The Professor

by Robert Bailey

  “One more thing,” Darla said. “Me and Tammie are the only girls in this joint to ever get a VIP dance. It’s a status symbol around here. Larry will notice it and you may get a raise. But—and, honey, this is a big but—you don’t need to take a guy up those stairs if you think he might try to force you to do something you don’t want to do. That’s a big buck over there. Just be careful and have fun.” She slapped Wilma on the ass and walked away.

  Wilma looked at Peter and was about to order another drink when she felt two firm hands on her shoulders.

  “Well, what’ll it be? How about that private dance?” James asked. Wilma tried to return to Smokey mode, turning her back to him and leaning over the bar.

  “Saint Peter, James here wants to buy me another drink. Right, James?” She looked back at him with what Dewey always called “the bedroom eyes.”

  “Yes, ma’am. How about making it two?” he said to the bartender, and then to Wilma he whispered again, “How about that private dance?”

  “You got a hundred dollars?” she asked, trying to sound as sexy as possible.

  “I got a thousand dollars. And I want to spend every dime of it on you.”

  Wilma was stunned beyond words. After a few seconds she leaned over the bar and motioned Peter over and whispered something in his ear.

  “Will do,” Peter said, looking over his shoulder at James and back at her.

  “Right this way,” Wilma said, taking his hand and walking toward the door. Without allowing herself to think, Wilma led him up the stairs and into the first room she saw. There was the leather chair—brown with several patches—positioned right in the center of the room. There was a coffee table to the left of the chair and an old jam box on the floor against the wall on the right. Wilma put her drink on the coffee table and turned quickly to James.

  “Sit down and I’ll be right back.” She walked down the stairs in time to see Peter placing the fifth of Jack Daniel’s on the floor behind the railing.

  She picked up the bottle and looked at the stairs. What in God’s name am I doing? She put the bottle down and folded her arms. It wasn’t too late. She could go into the dressing room, put on her clothes, and be at Ms. Yost’s house in thirty-five minutes. There were other ways to make a living. Then she saw the faces of her girls. Laurie Ann couldn’t be a cheerleader if she couldn’t afford the uniform. And that wouldn’t be the last thing. Wilma wanted more for her girls. College. Opportunities. A real chance. Everything she never had.

  She picked up the bottle and unscrewed the top. She cocked it back and took a long swig. “There’s a difference,” she whispered out loud, repeating what Darla had said, trying to believe it, as she ascended the stairs. She took another swig of whiskey outside the door and brushed her hair back with her hand.

  Then, steeling herself as best she could, she opened the door.

  But when Wilma saw who was now sitting in the leather chair, she almost dropped the bottle of whiskey.

  “Hello, Wilma.”

  “Hi.” It was all she could get out. Jack Willistone? Behind her the door closed, and Wilma wheeled to see James.

  “Relax, Smokey the Bear,” James said, his voice much harder than it had been down on the floor. “Just hear the man out.”

  Wilma turned back to the chair but her feet were glued to the ground.

  “Wilma, please . . .” Willistone said, gesturing to the table in front of the chair. “Sit. I’d like to talk to you about some things. Explain, so to speak, why I’m here.”

  Though still in shock, Wilma forced her feet to move, and she did what he said.

  “It’s about Dewey, Wilma. We don’t think we’ve really done enough for you since Dewey’s death. How have you been getting along?”

  Wilma tried to gather herself.

  “I’m making it if that’s what you mean. I . . .” She wanted to ask him about James, what the connection was, but she wasn’t ready yet.

  “I imagine times have been tough, though, what with Dewey not around.”

  She just nodded her response. Where is this going?

  “Well, that’s why I’m here.” He scooted forward in the leather chair so that their knees almost touched. “I want to help you.”

  “Why?” Her thoughts had become words.

  “Two reasons. One, because you’re the widow of someone who was a very valuable employee, and I don’t think we’ve treated you the way we should’ve.”

