by A. J. Lape
I don’t know what I expected from Jon, but it certainly wasn’t what came out of his mouth. “Would you believe my brother knows one of the guys in the River City Smugglers?”
My smile grew as wide as the Amazon River. “You don’t say,” I said.
“Say,” he replied.
“Does he know him well?”
“Very.”
“Interesting,” I muttered.
His voice turned self-righteous as though I were accusing him of something. “I’m not my brothers, Walker. Make no mistake about that.”
“I wasn’t implying that, Grumpy, but I’m going to need his number.’’
“Sounds sort of ominous.” I could tell by his voice the full brunt of the situation finally hit him. Not only had he probably pieced together the parts I’d omitted but was well aware of my potential to do even crazier things. “Slam on the brakes, Darcy. You’re not qualified to get involved, and God knows, me making a phone call feels more underhanded than what you’ve already done.”
Clearly a matter of opinion...of a perpetual rule follower, no less. I hung up and dismissed his concern, not wanting a roadblock from anyone.
Six Degrees of Separation is the concept that all of us are six steps away from an introduction to anyone else on earth. It’s that friend of a friend of a friend thing taken literally. When Jon called back fifteen minutes later, I now was a firm believer.
He grunted, “I don’t know how in the world I got shanghaied into helping, but the head honcho’s dead, Walker. River City’s wiped out. AVO took them over and a few of the remaining RC boys were jumped in. The other little guys in town wouldn’t mess with an organization like AVO.”
“You believe him?”
“I do.”
I would kiss him if he were here. It was probably a massive mistake (of eternal repercussions), but the cell phone number Jon provided, I dialed as soon as we hung up...after I hit *67, that is. I needed to block my caller ID as long as possible, especially if this guy was as psycho as Jinx King.
“This is Jester.”
The background was somberly calm—maybe creepily was a better adjective. I wasn’t sure what I hoped to accomplish, but it dawned on me I should’ve had a list of questions beforehand. Jon twisted his brother’s arm into calling as a “buffer,” but at the end of the day it was only me, and was this guy willing to talk? But what had I learned to take into this foray? Never underestimate your enemy, and always watch your back. Plus, as Vinnie said, Know your audience. I’d watched him approach people twice with success, and he’d never had a more complex thought than where his next moon pie was coming from. Knowing my audience in this situation was to be nothing but business. I had a feeling if I spooked him, he was going to hang up—or worse yet, put a bullet in my chest simply because he could.
“Hello, Jester,” was all he said.
Business, Darcy. Business, business, business. “I understand you’re a friend of Markus Bradshaw,” I greeted.
“If Markus says we’re friends, then we’re friends.”
I took a deep breath. “May I ask your name?”
“Depends on what you want to do with it.”
Jeez. “Nothing,” I assured him. “I’d just like to know who I am talking to.”
“I suppose I could say the same for you...Jester,” he said sarcastically, “but the correct verbiage in your sentence is whom, not who. Whom is a prepositional object, it’s not the subject.”
Huh. Just what I needed, a smarty-pants. “Okay, if we’re going to debate my locution”—yeah, I actually knew some big words—“then why don’t you at least tell me what you call yourself?”
“I’m Jaws.”
“As in Great White?”
“Let’s just say I don’t always need to use a gun.” I think my heart stopped. It flip-flopped and fell straight to the floor. Surely he didn’t bite people to death, did he?
I cleared my throat, shivering off a case of the willies. “How old are you?”
“How old are you?”
I added a few years. “Eighteen.”
“Then I’m eighteen, too.”
Wow, this guy was good. Who would’ve thought I’d run into someone who was better at this game than me? I decided to shoot straight. That might be the only chance of getting the truth out of him.
“Okay, I’m not eighteen. I’m fifteen, and I’m calling you about Alfonso Juarez and a gang called Northside. Northside 12... maybe. I added the twelve, and if there’s not a twelve then I don’t have a clue what their hand signal means.”
