No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2)

by A. J. Lape

  When I finally stepped outside, Dylan was singing in his shower as though he hadn’t a care in the world. I didn’t take the time to decipher the tune—knowing him, it was some sappy love song that would make my teeth hurt. Wrapping a towel around myself, I sprinted to Sydney’s room, changing into what I felt was appropriate apparel: black shorts, black spaghetti-strap T, Dylan’s Ranger cap, Ray-Ban Aviators, and my beloved Chuck Taylor sneakers. When my last zebra lace was tied, I stood up and gazed into Sydney’s mirror with a cheesy smile. If this apartment were equipped with some sort of doomsday device, at least I’d go down looking like an American hero.

  Roaming into the kitchen, I opened up the fridge and removed a hotdog from its packet, grabbed a plastic baggie from the cupboard, then slipped back into the bathroom. The only drugs in the medicine cabinet were Tylenol PM capsules. The back of the box stated that adults should take two, and I prayed that applied to canines.

  After I shoved a pill in each end of the hot dog, I placed the wiener in the baggie and crawled out the window, landing in a bed of mulch. I river-danced my way across the flowerbed and hurdled the hedge while I thumbed in the number for the Yellow Cab service. I took off at a leisurely jog toward the gated entrance, not wanting to be too conspicuous, while wanting to make my date with Destiny.

  This place was dump city. Paint peeled from the metal railing, and rust bled through the blue enamel still hanging on. I paid the cabbie and requested he wait, then hightailed it up to the manager’s office. Placing my hand on the doorknob, I twisted it both ways only to deduce it was locked. The windows framing the door were smudged, and a swipe of my hand didn’t make it any easier to peer inside.

  Glancing overtop the door, I spied a small window that had been busted out. There didn’t appear to be any residual glass, but if the goal was to get inside, it looked to be my only option. I raised myself up on the railing, balanced both feet, and took a hulking jump until my body was suspended half-in, half-out. Wriggling my hips through, I felt like a newborn—I birthed myself through that narrow hole and fell out with no body control whatsoever, screaming.

  I crashed into a dive forward roll, lost my sunglasses, and busted my nose while Dylan’s hat flew several feet in the air. I bear clawed my way to it, getting one heckuva rug burn in the process. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to conclude this wasn’t going well, but what I lacked in skill I prayed the universe rewarded me for enthusiasm.

  Once I retrieved Dylan’s hat, I shoved it back on my head and unlocked the door for good measure. Appraising the space, I journeyed to the reservation desk and tapped the silver bell on the orange countertop. When I yelled “Hellooo” and got an echo’s worth of nothing, I decided to do what came naturally.

  I snooped.

  To the rear sat a desk. I wandered behind the counter and thumbed through bills, a bank statement, and an unopened letter in a light green stationery. A coffee blot covered the return address, but from what I could tell, “ose” were the last three letters. When nothing struck me as out of the ordinary, I snapped a few pictures with my iPhone then opened the door on the back wall.

  Assuming this was the manager’s apartment, my stomach lurched at the squalor. It smelled like a rotting compost bin full of beer bottles, moldy dishes, dirty socks, and what looked like a dead rodent. Dodging a dive-bombing fly, I swatted at a cobweb and hopped over a stuffed animal pelt that appeared at one time to be a cow. Its head had been lobbed off, and all that remained was brownish-green fur and collapsed udders. Before I had a chance to vomit, two voices boomed from behind, and a deep bark told me I was seconds from coming face-to-face with a guard dog.

  I panicked.

  Prayed.

  Then hoped it was all in my head.

  It wasn’t—barreling through the door, like I’d just stolen its last bite of kibble, was a Rottweiler mix someone had sicced on me. The black hairs on its neck were up like a hyena’s, and its brown jowls dripped a long string of slobber. Nervously ripping the plastic baggie in two, I threw the hotdog toward the door. After a sniff and a growl, fleabag gobbled it in one bite, ran his tongue over his lips, and maintained his protective stance at the door.

  Holy shizzers, I was toast.

  Animated talking filled the space outside, and common sense told me this moment was do or die. Say you’re lost, Walker, I said to myself. Smile and act like the dumbest blonde on Earth.

