by A. J. Lape
“Bring a leper to school day,” Jon laughed. I smacked him on the forehead as he mumbled something about Dylan losing his ever-lovin’ mind.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Dylan chuckled. “You look loooovely.” It depended on how you defined lovely. Even I knew you needed to make an effort to show you’d aged gracefully over the summer. Showcasing my lucky hat, I’d slinked on Willow’s black t-shirt and paired it with a black miniskirt and my Nike Classic Cortez sneakers. Plus, I applied an extra dose of voodoo cream, hoping to look centerfold-ready by first period.
As of 6AM, I smelled like motor oil.
“Why didn’t you bring your car?” I asked. Dylan turned the volume down on the radio, all smiles.
“Lively,” he laughed, his head pitching to Finn sitting in the back, “brought four pieces of luggage for one outfit this morning. I needed a bigger car.”
“I see,” I said. “Grumpy needs to take some fashion cues. He looks like he schlepped out of the sewer.”
“Shut up, Walker,” Jon grumbled. He hoisted himself out of the front seat in a holey white T, old sneakers, and khaki cargo shorts. His wavy brown hair looked weeks late on a cut, lying over deep-set, hard-as-nails eyes. He maneuvered around to whisper in my ear, “Brynn called.”
Well, hellooooo, Benedict Arnold.
I was slapped with a cold knot of dread. I’d never particularly liked this girl, but I had a feeling there might be some good in her. Good I needed to discredit. I longed to publicly embarrass her, make her cry, and dye her perfectly brown waves peach. Problem was, she looked like a Botticelli angel—all sweet, spotless, and pristine pure.
My name didn’t make that particular rolodex.
I should have expected as much. I’d left Dylan hanging … just hanging. After his semi-confession that he felt something—or maybe felt something—I stared at him like a deer-in-the-headlights. Let’s just say I’d “morphined” the mood, and whatever else he was going to say was swiftly stalled.
Ugh, I stunk at relationships … evidently, Brynn didn’t.
I climbed into the seat and threw my backpack in the rear, aiming for Jon’s head. “Whhhaaaaatttt the what, Walker?!” he gasped, rubbing his crown.
“The devil made me,” was my excuse.
A smile played at Dylan’s lips. “You’re naughty today, Darc. You’re cute when you’re naughty, but that’s not usually a good sign.”
“I’m in a bad mood,” I grumbled. Other than Brynn, I omitted, “My invitation to the party got lost in the mail.”
Clothed in an Abercrombie red and white vintage polo, no doubt about it Brynn would appreciate the view. Dylan’s black hair was shorn short, classically styled, and meticulously irresistible; I fought off the urge to rearrange his face with my calculator.
Dylan sighed as if he expected this conversation, gently stroking my cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “Darc, we’ve already gone over this. You’re a beautiful girl, and we’re three teenaged guys. Trust me, it doesn’t work that way.” Well, how did it work because he sure as heck let me snuggle with him in O-Town. “Come over here, and show me some love,” he winked.
“I’d rather suck face with a mole.”
“That’s not very nice, sweetheart,” he giggled.
“Nice isn’t in my particular skill set, Lover Boy.”
“Lover Boy?”
“Lover Boy,” I frowned.
“That’s what you said,” he grinned.
“That’s what I said,” I snorted. “One day I’m going to kill your mockingbird mouth, D. You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.”
“That’s passion,” he murmured flirtatiously, “and I haven’t forgotten where we left things. It’s all I’ve been thinking about, and I do intend on resurrecting that conversation.”
I heard moaning and groaning from the backseat. “You’re going to do this in front of them?” I gasped, eyes widening.
“I’m going to do it in front of whomever I please.”
Pound. Pound. Pound went my heart. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. “That doesn’t shock me,” I snorted, trying to change the subject. “You like them better than me. In fact, you like everyone better than me.” (cough, Brynn, cough) “You might as well say it because my heart sure as heck feels it.”
Dylan threw his chin back, like I’d cold-cocked him. “Where’d that come from?” he groaned.
“Don’t sugarcoat your little all-males slumber party, D. I was bored out of my mind last night doing Big! Fat! Ze-ro!”