I heard a door shut and a long, exhausted sigh. Walking to the countertop, I pulled a stale glazed doughnut out of a Servatii’s box, took one bite then crawled back onto the couch. It was almost midnight. Murphy and Marjorie were asleep, so it was just me...and my sin.
“What do you want to know?”
“First let me ask about you, if I can. I promise to never break your confidence, and I ask the same of you.”
“Fair enough.”
“When did AVO take over River City Smugglers?”
“Two years ago they assassinated our leader when he was getting out of his ride downtown. Bloody mess...but an effective message. Next thing you know, everyone with any power was getting knocked off too, until they busted up a meeting of ours with an ultimatum.”
“Join or die?” I asked.
“In so many words.”
“You didn’t join?”
“I’d rather be castrated and sing like a girl for the rest of my life. Fortunately, I made my way out the back and was spared by a court date that unfortunately didn’t go my way. I’m on house arrest.”
“For what offense?” slipped out of my mouth before I could talk myself out of it.
“I need to keep my jaws shut, Jester. That’s all I’m going to say.”
I shook off another visit of the willies. “Was Alfonso at that meeting?”
“Alfonso delivered the message.”
“Why would someone want to kill him? I’ve already figured out AVO was in the copper business.” I think I figured that out. Jinx didn’t confirm nor deny, but I had a feeling Jaws could and would do either.
No word from him for a time. That was okay by me; I needed to figure out my next line of questioning. I licked my fingers and went back to the white box for a deep-fried doughnut, crawling back under the blanket. I waited for an epiphany from Heaven but didn’t get a doggone thing.
“Jester,” he finally said, “you’re a scary person to only be fifteen. But yes, AVO had the copper business wrapped up.”
“Did it interfere with River City’s business?”
“We didn’t do copper,” was all he’d divulge.
“You didn’t answer about Alfonso...why kill him?”
“I hear Alfonso developed a big mouth.”
“A snitch?” Hoooooollllly Moooooolllllllly. Did his own gang kill him? If that was true, punishment in AVO for being a snitch was removing your tongue. No questions asked. Alfonso and the man downtown both had their tongues intact, according to autopsy reports. And honestly, the manner in which they were killed wasn’t AVO’s Modus Operandi, either. AVO was a little more creative. They liked the stiletto, they liked to blow you up, and well, they tortured you and dismembered via machete (gulp). AVO didn’t kill Juarez...I knew it in my bones...but could someone from River City Smugglers—someone with an axe to grind—have tried to frame AVO?
I decided to ask. “Jaws, do you think someone from River City could’ve killed Juarez? Someone that made it ‘out the back’ like you?”
He breathed in and out a few times, no doubt wondering why he was talking to someone he’d never met before. “No. River City Smugglers were notoriously known as the 2-taps: one shot to the head, the other in the heart. If someone within our organization hoped to frame AVO using bullets, they’re idiots. You don’t frame AVO by using a gun. AVO likes the more personal approach that knives give you.”
I decided to not press for further detail
s, fearful I’d faint. “Do you know personally of this Northside group?”
“I’ve heard of them, but they’re really unorganized.”
“How?”
“There’s a lot of in-fighting amongst the members, and they’re not only in your neck of the woods. Some are downtown, and they absolute hate AVO.”
“They’re not scared of AVO?”
“They should be.”
I said to Jaws, “Can you come up with the names of the major players in Northside at Valley High?”
“Maybe.”
“What about AVO?” No answer.
“It’s one o’clock in the morning, Dolce. What’s wrong?” I’d moved from the couch to the floor to the bed and believe it or not just flowcharted all of this information onto six squares of toilet tissue. My mind could handle copious amounts of information, but an ADD brain had its limits to organization.
“I spoke to a guy named Jaws about Alfonso Juarez,” I answered in a yawn.
You would’ve thought I called Jesus, Mary, and Joseph every dirty word in the book—Vinnie went ballistic, the only recognizable words were four-lettered ones.
“You spoke to Jaws?” he finally gasped.
