100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (27 page)

Big Moby could kiss my Cincinnati-born, probably Kentucky inbred you-know-what.

All I tried to do was tweak his nose, and he waved his seltzer bottle at me like I was fair game.
Ponkey
, I thought.
Mother-trucking ponkey.

Big Moby was Big Moby’s Cheeseburger Shack’s mascot…a clown. Sometimes Big Moby was nice; sometimes Big Moby should be put down like a rabid dog. I considered myself a brave person except for my irrational fear of clowns. It went back to watching
Poltergeist
before I could process that clowns didn’t really pull you underneath a bed. Big Moby didn’t act like he’d offer any alternative warm and fuzzy memories.

He dressed like your standard clown: red wig, checkered pants, white painted face, but instead of having big black clown shoes, his feet were bananas. In Mobyland, that made sense; in Darcyville, I thought it looked stupid. In his hand, he carried a seltzer bottle, chasing kids around the play area until their food arrived. Two words? Nightmare city. Descriptive sentence? What kind of person wanted to chase around kids?

Big Moby’s Cheeseburger Shack was a place the locals went to eat. Problem was, the roaches didn’t care if it was day or night. When I did the usual—check for roaches on the floor—Big Moby and I had a series of awkward moments where we both juked left then right until I finally stopped cold and let him pass.

Eating fast food was a science. If you dined during peak time, lines were long, but food was at least hot. If you ate during the off-hours, chances were your meal had wrinkled under a heat lamp. The key was to special order since special orders were made real time. Tonight’s shift consisted of four people: one person working the drive-thru, one cooking, one taking orders, and of course, Big Moby.

All wore red shirts, black pants, and a logo over their heart of a smiling clown. Red Shirt Number One took the order. Red Shirt Number Two fired up the grill, and Red Shirt Number Three dispensed a brown Moby bag out the drive-thru window. All had the work ethic of a lump of lard. They were slow and constantly dropped things—just enough health code violations to make you squirm. Big Moby gave them the death stare, and after a moment where profanity was the only language on Earth, they settled and went back to the burger routine.

After we placed our order, we were given a black plastic number so the staff could keep orders straight. Sort of pointless since the joint was deader than Murphy’s love life. Anyway, Dylan took the number twenty-eight and set it on the bright yellow table as we slid inside the black, padded corner booth. I must’ve groaned because he stroked my hand, murmuring, “Sweetheart, don’t give up quite yet. You’re worried about the deal you made with Coach, yeah?”

Well, there’s that, plus I wondered if Vinnie was a murderer and my DNA had splattered all over Nico Drake. You know, things every sixteen-year-old worried about.

“I need something to write on,” I told him. Dylan patted himself down, but all he found was an ink pen in his jacket and a pile of napkins on the counter. He slid them over with a wink and gazed up to watch a University of Cincinnati basketball game on the TV mounted from the ceiling.

My efforts had quickly run out of gas, so I decided to get visual and attempt to puzzle this stuff together. I drew a big oval building representing VHS. Next were rectangles for parking entrances and a big X where Coach’s car had been parked in space 270. To the left, I drew a space for a red Mustang and silver Chevy Colorado truck, respectively in spaces 271 and 272.

Dylan leaned over and absentmindedly massaged my neck. If an intimate dinner for two had been on his mind, that was shot up like swiss cheese when a gust of wind brought Bean Anatoly through the door. He strolled in with a white, fur-hooded parka zipped up to his nose.

“Darcy,” he mumbled through the fur.

I half waved, half tried to dissolve into the seat. I think Dylan chuckled. Bean trekked up to the counter, wearing boots you’d see on a polar icecap. They were white and laced up to his knees with fur sticking out the top, sort of how a snowman would look if he ever became Frosty.

God help him, he needed another stylist.

Thirty seconds later, he parked himself in our booth, unzipping his coat.

Dylan spoke first even though etiquette deemed Bean probably should.

“Hello, Bean,” he smiled. “How are you?”

Bean couldn’t find his vocal chords.

I’d only been around Bean in large groups; in a trio he was nervous, fidgety—uncertain at best and disastrous at worst. He glanced to all four corners, mumbling to himself which fire exit he’d take if the grill blew the place to kingdom come. Then he promised Mr. Pongo he’d figure it out as he unclipped him from his jacket and propped him against the peppershaker.

Bean, I’d discovered, had some major OCD tendencies. How else could you explain the fact he couldn’t go anywhere without his dead gerbil?

Dylan pointed to the door closest to us, murmuring, “That’s the one we’re going to take if anything happens, Bean.”

Bean’s shoulders dropped, relaxing a little. “Y-yeah,” he stammered, “me too.”