Not totally true. I texted anyone that would chat up until midnight.
“Whoa, min vän is in a foul mood,” Finn laughed from the backseat. All three of us turned simultaneously for clarification. “Swedish for ‘my friend,’ ” he interpreted. Finn Lively had sky-blue eyes with tousled blond hair to his chin. He tried on a different accent each day—all the elements of a ladies’ man—combined with a face that screamed flat-out beautiful. “Smile, min vän,” he coaxed.
Smile? I wanted to push all of them in front of a subway.
“Nice shirt,” he grinned at me.
I glanced down at the white skull on my chest, falling in love all over again. “Willow,” was my explanation.
He and Grumpy sighed a naughty sound as their mugs went goo-goo eyed. Actually, it proved to be an easy transaction. I manufactured some puppy-dog eyes and simply said, Please.
“Willow’s going to have my child one day,” Finn murmured on an exhale.
Dylan danced around, having an eeeuw moment since Willow was his aunt. “Button up your shirt, Lively,” he groaned. Both of Finn’s arms were straddled across the bench seat, his chiseled chest peeking through a blue and white fitted plaid shirt, unsnapped to his navel. You know, a roundhouse kick to your libido.
I gulped … then gulped again.
“Nah,” Finn grinned smugly, “I saved the view for Darcy.”
Dylan’s eyes shot up in the rearview mirror, like two missiles looking for a target. “Shut up, Finn, before my foot’s up your…” bleeping bleep.
“He’s in love,” Finn mouthed.
Yeah, whatever, I grumbled to myself. My fist had a little sumpthin’ sumpthin’ for his face once we got out of the car.
I grasped the coffee he waved in front of me as a peace offering: (A), because I was thirsty, and (B), because I operated in codependent idiot mode. He must’ve experienced a major case of the guilts, because he’d bought it at United Dairy Farmers, my favorite. By no means was it a specialty store; it was gas station coffee. But it had the right combo of coffee, caffeine, and sugar to punch my taste buds in the face each morning.
Buckling myself in, I wiggled down in the seat as he backed out of the driveway and made our way to Valley High. Traffic flow was heavy, bumper to bumper. At times, we moved at a crawl; others, Dylan slammed on his breaks because a vehicle unexpectedly stopped in front of him. Horns blared loud at each intersection, and the one-fingered salute was the norm.
Yup … your typical first day back to school.
While Finn named off two senior girls he’d date before week’s end, and Jon grunted this was the year Clementine Miriam Rabinowitz would date a Gentile, I thought my head would blow right off my shoulders. Especially when Jon chuckled that he’d like to double date with Dylan and Brynn. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to rip his eyeballs out and make him swallow those suckers down.
Unbuckling myself, I climbed halfway between the seats and started smacking the living daylights out of him. My head on the floor, my butt up in the air like the hump on a camel.
“Walker,” he laughed, dodging my hands, “I was joking.” Well, it didn’t sound like joking, and it sure as heck didn’t feel like it to my churning gut. Especially when Jon unsnapped himself and attempted to pull me onto the floorboard of the backseat.
I grabbed the curly hair on his legs and started twisting. “You’re as hairy as freaking Big Foot!” I giggled.
“Ow!” he laughed.
My lucky hat fe
ll to Finn’s feet. He picked it up and shoved it on his head as he flipped open the latest edition of ’68 Zombie Comics and started reading. “Now, now kiddies,” he purred, “Let’s all love one another.”
“Hey,” Dylan half giggled, half threatened, tugging me toward him by my right shoe. “You’re going to hurt her, Bradshaw. Let her go, or I’m going to—”
I heard the sounds of metal slicing and crumpling as the Suburban suddenly skidded to the left into the middle of the intersection. An image tumbled through my mind of Dylan’s right arm darting out in front of me, while power like a tidal wave rolled through my body. It lifted me up, viciously moving my body without consent, then I suddenly launched forward with glass splintering around me like a freezing rain. I was flying through the windshield when I heard another crunch and glimpsed Jon sailing through the side window at the precise same time. No airbag, I thought calmly. They didn’t arm because we weren’t buckled, or something else had kept them from deploying. My flight felt like it took a lifetime as my ragdoll body twisted sideways before coming to rest on my back on the highway in front of us. The last thing audible was Dylan’s horrified scream then suddenly nothing except a horn stuck on beep.