Better question was, how did someone from Valley even know Jaws who hailed from downtown on house arrest?
“I did,” I answered, “and it’s not the time for you to judge. You knew I was going to follow up on this, and I did.”
“I thought you’d get bored with it or something. You have a tendency to be ADD.” I wanted to hit him. If he were here, I swear it, I’d haul off and smack him in the face.
“Whatever,” I said, rolling my eyes, “I guess you don’t want to know what I found out.” Vinnie was as nosy—or nosier—than me. Of course, he’d want to know.
“Spill it, Dolce. You woke me up so at least make it worth it.”
I told him everything Jaws had said and actually nailed down how he even knew Jaws in the first place. “Jaws and a friend of my cousin’s did a little bit of business in the past,” he explained. “The Smugglers specialize in artillery. All kinds. He was in the market for a firearm and Jaws provided him with the unmarked kind. I thought it was strange. My cousin’s only seventeen, but not everyone leads the pure life I do.”
Somehow, I didn’t judge that narrative on a pure life. I mean, look at what I was doing. My brain had packed its bag and hit the road years ago. Regardless of Vinnie’s rose-colored glasses where his own life was concerned, why would a seventeen-year-old boy need a firearm? The list of things I needed could be found at a drugstore or Target.
“Dolce, I’ve never asked why you’re doing this, but I’m going to now...why?”
My word, the last thing I needed was a guilt trip. “You’re taking this deal you made with Dylan a little overboard, doncha think?”
He grunted. “This is Valentine Vecchione speaking. Not Dylan Taylor. Normal girls don’t do this. You should be reading People magazine, painting your nails the newest shade, talking to boyfriends on the phone. Something that remotely includes some estrogen.”
I exhaled a tired breath. “I have no boyfriend to talk to, Vinnie. The Liam boat sailed days ago.”
Vinnie spoke very carefully, as though this were a conversation he’d rehearsed, and this was the day to perform. “And why do you think the Liam boat sailed days ago?”
“I told him I was going to call him back but didn’t...for various sundry reasons.”
Vinnie bust out laughing, coughing, snorting, like I was the biggest idiot in the universe. “Dolce, if a guy likes you, that would’ve in no way been a deterrent.”
Wow. Thanks for not sugarcoating it, I thought. “I’m just not what guys want, V, and this is the way I’ve found to entertain myself. Plus, he said he wanted to talk to me about something confidential. What would something like that be?”
Vinnie inhaled then exhaled, his voice coming out hard. “Who knows, but regarding this thing with Jaws, you’re traveling a slippery slope. I suggest you stop.”
Time and again, I reminded myself of the rules of society. Be a good citizen, pay your taxes, if you’re not a part of the solution, don’t be a part of the problem. Well, I intended on being a part of the solution, and no Vinnie-lecture was going to castrate my plans. If he hadn’t realized it, I’d accomplished a lot. In the course of a few hours, things were falling into place. AVO took over River City Smugglers. Northside 12 hates AVO, and Northside 12’s extremely unorganized. And the biggie of all biggies—Jaws alluded to the fact that Alfonso Juarez had developed a big mouth. The only thing that could mean in gangland was Fonsie-boy was a snitch.
God rest his soul, the punishment Alfonso Juarez endured was horrendous. As I rolled over and switched off the light, I wondered what the punishment would be for those that just interfered.
22 WALKIE-TALKIE
“NO,” HE SAID, apologetically, “I still don’t have the name. I’ve been so wrapped up with this production I sort of forgot. I promise that next time I see him I’m literally going to walk right up and ask his name.”
Fisher Stanton was an idiot. Maybe he could remember line after line in Valley’s theater productions, but why in the world couldn’t he remember the name of the individual he saw the day Alfonso Juarez was discovered?
“What part are you playing anyway, Fisher?” I asked out of curiosity.
He gave me an evil laugh. “The Pied Piper. What’s a drama without a villain?”
I disconnected, figuring I’d never hear from him again and hoping his play bombed.
