifty bucks. Murphy sent me with eight hundred dollars. I usually only spent half, but this way Murphy’d feel like he provided for his child, while unbeknownst to him, he provided for someone else’s.
Rationalize it, Darcy, I thought to myself. That’s how bad people make it through the day.
“About Lola,” I started.
Hector peeled off his rubber gloves, throwing them in the waste can. “I’ve tatted Lola before. She has a picture of her son on her left wrist.”
“Annnnnnd,” I pushed.
“Annnnnnd,” he mocked, “it’s the type of tattoo that took multiple attempts to get it right. It’s in full-color.”
“So you got to know her well.”
“Yes, and my impression was she’s the type of person that knows too much for her own good. She’s crafty and brags how great she is at swindling people. Whatever she does, there’s a reason, so it wouldn’t surprise me if she knows exactly what’s going on.”
That comment, I wasn’t prepared for. “You think she took her own son?”
“I didn’t say that, but she probably has information that no one else has. The grandparents are gone. Maybe they’re trying to get away from her.”
Interesting thought; one I hadn’t considered. “Where does she live?”
He sprayed disinfectant on the surface of his table, wiping it with a paper towel. “Last I heard, Lola lived near her parents off Conroy Road. Even though her parents have custody, I don’t think they booted her out of his life entirely.”
Howie’s face—er, head—floated into my mind, and once again I remembered the note in his mouth not only listed Gertrude’s name and address, but the word Medina. It was a long shot, but if Hector knew about Lola, a good chance existed he knew of Howie. How in the world, pray tell, were you supposed to phrase a question about someone’s severed head??
In typical Darcy fashion, I dove in forgoing a preamble. “So I found this head, Hector.” Hector’s jaw dropped. “Howie’s head. Have you heard about Howie?”
He was silent for a moment while he slowly finished cleaning his station. He carefully put everything away, one instrument at a time, deliberately delaying an answer. “Everyone’s heard about Howie Cantrell and the missing body,” he said stiffly. “Question is, how do you know about Howie?”
Good grief, he wonders if I’m the executioner. I somehow kept my laugh to myself. “Like I said,” I shrugged, “I found him.”
“Mother Mary,” he prayed. No kidding, I hoped Mother Mary found it as upsetting as I did.
I relayed the story of the note and how Gertrude divulged Howie worked for one of the PI firms she funded. Hector didn’t have an opinion one way or another—he’d never heard of Gertrude nor had he heard of Howie before his head hit the gossip waves.
He said, “If there was a note that said Medina, I can guarantee you it definitely referred to Lola.”
“Want to guess on the specifics?”
Hector crossed his arms over his chest, back to eying me suspiciously. “All I can say is that Lola’s name is synonymous with trouble. A severed head in her path is not abnormal for her every day.”
I reserved judgment since severed body parts seemed to show up in my life, too. Other than that, I got nowhere. All he did was corroborate the never-ending merry-go-round of Lola’s bad news antics and illegal affairs. I needed to find that one thing—or person—that tied Lola to Howie and Gertrude.
An idea percolated. “Do you know the people she gambles with? Like an Ivanhoe?”
Hector’s relaxed candor morphed into one of paralyzing terror. He whipped out a cancer stick so fast I would’ve sworn he’d been born with it attached to his lips. Grabbing the blue BIC lighter near his station, I flicked the roller for him, the red flame dancing at the end of his cigarette. With one long draw, he shivered nervously, acting like someone had run a machete across his heart and threatened to leave it there. “Ivanhoe,” he muttered, “is bad news, chicky. Don’t go looking for him. All I know is wherever Lola is, there’s always a lot of money.”
I scratched my head in my mind. If this had been money-related, how could Cisco’s captors gain dollars if no ransom had been placed? When I asked for Hector’s spin, his face went blank. He’d honestly given me all he had … except on the Ivanhoe part. He made clear—with a clenched and set jaw—that he’d rather wear a toe tag than dive into the world of Ivanhoe. There were no other options, except to find Lola.
19. A BROTHERHOOD OF LIES
A LIE IS A DEVIATION FROM the truth. Some believe that a little, white lie is innocent, but purists believe that anything—even the slightest omission of cold, hard fact—remains the same as the blackest of offenses. Right now, my brain lied to me. It was 1:33AM, Friday morning. The time suggested I should be sawing logs, but my mind couldn’t find the “off” switch.
“He’s asleep, Paddy,” I whispered.
“Aww, doll,” he apologized, “I keep forgettin’ you’re on East Coast time. I’m sorry to wake you. Just have Linc call me first thing.”
I pulled my ink pen from behind my ear, penciling a note on a nearby napki
n. Call the Irish, or your shamrock’s going to lose its happies, it said. When I finished, I folded it into a tent and placed it on top of Lincoln’s glasses. Both of us had crashed on our respective couches, the sandman loving him and hating me like a bad case of eczema.
Guilt blasted my conscience when I remembered I owed Paddy an apology. “Hey … umm,” I stammered. “I’m—uh … well, you see … uuuugh.”
After several aborted attempts at an apology, I finally blurted out, “I’m sorry for tapping into Lincoln’s stuff.”
I felt like a total donkey.
A pause hovered in the air. “Listen, doll,” he eventually chuckled, “you’re a smart girl. A very smart girl. Just stay on this side of the law, and we won’t have any problems.”
There were all kinds of smart and all levels of dumb. Unfortunately, I happened to be familiar with each of them. “Technically I’m smart, Paddy,” I stated, “but so many other variables live in my brain that I can never settle down long enough for good things to gel. I’ve tried to conform, but from what I’m told, psychologists insist that might prove difficult. The best I can probably offer society is the promise to not reproduce.”
It felt like a knife stabbed me in the heart. I waited for it to happen … the judgment. It’s a universal law in Darcyville. You tell someone who you are—what really goes on between your ears—and then the unrelenting whispering follows.
There was another pause with Paddy finding his voice first. “Aww, doll, that would be the worst thing you ever did. The world needs more people like us. One day, I’ll tell you what I did pre-Lincoln. It wasn’t always on the up-and-up, but he’ll be the first to tell ya that some days it comes in handy.”