The pavement didn’t seem hard, even though I felt gravel prickle the back of my wet and sticky head. Were my brains spilled on the pavement? I couldn’t move—but nothing hurt—and I briefly wondered if I’d been paralyzed. My chest didn’t feel right, but Jon’s guttural groan soon drowned out the hissing and crackling in my lungs. No strength to lift my head, my eyes slid over to the left where he lay facedown, arms down to his sides, about twenty meters away. My Nike shoe lay next to him, untied. Struggling to make sense of what’d happened, I saw that the Suburban looked like an accordion, trapped between two cars—a Lincoln Town Car that had struck the passenger side and a blue mini-van that had hammered the driver’s side. Was Dylan okay? I love you, I should’ve said. I needed to check on him … I needed to check on him.
Fighting through the haze of smoke pouring from the hood, I glimpsed a man with overly gelled hair push open the driver’s side door of his crumpled Lincoln. Once outside, he walked behind it, and calmly past Jon. Just stepped right over him, not even caring if he was living or breathing. This man had just T-boned us. He should be groggy or as motionless as me. Maybe I’d laid here longer than I thought I had. Wearing expensive wingtip shoes, he squatted down and pushed my hair off my head with a hand so mottled it appeared he’d stuck it in a burning blast furnace. His face was hard when his lips moved, but as much as I tried, I couldn’t make out his words past the thick smell of cigar breath. My brain snapped to attention. Weasel Bonnano, I thought, and I saw the message in his eyes.
“Tell Lincoln, Turkey’s coming.”
BONUS CHAPTER POINT OF VIEW
(ONLY THE BRAVE SHOULD ENTER)
THE GRIZZLY BEAR
The Grizzly Bear is huge and wild
He has devoured the infant child
The infant child is not aware
He has been eaten by the bear
—A.E. Housman, (English scholar and poet 1859-1936)
Monday night
I SLAMMED THE DOOR ON MY Aston Martin and took the elevator to the penthouse. I wriggled my jaw around, surprised that it still ached after being slugged four days ago. That jackass hit me, I remembered. Lincoln’s cocky ass son hauled off and jacked me in the jaw when I asked about Legs. I’m sorry, it’s Darcy, I chuckled to myself. Darcy Walker. What in God’s name was that creation that we called a female? Life didn’t dole out many like her, but when it did, she unarguably was the type you didn’t forget.
None of this would’ve even happened if not for those idiots, Turkey Cardoza and Bats Giuseppe. I owed them a favor, and in my line of business, favors aren’t repaid in cash. Favors are repaid with favors. And if I’d known that Lincoln Taylor had been the target, well, let’s just say I would’ve done that one for free. What an arrogant, sonovagun. His son? A million times worse.
Lincoln, I must admit, I’d never heard of until Bats called with the story. I thought I was familiar with every detective that was somebody in all the big markets. That fact alone told me Lincoln might be the shrewdest badge alive.
Evidently, Lincoln had been receiving information from an informant, and when Turkey not only threatened Lincoln but her, it became the biggest pissing match imaginable. Turkey, being the pompous jerk that he is, wanted to strike first. Turkey’s undeniable ego would always be his downfall. Yes, he managed to envoy for two competing families, but I had it under good authority his days were numbered when they got a clean shot. Plus, it was my experience with a man like Lincoln that you had to allow them to think they were “winning” for a while.
Their egos weren’t any different from ours.
My radar told me something bad was coming. Bats had acted sketchy since he’d arrived, which was abnormal for his cold-as-ice nature. I gave him a little job to do in my building, just to keep tabs on him, but my hackles were up wondering what that SOB was up to. Imagine my surprise when I found out at Cowboys that he’d been working a deal of his own with Lincoln. Good luck, I laughed to myself. Lincoln better fly you to the moon to keep you away from Turkey.
