(2014) The Professor

by Robert Bailey

  Great. I’m sure you’ll feel comfortable depositing my two thousand dollars, Rick thought, taking a long sip of Sun Drop and trying to calm down.

  But, as the sugar from the soft drink flooded his system, Rick knew he was being shortsighted. If Ted couldn’t give him a strong opinion, then he’d rather know that now than find out at trial after Tyler had torn him and Rick to shreds.

  “I appreciate you shooting straight with me, Ted,” Rick managed.

  Ted nodded, and Rick could tell he felt bad.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I doubt Jameson will find anyone either.”

  That did make Rick feel better. Sort of.

  “Anyway,” Ted said, slapping Rick on the back. “Sorry I couldn’t help.”

  Rick and Dawn stood in front of Rick’s Saturn as the last vestiges of sunlight began to dissipate, neither speaking. Like a punchdrunk boxer, Rick tried to steady himself from the blow of Holt’s unhelpful opinion. He knew he couldn’t afford another opinion. He’d have to try the case without an expert, and hope to hell that Holt’s prediction that Tyler would not be able to get one was correct.

  Turning his head, Rick looked beyond Ms Rose’s store to the south, where miles and miles of farmland stretched across Henshaw County and into Marengo County. The Drake Farm was only three miles away.

  Rick had hoped that, after a successful meeting with Ted Holt, he and Dawn could stop by the farm and tell his parents about his new case. It had been a long time since he’d had something good to share with them. They had both been so disappointed when Jones & Butler terminated his contract, especially Rick’s father. “Seven years of putting you through college and law school, and you blow everything we worked for in a matter of seconds,” Billy Drake had said, storming out of the house after Rick broke the news. Since then, Rick had barely talked with his father, and while his mother was more approachable, the sadness in her voice and eyes was difficult to take.

  “How can y’all drink that?” Dawn finally asked, nodding at the plastic bottle in Rick’s hand.

  “Sun Drop?” Rick said, unable to suppress his smile. “Are you kidding? How can you not?”

  Dawn smirked. “There’s so much sugar...” She had barely taken three sips of hers, but, like a good sport, she’d tried to tough it out.

  “So... what now?” she asked.

  Rick looked into her brown eyes, thinking of the other night at her apartment. Things had been a little uncomfortable since then, neither of them quite knowing how to act around each other.

  “Well,” Rick began, forcing his eyes away from her, “it looks like our case on liability will rest in the capable hands of Sheriff Jimmy Ballard. We’ll have to pump the speed angle, and not emphasize whether Bradshaw should have seen the rig. I just hope Ted is right about Tyler. If Tyler finds an accident reconstructionist and we don’t have one to cancel him out, that could hurt.”

  Rick sighed as they both climbed into the Saturn. He pulled the car towards the exit onto Highway 82, and he hesitated, knowing that he could turn right and be at the farm in five minutes. His mother probably had a good dinner waiting with plenty for him and Dawn.

  Shaking his head, Rick turned the wheel left. As they headed towards Tuscaloosa, he felt Dawn’s hand touch his forearm. “Hey,” she said, smiling. “I know that didn’t go like you hoped, but don’t forget about Wilma. Even without an accident reconstructionist or Rose Batson, and even if Dick Morris and Faith Bulyard turn out to be dead ends, we’ve still got Wilma.”

  Rick couldn’t help but smile back at her. She was right. If Dewey Newton’s widow told the jury that her husband was forced to speed to meet his schedule and that she helped him fraudulently record his driver’s logs, then, combined with Sheriff Ballard’s testimony that Dewey was speeding, nothing else would matter. Wilma would be a lot more powerful than any hired-gun accident reconstructionist.

  Rick nodded, feeling a deep sense of resolve. Softly, almost to himself, he repeated Dawn’s words.

  “We’ve still got Wilma.”

  30

  Wilma Newton left the Sands fifteen minutes after closing time, tired and wishing she could go home. But now she had to crank it up for job number two. She grabbed a pint of Jack Daniels out of her glove box and took a swig.

  “Goddamn,” she said out loud, feeling the burn of the whiskey as it made its way down her throat.

  It was about a twenty-minute drive from the Sands to the Sundowners Club, and Wilma had found that she did better when she started out with a buzz. Ironically, staying semi-drunk allowed her to focus better on the job at hand – pleasing the men that came in. Flirting with them, persuading them to pay for a private dance, and literally talking and dancing the money out of their pocket. When the buzz wore off and she was back to the real world – picking up her kids from Ms Yost’s house or refilling a pitcher of iced tea at the Sands – she hated what she had become. Unfortunately, it was the only way she could support her kids by herself.

  She had come back to Boone’s Hill, because it was the only home she had ever known. Her mom and dad were dead, but Ms Yost – her mom’s best friend – was still around, and Wilma had been able to rent a small house down the road from her.

  Lately, the rent was getting hard to pay. Also, Laurie Ann would start middle school in the fall. She was pretty and wanted to be a cheerleader. Those outfits cost money – more than Wilma had. She wanted Laurie Ann and Jackie, her youngest, to have the things she never had. Since there was nobody around but her, she knew she had to do something.