  That sounded all well and good to Wilma—the shock had worn off now—but it rang hollow. Why the strange rendezvous if that was it?

  “So what’s the second reason?” Her voice was tough, and she hoped it conveyed a simple message. Let’s cut the bullshit.

  “Our company has been sued by the estate of the family that was killed in the wreck with Dewey. They say Dewey caused the family’s death because of his bad driving.” He stopped to take a sip of his drink.

  Wilma, who had been leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, now sat back and folded her arms. I should’ve known, she thought.

  “They also say that we—the company, I mean—were negligent in hiring, training, and supervising Dewey.” He stopped again, and she knew he was gauging her reaction.

  “OK . . .”

  “We wanted to ask you a few questions about the lawsuit.”

  She looked over her shoulder at James, who continued to stand by the door. “We?”

  “Well, me mainly. Bone here was just the instrument I used to set this up.”

  “Bone?” She again looked over her shoulder, and this time James winked at her.

  “Nickname,” he said.

  “We actually call him JimBone. ‘Bone’ for short. Don’t ask me where that name came from.” Willistone was laughing now, and Wilma was furious.

  “He has been paying me for lap dances all night, and he requested a VIP dance in this room,” she said through clenched teeth. “Was all that part of the plan?”

  “Actually, yes,” Willistone said, sporting a humorless smile. “I figured if Bone could get you in this room, you would have already made the decision to whore yourself out.” He paused, and Wilma felt her skin turn cold. “What I am about to offer is a much easier way to make a lot more money.”

  “I’m out of here,” Wilma said, standing from the table. “You people are crazy.” But before she could do anything but stand up, JimBone caught her by the arm.

  “I don’t think so, little lady. Why don’t you hear what the man has to say? I think you’re gonna be pleased.”

  “Let me go or I swear I’ll scream,” Wilma said.

  “Scream all you want,” Jack said. “I told Larry this meeting might be rough.”

  Again, Wilma was stunned. “Larry . . . knows about this?”

  Jack laughed. “Larry and I go way back. Who do you think was one of his initial investors? No telling how many pickle tickles I’ve gotten in this room. But go on, scream. Let loose with a humdinger if it’ll make you feel better.”

  Tears formed in the corner of Wilma’s eyes as she sat back down on the coffee table. Damn, damn.

  “Wilma.” Willistone’s voice was quieter. “We know you’ve been through a lot, and I’m sorry we’ve had to use these tactics.” He paused. “Have they contacted you?”

  She was still crying. All she could think about was that Jack was right. She had agreed to prostitute herself the minute she entered this room.

  “Have they contacted you?” Jack repeated, his voice louder. She felt a hand on her shoulder. It was James . . . JimBone . . . whoever.

  “Come on now. Answer the man’s questions. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

  “Have they contacted you?” Willistone asked for the third time.

  “They?” Her voice was weak.

  “The family. Lawyers for the family. Anybody that would be against us in this laws
uit.”

  She knew it was pointless to lie. They probably already know and are testing me.

  “Yes,” she said, looking at Willistone.

  “Who?”

  “The lawyer. Rick I think is his name. He and this girl—I think his assistant—came to see me at the Sands a couple of weeks ago. They asked about Dewey. About the accident.”

  “What did you say?”

  “He was most interested in the schedule y’all had Dewey on. I . . . I was mad at y’all. I—”

  “You what?”

  “I told him that the schedules were crazy. OK? Everyone knew they were crazy. And”—Wilma sucked in a breath—“and I told them about how I helped Dewey fix his driver’s logs sometimes. So they looked good.”

  There was a pause as Willistone got up from the chair and snatched the bottle of whiskey off the coffee table. He took a long pull on the bottle, nodded his head, and then took another, smaller, sip.

  “We’re gonna have to fix this, Wilma. That won’t do.” He shook his head. “That won’t do at all.”