I’d just endured another rather boring round of questioning with Detective Monroe Battle and knew enough to act mildly interested at the appropriate moments. I didn’t give a damn what was going on in Battle’s world. It was mine that concerned me. Battle basically asked the same questions again, all in different ways, hoping to trip me up. I sighed, at his tactics. I’d been doing this too long to be ensnared in a verbal trap, and I went back for the second time—sans a lawyer—to specifically find out what I could about the Taylor family. Battle asked me again if I was in business with someone named Jester, and once again, I replied no. But the first time he asked—that evening at Cowboys when they apprehended Eleanor Talley—was when it struck me that little Miss Darcy Walker harbored quite a few secrets herself.
That was the precise moment I’d pieced it together. Battle let it slip in the interview (or maybe he’d planted it) that he’d been at the Taylors’ house in Serendipity a week or so earlier. I knew the location well. I’d dropped Willow off before, but more recently when I’d followed the mysterious Darcy Walker home—after she’d creatively left my building. I thought the association seemed odd and planned to ask Willow for clarification, but finding Willow was like trying to find that proverbial needle in a haystack. She’d eventually surface, but it would take some extreme manpower and patience to get the job done.
Willow, for some reason, had never appealed to me as anyone other than a friend I could take care of. Me, I laughed to myself. Walter Ivanhoe actually had a soft spot for someone that might be more lost than he was. And Willow, I frowned, might be more lost than anyone I’d ever met.
Darcy, on the other hand, she may think she’s lost, but the answer was far from it. I got the feeling she was a survivor—and had perhaps survived some horrific childhood trauma—to be able to stare death in the face and still fight.
That’s why I gifted her with new shoes—shoes that it took forever and a day to replicate from memory—and had them delivered the morning after I’d concluded she was Jester. I would’ve given my right arm to see the look on Lincoln’s face when he’d discovered they were from me.
If she even told him.
Unfortunately, playing “cab” to Willow wasn’t my only occasion to be on Serendipity Drive. Gertrude Burr lived across from Willow, and the first time I visited her home was when Marco, a long time employee of mine, wound up floating like a piece of dead driftwood in her pool. My enemies were sending me a message that Gertrude was next. I sighed heavily. Overall, I was ecstatic Gertrude was out of my life, but on nights like tonight, I wished I would’ve delayed the breakup.
Even amidst all of Gertrude’s drama—and believe me, she wrote the book—I’d never fancied being alone. But, if anything, I’m happy that chapter with Howie Cantrell was closed. Even
though Gertrude and I had severed ties, it didn’t sit well with me to leave her fighting something blind. Battle let it slip (or once again, maybe he’d planted it) that Howie had been working with the Feds on the embezzlement issues at the Bank of America surrounding Eleanor Talley. The Trust for Cisco Medina evidently was only the tip of the iceberg.
Howie’s front had included gambling with her, and one evening Eleanor confessed she’d been blackmailing Lola and had her son. When Howie confronted her that she’d been stealing from Gertrude, all we can surmise is that his luck ran out. Evidently, Eleanor then found it sickly amusing to send his head back to the only woman he’d ever loved.
And I thought I was crazy.
Problem was, she sent Elmer Herschel as the deliveryman. Somehow, he’d wormed his pathetically, disgusting body through Serendipity Security but chickened out at the last minute and dumped the remains at the first site he’d found. Two problems there: Serendipity Security needed a Quality Control check, and Elmer Herschel was too much of a schizophrenic mess to pull anything off without residual chaos.
Throwing my keys on the counter, I popped open the Northland refrigerator and snagged a carton of milk and drank it down. With one hip up against the wall, I glanced around the place and wondered why I hadn’t even turned on the lights. I was standing in the dark staring into the shadows of the best amenities money could buy: six thousand square feet, spacious rooftop terrace, and a luxurious living space that had five bedrooms and 4.5 baths. Perhaps, if I turned on the lights, I’d see how all of this shit meant nothing if you were alone. I crumpled the carton in frustration and tossed it in the sink as I grabbed the portable telephone to call Edmond.
Edmond picked up on the second ring. “Evening, Boss.”
I rapped my fingers on the counter, suddenly wrought with nervous energy. “Get me everything you can on Lincoln Taylor. He’s LA vice. I want to know his wife, parents, siblings, children, likes, and dislikes. I want to know how in the world he’s remained underground.”