  A man and woman ventured inside. At least, I think I’d term him male because he was the most idiosyncratic creature I’d ever encountered. His head was watermelon-round, and a black, permed ponytail lay at his neck like the tail on a horse. Wearing shorts too tight and a dingy wife-beater, his ensemble showcased the hair on his shoulders, knuckles, and elbows. Top that off with buckteeth, and he just might’ve owned the corner on weirdness.

  “I’m lost,” I smiled, breaking the stare down.

  “Did we leave the place open?” he grunted, glancing back at the door.

  “No, I kind of fell into the place. I was looking for the manager.”

  “That’s me,” he muttered. “I’m Elmer Herschel.” Elmer gave me a bone-crushing handshake. Here I was palm-to-palm with the landlord that set up Cisco’s trust, and I couldn’t contain the smile. “This here’s Polly Teasdale. She’s got a job at the bank.” He pointed to whom I assumed was his girlfriend … couldn’t tell. She gave me a “Hi.” Nothing more.

  Polly had an overall gothic look about her: black hair, black lips, black eyes, and black nails. She even wore a black polyester dress with three-inch black wedge sandals. Problem was, she was a plus-size girl living in petite-sized clothing. I saw a little bit more of Polly than I cared to.

  I tore my eyes from her spilling boobs when fleabag growled. “Has he had all of his shots?” I winced.

  “I vaccinated Doo-rod for rabies about ten years ago.”

  Sheesh. “I hear that was a good batch.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” he agreed. Doo-rod stepped up the growling.

  “Is he hungry?” I asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “What’s he eat?”

  “Scraps, neighborhood children,” he muttered. Oh, jeez. Next thing I knew, Doo-rod fell in love with my leg and mounted my knee. Not. Gonna. Happen. I staggered backwards, violently shaking him off. One more time, and I’d kick him in the puppy-maker.

  “He likes you,” Elmer chuckled.

  “I’m flattered,” I lied.

  “So if you’re lost,” he said, “where were you headed? Elmer wants to know.” First off, I needed to lie. Secondly, the fact that he referred to himself in the third person made me fear some sort of dissociative behavior. And thirdly? What the heck was a Doo-rod?

  “I’m here to feed the Medinas’ ferret,” I lied again.

  He arched a brow. “They were in 23B, but they don’t live here no more. Those people weren’t no good. They did something with that little boy, and their place is a junkyard.”

  “Did you have it cleaned?”

  Elmer glanced at his black digital wristwatch. “No. They’ve only been gone for a month, and they’ve got two month’s deposit on record. I can’t legally do nothin’ until that runs out. So unless you’re here to ask Elmer out on a date, I don’t have time for this right now.”

  When silence filled the conversation, Elmer gave me a shrug. “You are sort of cute. You’d have to do something about your hair before I’d take you dancing, though.” Ponkey.

  “My hair’s fine,” I snorted. “Besides, I’m in a relationship.”

  “Whatever,” he shrugged. “There’s a shirt sale at Walmart, and I need to get going. My new woman wants a man to dress good.” If he wanted to impress the gothic girl, Walmart might be too conservative. But if Elmer wanted to get a jump on the crowd, then more power to him.

  Especially if it got me out of here alive.

  The only thing Elmer provided of substance was 23B and his personal phone number. What he didn’t know was that I snagged his set of keys on the way out t
he door. Perhaps I should reserve opinion on my own personal luck because if the key fits?

  Well, I’m just sayin’.

  Good things were around the bend.

  While I threw a $20 bill at the cabbie to stay put, I watched Elmer and Polly climb into a beat-up brown Ford Pinto. Once I made sure they hadn’t seen me, I moved across the parking lot over to the opposite building. My iPhone sang as I jogged up the second flight of stairs.

  “Start talking,” I said, not recognizing the number.

  “Jester, it’s Troy.”

  Troy, I thought. I guess I’d multi-task. “Whassup?”

  “I should probably take this time to flirt with your sexy voice, Jester, but I’m too befuddled by what I’ve discovered. Fix It does not exist, at all.” I stopped dead in my tracks, speechless. “Jester?” he said.