  “Plan B?” JimBone asked, eyeing Willistone.

  Willistone peered over Wilma’s shoulder to JimBone and slowly nodded.

  “Yeah, I think so. A variation anyway.” Willistone looked back at Wilma.

  After a couple of seconds he sat down beside her at the coffee table and draped his arm over her shoulder. She was scared. More scared than she’d ever been in her whole life.

  “I think we can fix this, but it would have been easier if you hadn’t talked.” He smiled and gently stroked her hair.

  “Let me ask you something, honey,” Willistone continued. “You came up here because you thought you were going to at least get a thousand dollars, right?”

  She nodded.

  “You were prepared to take your clothes off and dance nekkid for Bone over there, right?”

  Another nod.

  “Judging by what I know happens in this room, you were prepared to go even further. Right?” When she made no response, he nudged her elbow. “For that thousand you would have done more than just dance, right, Wilma?”

  She was crying again, and Willistone finally stopped talking. He got up and moved back to the leather chair, crossing his legs as he sat.

  “Well, I’m not going to ask you to do any of those things.”

  When he didn’t elaborate, Wilma wiped her eyes and tried to focus.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Simple. All I want you to do is to suddenly lose your memory when you get to trial. And I’m prepared to pay you a hundred thousand in cash for that amnesia. Fifty thousand now and the rest after the trial.”

  “You want me to . . . lose my memory?” she asked, confused by the request.

  “Yeah. Blow off Drake for any deposition. Keep telling him you’re too busy to talk. If he corners you, just be vague. Don’t agree to any more specifics. Just tell him you’ll testify to what you’ve already told him. Then, when called to testify, just forget the crucial stuff. The only thing you have to deny outright is helping Dewey rig the logs. Understand?”

  Wilma nodded.

  “Good. So, do we have a deal?”

  Wilma shivered. This is wrong, she knew. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, she knew. Just as she had always known that Dewey’s driving schedule was wrong. But where else am I ever gonna make this kind of money?

  She took the whiskey bottle from Jack’s hand and cocked it back, feeling it burn the back of her throat.

  She spilled some of the liquor down her chin, and Jack wiped it off with the back of his hand.

  “Well?” he said.

  Before she answered, she took another long sip and placed the bottle on the floor.

  “Two hundred thousand,” she said. “Half now and half after trial. If I do what you say, I get the money regardless of how the trial goes. I shouldn’t be punished if y’all lose anyway.”

  “Well, you little bitch,” Willistone said, laughing. “Are we negotiating?”

  “Yes. I think I should get more for lying under oath. You bastards did run Dewey to death and you know it.”

  Willistone crossed his arms, his eyes not leaving Wilma’s.

  “Did we bring that much?” he asked, still looking at Wilma.

  “Yeah, boss,” she heard JimBone say in the background.

  “OK, Wilma. But before I agree to that, I’ve got a few extra conditions too.” His voice was cold. Mean. “We seem to have a disagreement about whether you’re lying or not when you say you don’t remember. I think saying you don’t remember is more truth than fiction, but you obviously don’t feel that way. So . . .” He leaned in closer, and Wilma already regretted asking for more money. I am so stupid. “If I’m paying for a lie,” Willistone continued, “I want the real McCoy. Instead of not remembering at trial, you’ve got to testify that the schedules were fine as far as you knew. That if anything, Dewey had a light load and needed more runs. Got it?”

  “What about before trial?” she asked. She was trembling but couldn’t stop.

  “Just stay away from the family’s lawyer. When he contacts you, tell him you’ll testify but that you don’t have time to talk with him. Put him off. If he does get to you, be vague and blow him off as fast as you can. Try to let him think that you are his star witness without giving him any more information. Then at trial you become our star. He calls you to the stand and you bury his ass. Comprende?”

