The Reluctant Prophet Page 19

  “All right, we’ve heard enough.” Stress Lady waved her phone at the others. “I’ve called for the limo to meet us.”

  Mary Kay clutched at her necklace. “Not in this neighborhood!”

  “I’m happy to take you back to the First American Bank building, where you’ll undoubtedly be more at home,” I said.

  The limo met us at King and Sevilla, and the party couldn’t break up fast enough. As they disembarked and retreated into the insulated safety of the long white car, no one had a word of complaint for me. In fact I didn’t get so much as a glance. The whole experience was probably forgotten before they purred away from the curb.

  “What does that tell you, Bernard?” My voice, so cocky and caustic five minutes before, splintered around the edges, and I wanted to get someplace where I could wash my mouth out, preferably with lye soap. I hadn’t spoken the name Troy Irwin in at least seven years, but saying it still tasted like a curse. And as always, it made me wonder if every woman had the same reaction to the rediscovered flavor of her first love.

  My cell phone rang. “That was fast,” I said to Bernard. “We’re busted, Buddy.”

  But it wasn’t Lonnie with my termination. “Muldoon Middle School” appeared on the screen.

  I was on my way to the stables as I answered it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The woman from the school didn’t tell me much more than that Desmond had been in a fight. While I was conjuring up broken noses and ruptured spleens, she went on to her bigger concern.

  “You’re on the sheet as an emergency contact,” she said as I trotted Bernard and carriage up to the stable gate and threw the lines to the kid who was mucking manure. “But we do like to have a parent in these situations, and I couldn’t reach his mother at the number I have. The legalities—”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes,” I said, and fishtailed out with Lonnie in my rearview mirror, chawing on his toothpick.

  It took me ten. I got behind a pickup truck doing twenty in a thirty-five, and all I could do was stew in its exhaust fumes and picture Desmond handcuffed to a police cruiser. Who knew what he’d said to a cop by now? Probably enough to land him in juvie with his jaw wired shut. I arrived at the school without a plan, which would have done me no good anyway because I found not a sheriff’s car but an ambulance parked in front.

  “DearGoddearGoddearGod,” was all I could say as I left the van door hanging open and tore toward the flashing lights. I plowed through a line of gawking kids and brushed aside a woman with a clipboard until I got to the back of the ambulance. Desmond sat on its floor, wrapped in a blanket in the smothering heat, huge feet hanging almost to the ground like a marionette’s. A female paramedic was in the process of wrapping gauze around his head and was barely staying ahead of the blood that wept through. His upper lip was as swollen as a banana slug.

  “Desmond!” I said.

  The paramedic shook her head at me. “Ma’am, if you’ll just hold on for about two more minutes, you can have at him.”

  I took a step back and onto the toe of a female eighth-grader disguised as a twenty-year-old.

  “Just so you know,” she said to me, slick lips speaking emphatically, “three boys attacked him. He didn’t do nothin’.”

  I didn’t find that hard to believe. I’d had the boy down on the kitchen floor myself.

  “He was just messin’ with their heads like he always does,” another girl said, bringing out her scarlet talons to enhance the story. “And they just, like, went ballistic on him.” Her eyes were aghast as she added, “He didn’t even have a chance to fight back.”

  I looked at Desmond, ready for the comeback, the retort that would inform them it was all good. I saw only pure humiliation curve his back as he stared at his knees, and I knew it was more painful than the gash on his forehead.

  “Okay, he’s all yours,” the paramedic said to me. “He didn’t suffer a concussion and it doesn’t look like he needs stitches, so I don’t think we need to take him to the emergency room. You can if you want to make sure—”

  “I don’t want to go to no hospital,” Desmond said. His voice was muffled by the swelling and the shame.

  “I’ll take it from here,” I said.

  “So they didn’t crack his head open?” one of the girls complained.

  The woman with the clipboard waved it at the group. “All right, people, it’s over. Let’s get to class.”

  A palpable wave of disappointment rolled over the crowd as they dispersed.

  “We’ve got your back, Desmond,” a female voice called out.

  Three different adults were suddenly at me with release forms and reassurances that the full power of the administration would be brought to bear on the three perpetrators. The question, “Where is his mother?” was asked repeatedly.

  “She’s unavailable at the moment,” I kept saying. I signed until there were no more forms, wondering with each signature how legal it was, and finally nodded Desmond toward the van.

  “What do you say we go home and sort this out?”

  He muttered, “Ain’t nothin’ to sort,” but he followed me, bandage wrapped around his bush of hair so that he looked more like a child refugee than ever.

  When we were in the van, I checked to make sure there were no Gossip Girls lingering on the school steps before I dug out a Hershey Kiss I’d been saving in my pocket and held it out to him. He shook his head, which was enough for me to head for the ER right there.

  “Look,” I said, “forget the part where they had you down before you even knew what hit you. You’re not a fighter, and there’s no sense in even going there.”