Even though Jaws gave me tons of information, like the conversation with Fisher, the rest of my weekend was a blazing disappointment. First thing I did was check out sites four, five, and six just to get a feel for them. Site four was Valley Post Office. Site five was Tire Town (where Oscar was videoed), and site six was The Cupcake Shop and Whole Foods. What was their connection? More specifically, what was the connection between Tire Town, Valley High School, and the area downtown—those were the specific sites the bodies were found.
Anything? Nothing at all?
I’m not sure what I thought would happen when Claudia drove past them—maybe I hoped an angel would appear—but it certainly wasn’t nothing. All we did was waste gasoline.
The resulting frustration led me to lose myself in a little bit of entertainment. On Saturday night, Justice, Rudi, and I snuck Marjorie into her first PG-13 movie. Ahem, wrong move (I know), but we covered her eyes and ears during the improper language, adult situations, and gunfights. Unfortunately, that was the entire movie. To cover my guilt, I OD’d on two buckets of buttered popcorn and three XL Cokes, and I still was on carb-overload.
Looking at my cell phone in hand, regardless of everything else, I couldn’t seem to muster the courage to contact who I really wanted to contact. Liam Woods, I sighed to myself. Liam Woods, Liam Woods, Liam Woods. It only made matters worse when he was presently sitting across from me at lunch, purposely avoiding eye contact, chatting up Ivy Morrison and—and slap-me-in-the-face-with-her-beauty—Brynn Hathaway.
I didn’t hate Brynn, but I didn’t like her either. She looked amiable enough. Her smile was sort of genuine, but for some reason she was friends with Ivy. Trouble was, Ivy had one foot in demon. If I’d learned anything from Murphy, demons could corrupt. Even ones that looked like angels. It didn’t help matters she was in love with my best friend.
Yeah, that really stuck in my craw.
Speaking of Dylan, his flight was delayed because of tsunami-like rain on the West Coast. He was supposed to be here first period but hadn’t materialized yet, and the codependent in me was impatiently waiting for him.
I needed a hug...and some quality time.
I’d futzed up again—this time royally. Apparently, I was to get my term paper topic preapproved. Someone with the same topic had already turned theirs in and mine was considered null and void. When I burst into tears—snot flying with my body racked in an embarrassing display of emotion—instead of giv
ing me a zero, Mr. Woodward granted me what I considered another stay of execution. I had until next Monday. Now, I had to work a miracle.
Preoccupied, I shoveled a bite of broccoli and cauliflower into my mouth then spit the offense into my napkin once I realized what I’d done. I understood the argument for vegetables, but my guess was the USDA hadn’t taken a big bite of anything served in a cafeteria lately.
“Horrible, right?” Justice munched, putting the lid back on her pink nail polish. I fought a gag then moved onto my overly greasy cheeseburger willing my taste buds to not be offended.
Rudi was on my left, happily eating her sack lunch of a peanut butter sandwich and Fritos. She poured some Fritos onto my tray as Jon and Finn sat down, eating a slice of pizza before their rear ends even hit the chair. It was a somber affair realizing Spring Break was over, but I kept telling myself that meant one step closer to summertime. As I licked the salt off a corn chip, I must’ve been staring into no-man’s-land because next thing I knew, everyone was yelling for me to answer my phone.
This Little Light of Mine screeched in a pitch so high we all were left with a mind-bending cringe. I winced, punching “accept,” as Dylan’s gut-wrenching mug popped up on the screen.
“How’s my girl?” he murmured, before I uttered a word.
I almost burst into tears, wishing I could crawl inside the phone.
Dylan and I had a complicated relationship—best friends weren’t supposed to act this way—especially those that were strictly platonic. Still, I could never get enough of him; hugs weren’t deep enough and goodbyes weren’t long enough. If there was any doubt before, it was pretty obvious how I felt about him now. I cry-hiccupped twice, snorted once and when Jon groaned, “Good God,” I somehow sniffed out, “Missing you.”