  I shook my head, trying to regain focus. “What do you mean it doesn’t exist at all? As in there’s no shingle over the door or a man behind a big wooden desk?”

  “Exactly. The only thing I can come up with is a typo existed on the original story printed, or there’s a possibility it’s an acronym that stands for something else.”

  “The bank’s obviously still taking the money, right?” Because Herbie still sent ten grand a month to catch the aliens.

  “I have a call into them already.”

  We disconnected. I’d think about that later.

  You could always count on a Florida shower; it was a given. Unfortunately, one burst from a cloud as I made my way up the stairway. I took the slippery steps, three at a time, until I stood right smack in the center of 23B. Hooking my sunglasses onto my shirt, I squeaked the rusty door open with the key that said “Master” on it. Stepping inside, the view wasn’t exactly as I’d expected. Elmer insinuated the place would be a junkyard; their apartment, however, legitimately smelled nice. No dirty dishes, no piles of laundry, and no signs of any criminal behavior were anywhere. Sure, it was Lilliputian, but to those that didn’t make much money, it looked like a squatter’s paradise.

  Altogether there were four rooms: a living room with a foldout couch; a kitchen dinette; and one small bedroom and bath. A little small for three people, but this place was uncluttered and clean. Even the stack of used children’s books was nestled neatly inside a worn wicker basket, up against the wall. Point blank, Elmer had lied. It’s possible he could’ve mistaken their place with another tenant’s, but if not, why discredit them?

  I opened the closet and rows of little boy’s clothing lined the wall next to a few articles of adult dresses and men’s trousers. The kitchen sat to the right, so I navigated next to the butterscotch refrigerator and cracked it wide. Inside were four cans of soda, milk that had curdled, two sticks of butter, but that was it. When I closed the door, a white piece of paper fluttered to the yellowed linoleum. Snatching it up, I read a handwritten note that said, Lola, 8PM Saturday.

  Why did I think that meant something?

  Stuffing it in my front pocket, I turned to a brown door that had to be the pantry. I popped open the space and realized it was likewise sparse. It contained name brand Apple Jacks, canned black beans, corn, a boxed taco mix, bag of rice, and white kitchen garbage bags. Not much, but that didn’t surprise me, either. Most senior citizens didn’t have money to stockpile; their purchases usually carried them through ’til the next month.

  A white plastic trashcan sat in the corner. Peering inside, I nearly jumped out of my skin when I spied a pair of rubber gloves, one empty plastic bottle, and a box of Clairol Nice ’n Easy Born Blonde. Well, lo and behold, seek and ye shall find. I’d just hit the jackpot with evidence of someone’s quick color change. And guess who had blond hair … Cisco!

  Holy Mother of All Things Holy.

  What was a girl supposed to do NOW??

  Closing the pantry door, I crouched low in the middle of the room, trying to get a feel for the place. Scanning the area, I imagined Cisco eating breakfast with his grandparents and talking to his parents on the sunshine yellow phone mounted on the wall. I watched him read, color, laugh, and wondered why anyone would kidnap a child—and why someone as talentless as me thought they could make a difference. Before I got all mushy, paranoia gripped ahold of my chest like a vise. Something didn’t feel right. I listened for the sounds of footsteps, anything at all, while my pulse beat loudly in my throat. Then, I heard a door slam and a frighteningly familiar gait. Ah, bugger me. I could use a magic carpet because by the feel in the air, Mr. Do-the-Right-Thing had made the scene.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” he bit out.

  Snooping, a little bit of B&E, minus the B-part.

  And I absolutely hated it when he brought God into the conversation. No, Dylan wasn’t perfect, but he did actually talk to God on a regular basis. He bowed his head before meals, looked to the sky for acknowledgment of great plays, and asked for guidance before making big decisions. My guess was he and God weren’t having a rip-roaring time at the moment.

  Funny, I was.

  I stood up, turning around with a giggle. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Dylan leaned against the doorjamb, both arms crossed over his chest, wearing his stubborn-as-a-mule look. Cocky. So exasperatingly cocky and cute. “Answer me, Darcy,” he demanded.

  Always with the formalities.