  He fixed his eyes on the windshield.

  “You have a different skill set,” I said, “which brings me to the real point. What did you say to those kids before they started swinging? I know you said something to set them off.”

  Desmond continued to stare for a moment before the puffy lip tried to curve. “This one kid—he got eyes go out all weird.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I told him he look like a frog on crack.”

  “That would do it,” I said. “What did he say to you first?”

  “Whatchoo mean?”

  “You don’t waste your best stuff on nothing. He said something to provoke you. What was it?”

  Desmond’s eyes shifted. “He said I wasn’t nothin’ but a son of a ho.”

  The word jackal was off my tongue almost before I thought it.

  “Okay, look,” I said, “I know about not being able to control your own mouth. I have that problem myself. But it has to be done or you’re going to end up with worse than a busted lip and a scar on your face.”

  “You think I’ma have a scar?” he said, eyes brightening as he felt the bandage.

  “If you do, I gotta tell you, that isn’t going to make you tough. Just so you know.”

  I knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment it left my lips. Desmond curved back into himself, and we drove home in uncomfortable silence. I’d failed at more jobs in my life than most people even get hired for, but I’d never been as bad at anything as I was at this.

  When we pulled into the garage, Desmond stared dismally at the Harley, and I did too until I felt something Nudge lightly at my spirit.

  “Y’know,” I said, “you did the responsible thing by not fighting back.”

  “I didn’t fight back ’cause I knew I couldn’t win!”

  The eyes that turned on me were so full of adolescent agony, I winced.

  “Then you’re even smarter than I thought,” I said. “Come on.”

  We climbed out of the van, and I opened the footlocker where I kept the motorcycle gear. I lifted the black helmet with the orange flames and handed it to him.

  “You took the responsibility
instead of the risk,” I said. “You’ve earned this back.”

  Desmond stared from me to the helmet in what could only be described as pure shock. I was a little shocked myself. Had I actually just done the right thing with this kid? I must have, because he placed the helmet on his head with the awed dignity of a crown prince who’d never expected to take the throne.

  Huh. Ten minutes before, I was sure I was going to have to notch another false start into my personal fuselage. Now I felt like the female version of Cliff Huxtable. I yanked Desmond’s visor over his face and grinned at him.

  He grinned back like a twelve-year-old boy.

  Yeah, this child needed a mother. It was time to go to his and get her involved in his life. With Desmond still wearing his beloved helmet, we went into the house through the side door, but the minute we stepped into the kitchen, my breath caught. The air was different, as if something had been sucked out of it and left the rooms naked and vulnerable.

  Or maybe something had merely been sucked out of my brain. I headed for the pantry. “You want some lunch, Desmond? I think we could both use some carbs after that little altercation—”

  “Big Al, I swear to you I did not do it.”

  I stuck my head out of the pantry. Desmond stood in the den doorway, face pinched.

  “What didn’t you do?”

  “I didn’t rip off your DVD player. Or your laptop. But they gone.”

  I was already headed for the den and poking my finger at him. “Don’t play with me, Desmond.”

  “I ain’t playin’. They not there.”

  He was still defending his innocence when I stopped in the middle of the room and stared below the TV. The empty place in the cabinet where the DVD player should have been gaped back at me.

  “Maybe your mom moved it upstairs so she could watch a movie,” I said.

  “She don’t know nothin’ ’bout hooking up no DVD—and she sure don’t know nothin’ ’bout no computer.”

  “I locked that in the desk,” I said.

  But before I even looked, I knew the keyhole had been jimmied.

  “Now I did do that,” Desmond said, “before I got responsibility. But I just wanted to use it—I didn’t steal it out your house like she done.”

  “Who? Your mother?”

  “Who else gonna do it?”

  “Okay.” I pressed my fingers to my temples and made tracks for the stairs. “There has to be an explanation for this.”

  “I give you ten to one odds she ain’t here,” Desmond said as he followed.

  “I don’t gamble.” Although I had the sinking feeling I’d already bet the farm on a weak horse.

  I did a thorough search with Desmond dogging me, telling me I was wasting my time. He turned out to be right, because Geneveve wasn’t in her room, the bathroom, or the back of the closet, which I checked in desperation. Her few extra clothes still hung there, but they weren’t talking. Other than that. she’d left only a sense of violation. I sat at the bottom of the stairs and rubbed the tops of my thighs with Desmond sprawled beside me, watching.

  “You gonna call the cops, Big Al?” he said.

  “Not yet.” I glanced at my watch. “Chief’s probably working. Hank. I’ll call Hank.”

  “That little squatty Harley woman that makes the weird food?”

  “I’m not calling her to order lunch,” I said. I was calling her because I needed somebody sane who might know what God was doing. I sure didn’t.

  She arrived within the half hour, with Chief. Although they were both on their bikes, it was obvious they’d somehow discussed the situation, because they came in with the plan I hadn’t been able to think of.