  So a month ago she went looking for a second job. She worked 2pm to10pm at the Sands Monday through Saturday, so she had her mornings and late nights free. Her first thought was a morning waitressing gig, but then she met Darla Ford. Darla had come into the Sands for a cup of coffee right before closing one night. Said she was a “dancer” and needed a little energy boost before she started work. They struck up a conversation – Darla was a regular chatterbox – and Wilma asked her what a waitress might make at the Club. Darla laughed and said, “Not much.” The money was in the “skin”. The dancers – the good ones – made twice what the waitresses made. Then she told Wilma that she had made $50,000 the year before.

  Wilma had not hesitated. Fifty thousand dollars! She had gone to the Sundowners Club that night and, after enduring a job interview that included taking off all her clothes, leaning over and touching her toes, and getting slapped on the ass by the owner, Larry Tucker, she was hired.

  The first weekend had been awful, and she thought she might be fired. She was uptight, nervous and, according to Darla, a “buzzkill”. Darla, whose stage name was “Nikita”, finally made her do three quick shots of whiskey and things got better. During the last two hours of the first weekend, she had three men ask for lap dances. After that, she picked a stage name, and “Smokey” was born.

  She was now over a month into her job, and she was doing pretty well. On course to make $30K if she kept it up. As she parked in the lot, which was framed in the neon blue light of the Sundowners Club sign, she took another shot of Jack and closed her eyes, allowing the hot liquid to settle into her stomach before turning off the car. Showtime.

  He watched her walk into the club before he stepped out of the car. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the El Camino, taking in his surroundings. The Sundowners Club was like so many other joints he’d been in. Concrete slab building, parking lot with only a couple of light poles, long neon sign marking the front door and broken beer bottles strewn everywhere. Good place to get a tire blown out, he thought, stomping out his cigarette. He reached in the car and took a little Afta and dabbed it on his stubbly face. He wore a golf shirt, khaki pants and a pair of dusty boots. Six feet three inches tall, he knew he wasn’t handsome, but he had never had much problem with the ladies or anything else for that matter. Of course, he didn’t give a shit, which he knew was the secret to his success. With women, with work – hell, with everything.

  JimBone Wheeler a.k.a “the
Bone” just didn’t give a shit.

  As he walked towards the front door, he laughed out loud thinking of the thousands of dollars in cash in his wallet and his assignment from the boss.

  31

  This is my lucky night, Wilma thought. Lap dances were $20 a pop and this man, James, had already paid for five of them. They were sitting at a table in the corner of the Club, and she was drinking a Jack and Coke, which he had bought for her. Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” was blaring from the speakers and Darla Ford a.k.a. “Nikita” was sliding down the pole on the main stage while Tammie Gentry a.k.a. “Sweet & Nasty” was pouring a sack of flour all over Nikita and herself. It was one of the highlight dances that always drew a big crowd. Most nights, Wilma liked to be walking around during this dance, trying to seize on the momentum by landing a few lap dances right after the show was over. But tonight she had already hit the jackpot.

  As Nikita and Sweet & Nasty’s show was coming to a close, James leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Listen, is there a VIP room where I can get a private dance without all these folks around?”

  For a moment, Wilma panicked. Lap dances were performed on a long bench near the back of the building. There was a small divider every few feet along the bench, making it look like little stalls. She was not aware of a more private area.

  “I’ll be right back, honey.” Without waiting for an answer, Wilma approached the main stage. Darla was walking down the steps, covered in a towel.

  “Smokey is smokin’ tonight,” Darla said, hugging Wilma. “How was the show?”

  “Great as always,” Wilma replied. “Listen, this guy back there–” and Wilma positioned herself so Darla could see “–is asking about a VIP room? Do we have one of those?”

  “You’re shitting me?” Darla answered, walking to the bar while Wilma tagged close behind. “Seven and Seven, Saint Peter,” she bellowed, and the bartender – a bearded man named Peter – slid the already made drink over to Darla. “Aren’t you a sweetie,” she said, winking at him and downing half her drink in one swallow. Then she turned and looked at Wilma.

  “Listen, honey, if he’ll pay a hundred dollars, then go through that door past the benches. There is a stairwell that will take you upstairs to a hallway with two rooms. You can use either one. The first has an old beat-up leather chair and the other one has a couch.”

  “What do you do up there? I mean, I guess you’re supposed to...” She stopped because she didn’t have a clue what she was supposed to do.

  “Anything and everything. There are no cameras up there. No rules like there are on the floor. If you like him and he’s nice, show him a good time. If not, then don’t.”

  “How long should I stay up there?”

  “As long as he’s paying and you’re comfortable.”

  Wilma had another question, but she wasn’t sure how to ask it. She looked back at James and then Darla.

  “Have you ever...? I mean... up there have you ever let the guy...?”

  “Yes, honey. I have.” She put her hands on Darla’s shoulders. “But only because I’ve wanted to. I’ve gotten hot, just like the guy. The guy’s hard, he’s throwing money at you, it’s, you know... you’re still a woman. But I don’t do it because he’s paying for it – I do it because I want to. There’s a difference.” Darla drained the rest of her drink and put her glass on the bar.

  “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 get back in 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 towards 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 back down the stairs in time to see Peter placing the fifth of Jack Daniels 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. Why?

  “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 secon
d 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.”