  “I don’t like it when you’re bossy, Dylan,” I frowned. When he rolled his eyes, I tried another tactic. “You look cute today. New shirt?”

  He still wore the Greek t-shirt I literally talked off his father’s back. You know, the one Yankee swapped spit over and practically swallowed him whole. “You’re changing the subject,” he murmured.

  “I was hoping you were grateful.” God knew Yankee was.

  “Start talking.”

  “I am talking.”

  “Then, let me spur the dialogue. From everything you’ve been up to, I take it this place belongs to the Medinas. Be glad Sydney saw you sneak off. My father would be mid-conniption right now, and Lincoln would’ve shot you in the thigh. I told Murphy I’d take care of you, Darcy, but you’re making it rather difficult.”

  “I kinda got lost.”

  “You kinda got lost.”

  “In another person’s house,” I giggled.

  “In another person’s house,” he echoed. Dylan had this annoying habit of repeating my phrases during an argument.

  “Kill your mockingbird, D. It’s annoying.”

  He narrowed his eyes; I fidgeted like ants were in my pants and cracked the fingers on one hand. When he didn’t bat an eye, I moved on to the other.

  “You’re lying to me,” he murmured. Yup.

  “No,” I clarified, “I’m telling you a fib. You know, creatively stretching the truth.”

  Dylan’s smile moved up a fraction of an inch. “They’re the same thing.”

  “No, they’re not. Fibs are for people that don’t have any options.”

  “No options, huh?”

  “It’s a tough place to find yourself.”

  Dylan’s voice lost some of its edge. “Your first option would’ve been to tell me.”

  I snorted, “That’s never a fun option, Big Man. You tend to be a killjoy.”

  Dylan blew out a jagged sigh. “I tend to be more rational, but I’ve never set out to kill your joy.”

  “You’re making this sound awful,” I mumbled.

  “Darcy, this is illegal, and let me remind you, they have rights. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Well, I have rights, Dylan,” I pointed. “I have the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, and this made me happy.” Why did this stuff only make sense to me? Dylan crooked his finger, motioning for me to join him. Honestly, it was more like demanded. I shuffled over, proverbial tail flopping between my legs.

  Dylan expelled a tentative breath, as though he negotiated with emotions best kept in check. “I don’t want to argue with you. I’m still recovering from our argument a few days ago, and that was enough for a life
time.” He drew me into his chest, engulfing my entire frame. “Now, show me some love.”

  Sometimes Dylan’s demands sounded hot, but I don’t think I could handle all of his love if he ever got the urge to unleash it. His hugs alone were maddening. Nuzzling my nose in the curve under his chin, I fell into every rippled inch of his torso. Somebody smack me, but I had the strange desire to lick his neck, bite it, and suck him dry. “How did Sydney know?” I muttered, slicing my own daydream in two.

  His answer was “Mmmm.” After a few beats of silence, he located a reply. “First of all, she’s got eyes in the back of her head, Darc. Secondly, you jogged to the entrance and jumped into a cab when I was in the shower. Thirdly—”

  “There is no thirdly,” I interrupted laughing.

  He released me to look in my eyes. “Thirdly, is that you’re just being you.”

  “You’re making me sound like Sydney,” I mumbled.

  “Sydney’s high maintenance and should only date someone with a strong constitution. You, however, need to be chained to a tree in the backyard.”

  I debated another lie, but when your hand was caught in the cookie jar, you might as well admit you like cookies. “Does this place look shady to you?” I asked.

  Dylan glanced around while he ran a large hand down his jaw. “No. It looks like a home where they treasured what they had.”

  “They didn’t do anything wrong. This place proves it.”

  Dylan grew serious, wanting to hear my reasoning. “Talk it out with me.”

  “Think about it,” I explained. “If they took the child, they’re not going to hire a mom with expensive shoes to shop at The Gap. That woman holds the key. Plus,” I added, motioning to the closet, “about two weeks worth of little boy’s clothes are in the closet. They wouldn’t leave them, and if they did, they’re not going to shop at one of the most popular outlet malls where they can be seen. Nobody’s that dumb.” (I hoped.)

  “What else?”