After five minutes, Big Moby klutzed over to our table like one of his shoes was a size too small. I wasn’t a hardhearted person; I knew fast food work was hard. Heck, maybe clown work was even harder, but if you had a job, my feelings were you should perform it to your highest potential. Strange coming from someone who hated schoolwork.

This particular Big Moby acted like he wanted off the clown shift.

He muttered, “Here’s your food” and slammed the tray on our table.

I flinched. Heck, I think Dylan flinched. Bean just sat there, inconsequential.

Running into Bean was weird. Eating with Bean was weirder. But the real weirdness here was Big Moby was never, ever,
ever
supposed to speak. I didn’t care if the place was lighting up in a ball of fire; he was supposed to point to the darn door and smile.

Moby offered a gloved hand. If speaking wasn’t enough, in all the years I’d been patronizing this place, Moby had never been interested in a handshake. Thing was, he touched me like we were familiar, slowly stroking my wrist like we knew one another intimately—or worse yet, he intended us to.

I came here for one reason—to unmask The Ghost since Tito’s source claimed this was the last place he’d been seen. The way I looked at it, there were several ways to accomplish the goal. I could outright ask, which in my opinion was stupid; I could hint around, which felt even stupider; or I could flirt and see what developed. I’d discovered flirting to be an effective investigational tool when I ran down the particulars on a gang at school last spring. Give a temptress smile, and the floodgates of gossip would spill all over you.

I tried my best to act like a siren, fluttering my eyes and exhaling a soft sigh. “So how’s the clown business, Moby?”

“Boring.”

“It seemed pretty exciting a few minutes ago.”

Big Moby was in the talking mood. A sideways glance to Dylan told me he’d let the conversation play. Dylan carefully arranged our food in front of us, even pausing to take a sip of his large Coke. His hair had been on end since Big Moby dressed down the workers, and my guess was he’d already polled the crowd. If a fight broke out, it basically was him and a girl. Bean didn’t count; he just didn’t. How could he? Mr. Pongo was currently eating a french fry.

“My crew isn’t always on their toes,” he explained.

Odd. I’d always thought Big Moby had been employed for entertainment purposes only. Instead, he acted like management.

He pointed the tip of his seltzer bottle at the diagram I’d made of the parking lot. “What’s with the drawing?”

“I’m actually on a case,” I explained. “The coach at our school had his car vandalized, and I told him I’d help him figure out who did it…for a price,” I added laughing.

“And you feel confident you can do that?” Big Mob asked.

“That’s like asking a surgeon which are the kidneys and the liver,” I bragged.

After I shoved a bite of burger in my mouth, I continued to draw characters. One stick person stood next to the red Mustang while I placed another beside the silver Chevy Colorado. Next I included the white van that’d blocked my view. Bean leaned over and drew a stick person wearing a superhero cape on the roof, trying to complete the drawing with me flying high like an idiot.

“Surely you don’t think you’ll be successful,” Big Moby chuckled.

“That’s sort of harsh, Moby,” I snorted. “Because once I tackle this, I’m going to take on organized crime right here in Valley. Identity theft, vandalism, illegal guns—you name it.” Shoot, I didn’t know if there were illegal guns, probably wasn’t, but it sure as heck was fun watching the look of shock on Moby’s face.

“You’re kidding,” he muttered.

Bean piped up happily, “Darcy doesn’t kid. She’s smart.”

Moby scratched his red rubber nose, like it itched. “Darcy, you say.”

I shoved two more fries in my mouth. “Yup, you’ve gotta have faith, right?”

Big Moby acted as if he’d fixated on my face. Like he tried to memorize every line and curve. Laughing, he reached out to touch my earrings. At least, that’s what I thought he’d gone for. His white glove hovered awfully close to my jugular.

I attempted to pull away, but Moby grabbed a handful of my hair. Dylan wiped his mouth, murmuring, “Darcy.” First of all, it was a formality, and secondly, he said it with too much emotion. A telltale sign he’d either talked himself down or geared himself up.

I’m not sure how it happened, but it was like one of those blackout episodes where the people in front of you are all arranged differently when the lights switch back on. Dylan now stood with his hand wound tightly around Big Moby’s wrist. Bean hovered under the table.

Dylan threatened, “I highly suggest you keep your hands to yourself if you anticipate using them in the near future.”

Big Moby grunted a little. “You wouldn’t hit a clown now, wouldja?”

“I triple-dog dare him,” Bean said sheepishly.

My lungs froze. That was some serious shiz when you went
Christmas Story
on someone. Problem was, Big Moby bordered stupid if he thought Dylan wouldn’t take the challenge.

Big Moby suddenly dropped my hair and earring, saying, “Cheerio” and turned on his banana soles and shuffled toward the counter. What a scumbag. My guess was Big Moby suffered from pugilistic dementia. He not only squirted people with a seltzer bottle but ran his head into the wall to get a laugh. But I was thinking that was last summer’s Big Moby. This new guy? He took shiz-bag to a brand new level.