  “I think the best thing is for us to go look for her,” Chief said to me.

  “I’ll ride with you, Big Al,” Desmond said. “We good together.”

  “You and I are staying here,” Hank said. “I’ll make lunch.” Before Desmond could get too far into an incredulous look at me, Hank produced a thick book with a custom V-rod on the front cover. “We can look at this while we eat. It never hurts to dream.”

  He gave me one last look over his shoulder as he followed her into the kitchen. “Get that DVD player. I was planning to watch Hellboy tonight.”

  Chief was a stride ahead of me as we crossed the lane to the garage.

  “We’ll take the bikes,” he said. “That way we can split up and cover more ground faster.”

  “Okay.”

  “If you find her in trouble, call me before you do anything—I’ve got my phone in my shirt pocket on vibrate. You do the same with yours.”

  “All right.”

  He watched me turn the Classic to face the driveway. “Don’t try to handle this alone. I know it’s broad daylight, but that won’t matter if somebody’s up against the wall. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said again.

  I reached for the ignition but he caught my hand. The intensity that always gave weight to his gaze was there in his palm as well.

  “Think of the whole thing like riding your bike,” he said. “Measure the risk and consider the consequences.”

  I nodded and fired up the engine. I could still feel his hand pressing it in.

  Everything was surreal as I followed the Road King out onto St. George Street. The only thing I was sure of was my hand on the throttle. And the Nudge on the seat behind me that said, For once in your life do what somebody tells you.

  When the sun faded beyond West King and left us in dismal darkness, we still hadn’t found Geneveve. Although the denizens were beginning to emerge from wherever it was they hid themselves in the daylight hours, nobody was talking, not even the two prostitutes who’d helped me locate her before. Even when I offered them money in front of Titus Tattoo, they gazed longingly at it for only a moment before they shook their heads again. Both of them were visibly working to keep fear in check.

  “I’m not trying to make trouble for her, ladies,” I said. “I just want to help her. I’ve been helping her.”

  “That ain’t the kinda help she needs,” the smaller one mumbled through her fingers.

  The taller woman jabbed her hard on the shoulder and shoved her back as she stepped toward me. Her eyes glittered through the film of drugs.

  “You wanna help Geneveve right now? Then just leave her alone, or it’s gon’ go down bad for her. Real bad.”

  “See, I don’t know what that means,” I said.

  “And you don’t wanna know.”

  I held up the money again, all the cash I had on me, but the woman pulled her companion into the alley beside the tattoo shop and they dissolved into the shadows. A new layer of evil had descended on the neighborhood—a layer so heavy it even smothered the one thing that usually trumped all else. Something or somebody had more power than the next score.

  The parking lot in front of C.A.R.S. was empty, so I pulled over to it and stopped in the fuzzy gleam of a Pennzoil light with half the letters broken out. I checked my cell phone, but I hadn’t missed a call from Chief, which meant he wasn’t having anymore luck than I was. Either that or he’d been offed. As much as I doubted that, I held my breath after I dialed him. When he answered with “Talk to me,” I forgot to exhale. The little bit I’d gleaned from the ladies of the night came out like somebody was strangling me.

  “That’s more than I’ve gotten out of anybody,” he said. “Something’s definitely gone down. I can’t even get anyone to try to talk me out of my Harley.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Let’s go back to the house and regroup. Hank could probably use some relief by now.”

  “You want me to meet you there?”

  “No. Let’s hook up on Davis and we’ll make one more loop and then ride back together.”

  If I hadn’t turned into a lar
ge gelatinous mass, I would have pointed out that “hook up” was a poor choice of words at the moment, but I just agreed and restarted the engine, startling myself as if I’d never heard the thing before. I was truly a complete mess.

  And became more so when I felt something sharp dig into my back. My hand involuntarily rolled the throttle, and the motor’s responding roar covered my scream. I fumbled to get it in gear and forgot to engage the clutch. The engine cut out in a stall so hard I lurched against the handlebars. When I felt the sharp poke again, the insane thought that this was definitely not God shot through my head.

  “Okay—the money’s in my left jacket pocket,” I said. I’d intended for it to come out calm and soothing, but I sounded like the nearly hysterical woman I was. My voice hit the side of the building with an almost audible splat, and, crazily, I followed it with my eyes and caught the image of myself in the smeary window. Myself and the diminished little prostitute jabbing her finger into my ribs.

  I only caved enough into relief to say, “Take the money.” I probably could’ve taken her—she was smaller even than Geneveve or Desmond, who I had taken. But she had a different look in her eyes, a fever that might overpower my height and weight and muscle tone if it meant she could get the thing her body was screaming for. What was left of it.

  She put her hand in my right pocket and clawed at its lining. A frantic whimper followed as she grabbed at nothing. It was as violating as a rape.