  She almost said she couldn’t do it. In fact, she wanted to say that. She wanted to just go back to the first deal he proposed. Not remembering would have been a lot easier. But I can’t go back, she knew, thinking of when she had been thirteen on a weekend trip with her family, climbing to the third platform at Point Mallard Water Park in Decatur, Alabama. The third platform was the highest. When she got up there, she wanted to walk back down the ladder, but she couldn’t do it. She had to jump. She felt the same way now. She nodded her agreement to Willistone.

  “All right, Wilma. Second condition. If you tell anybody about our arrangement or if you fail to carry out your end of the deal, then you’re dead, you hear me?”

  He got close enough to where she could smell the whiskey on his breath. She again nodded.

  “And your little girls. We won’t hesitate, Wilma. And that lady . . .” He snapped his fingers and closed his eyes. “What’s that old hag’s name, Bone?”

  “Ms. Yost.”

  “Ms. Yost too. We won’t hesitate, Wilma. Do you understand?”

  Ms. Yost? The girls? They knew all about her. And they would do it. She knew they would. She tried to maintain a poker face as she nodded, but she knew she was grimacing.

  “And one more thing.”

  He was closer now, and she could feel the whiskers of his face on hers.

  “If you want two hundred thousand, you’re gonna have to give me some of this,” he whispered, moving his hand up under her G-string.

  For a split second she almost tried to run. To scream. To do anything. Then she looked into Jack Willistone’s cold, hard eyes.

  It’s no use, she thought. They’ll find me. Wherever I go . . . they’ll find me.

  “Done,” she whispered back.

  PART FOUR

  32

  Faith Bulyard lived at the end of a cul-de-sac off Rice Mine Road in Northport. The two-story home had a circle driveway and what looked to be a big backyard, though a privacy fence made it hard to see. Rick pulled up to the curb in front of the house and cut the ignition. It was 5:30 p.m., and though it was dark outside, the street lamps provided a nice view of the house. Rick could see several lights on inside the Bulyard home.

  “Looks like somebody’s there,” Dawn said.

  Rick nodded, feeling butterflies in his stomach. He needed this meeting to go well. Up to this point the day had been a total failure. Earlier th
at morning Rick had taken the deposition of Jack Willistone, the president of Willistone. Other than learning that Dewey Newton was headed to an Ultron station in Montgomery on the day of the accident, there had been no useful information disclosed. Ruth Ann’s deposition had also been taken, and though she was a sympathetic witness, there weren’t any points that Rick could score with her. Tomorrow Tyler would depose Rose Batson, which Rick knew wouldn’t be good for the home team. Rick had tried several times to talk with Ms. Rose again in the last month, but she’d blown him off each time, saying she’d already said her piece.

  At least she answers her phone, Rick thought. Faith Bulyard was clearly screening his calls. There was no telling how many times he had tried. Morning. Afternoon. Night. Both on the cell number he’d gotten from Hank Russell and on the home number that Dawn had found.

  Rick had wanted to drop in on Ms. Bulyard sooner, but there just hadn’t been time. The last four weeks had been a blur. The morning after the meeting with Ted Holt, Rick had received a box of discovery from Tyler, which contained interrogatories, a request for production and one for admissions, all of which had to be answered within thirty days. While trying to answer all of Tyler’s discovery, Rick and Dawn also had to keep the four other files in his office going.

  Finally, there was Wilma Newton. One of Tyler’s interrogatories had asked for the names of all witnesses who had knowledge of facts that would support the claims in the lawsuit. Rick had hoped to surprise Tyler with Wilma at trial, but the interrogatory left no wiggle room. Rick had no choice but to list her as a witness.

  He’ll take her deposition, Rick knew.

  “Hey, you OK?” Dawn asked, nudging Rick on the arm.

  Rick took a deep breath. “Yeah, just a little nervous. I doubt this is going to go well.”

  “We won’t know until we know,” Dawn said, opening her door a crack and then looking back at him. “Dropping in on Wilma turned out to be the right thing to do. Maybe this will too.”