15. Plan B

I
popped open a can of
Vienna sausages and lined them up end-to-end on a hotdog bun. I was a nervous eater, and I’d been attacking everything that hadn’t moved for the last sixty minutes. Glancing at the kitchen clock, I groaned at the witching hour. It was too late to contact Tito, and I’d been itching to speak with him since my feet entered command central. Munching as I strode upstairs, I waited outside Murphy’s room until I heard him snoring. Snore…stop breathing…snore…stop breathing. When I figured I was home free, I tiptoed into Marjorie’s room and burglarized her burner phone.

Before I burrowed down, I removed my contacts and slathered voodoo cream on my chest. Claudia and Ana Rosalina concocted a paste made of island plant life that promised to boost my barely-B into C-range if I rubbed it on during the crescent moon. I’d nicknamed it voodoo cream since you obviously couldn’t find it over the counter.

Afterward, I changed into red and white striped leggings and a matching top. Padding over to the corner, I opened the cage door and threw birdseed at Churro and Chimichanga. They both blinked twice with a dead-eyed stare before I covered their cage with a black satin blanket. Then I waved at the red Siamese fighting fish Dylan surprised me with tonight, named after Herbert Hoover.

I crawled into bed and turned off the light, attempting a prayer. I found even the hardest of persons threw up a prayer frivolously, but I didn’t want to fall into that group. I took a deep breath. “God,” I whispered, “I’m in a mess. Odds are against me, but if you could float some juicy stuff my way tomorrow, I’ll turn from my sinful ways and be a good—”

I immediately stopped, realizing I’d entered the hypocrite zone. Before common sense could knock on my brain, I dialed Tito’s number despite the hour. On ring number three, I whispered, “Jester here,” when he answered.

He exhaled. “Jester, you’ve heard.”

Oh crap. Suddenly, it wasn’t a good idea to eat Vienna sausages. I swallowed down a burp that burned like bleach. “Yes,” I lied, “how tragic.”

“My source said the crime scene was horrific.”

“Who
is
your source, Tito?”

“Now, Jester,” he drawled in his southern way. “I protect them as much as I protect you. But if you’re longing to be transparent, who’s yours?”

I laughed loudly. “Anonymous.”

He laughed even louder. “Ah, you can get away with a lot of things under the cloak of anonymity.”

What the shinola were we talking about? Obviously, Tito felt I was in the loop, but as usual, I was flying blind. Slapstick and Damon I’d all but crossed off the list. By all intents and purposes, I’d gone back to the drafting board.

“The Ghost is clearly causing more problems, Tito,” I guessed.

“I’d say, but who in the world is the skeleton in the closet?”

I launched into a full-on panic attack. Couldn’t breathe, swallowed my tongue, shook uncontrollably from head to foot. I ripped off my shirt and sat there in a sports bra from the waist up, trying to cool my overly agitated body. I debated going straight, but that’d chance my aunt and uncle discovering I didn’t sit nicely at home like the normal chicks. That’d be dumb, dumber than what I was currently doing.

“Yes, Tito,” I reluctantly confessed, “I know. In fact, I’ve seen the layout of the home, and it looked like an organized operation to me. Without any proof, I’d say there was a problem within the operation because one of them is dead. One of the players, my guess, is the skeleton rolled up in the navy comforter.”

“You even know the color of the comforter,” he said quietly.

“I was there, okay? I didn’t do it, but there was another guy present that got beaten up. Was he found in the same situation? As in dead?”

“Jester,” he said tightly.

“Answer, Tito. This is important.” I’d inadvertently thrown Vinnie under the bus—crap, there was no going back now.

A pause. “I need a moment.”

Dead air.

More dead air.

“I need you to answer if another man was found,” I pushed.

“No one was found,” he answered.

“Do you swear? Like he didn’t crawl off in the yard and die in the dirt or something? Like, uh,” I paused, “like next to…
another
body?” Nico Drake.

“No one other than the skeleton was found, Jester, but a pool of blood big enough to swim in was.”

Holy. Shizzers. A part of me had hoped I’d imagined that whole Nico Drake dead body thing. But I knew I didn’t. So where in the heck did he go because he sure as heck wasn’t whistling Dixie when I left him. And while we’re on the subject, what kind of sick messed up ponkey killed someone, rolled them in a blanket, and stuffed them in a closet? There were clothes in that closet, for crying out loud. What did the guy do? Step over the body when he reached for a t-shirt? Good thing was, Vinnie was in the clear. Thank. You. Jesus. “Listen, Tito. 9139 Calypso Cove Drive was full of material that would keep an identity thief in business for years. If that’s truly where The Ghost resides, then you need to find out who owns that house.”