100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (8 page)

Coach Munk Wallace skimmed a little over six feet with a solid, oak tree kind of build and paunch in his gut. Don’t let anyone ever tell you gym teachers are in shape. Sometimes they had too much time on their hands making laps to the vending machine. With balding ginger-colored hair, he didn’t embrace his balding status either. He tossed and teased so much it accounted for a two-inch lift. He also rocked the same look, regardless of the weather. It consisted of athletic shorts, golf shirts or hoodies, and dirty glasses.

Coach led us to a small office tucked away in the corner, practically in another zip code. It didn’t even have a door. I took stock of my surroundings. Two students, one guy and one girl, gave small waves as we walked inside. They did homework at desks—he looked familiar, she didn’t. A silver metal desk sat against the back wall with state championship trophies on shelves behind it. A coat tree anchored the left corner, weighed down with at least four different coats. Cardboard boxes had been stacked atop one another by the desks, holding empty pizza boxes from LaRosa’s. Add a computer from the Dinosaur Age, and you just might have the next episode of
Hoarders
. But lo and behold, a Mr. Coffee coffeepot percolated on a credenza behind the desk.

My day just got better.

Black folding chairs sat in the middle of the floor. I parked myself in one while Coach pushed his body behind his desk, collapsing into a worn black, leather high-back. You can call me a lot of things but a fool wasn’t one of them. I had a captive audience here, and by God, I was going to make the best of it.

I pulled the photograph Tito faxed Rookie out of my purse (I’d made a copy), sliding it across the desk. “Do you know this guy?”

Coach Wallace gave it half a look. “Weird dude, but no,” he muttered. That didn’t mean anything. As far as we knew this photograph could be last year’s look. Tito didn’t divulge if it was up-to-date, and I hate to admit I wasn’t firing on all cylinders at the hour or wise enough to ask.

“Are you sure?” I pushed.

Apparently teachers—or Coach, at least—kept files on the criminals of tomorrow. The ones probably truant and delinquent on homework who courted trouble in and outside these four walls. Bracing his left hand on the desk, he pulled open a right-side drawer and removed a thin manila file, flipping it open. Stopping to blow the gunk from its surface, a cloud of dust mites invaded the space, and I immediately sneezed.

As I grabbed a tissue from the corner of his desk, he took a harder look at the photograph, comparing it to a quick thumb-through of his folder’s contents. He lifted one out and shoved it beside my photo for comparison, shook his head, and then riffled through a few more. Once again, he said he’d never met my guy, not even asking why I cared. With a weary sigh, he closed the file and slid it to the side. God willing, I’d get my hands on the file before I blew this joint.

Something was wrong with Coach, despite the fact he harbored me (and two others) who couldn’t get with the program. I pulled a two-year stint in counseling (you know, childhood trauma), and if I’d learned anything, it wasn’t wise to leave people in a desperate state.

The coffee pot burbled, and I took it upon myself to pour us both a drink. Stained dirt-brown, the pitcher probably hadn’t seen a wash in months, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and I was deficient on caffeine.

I filled two Styrofoam cups with a liquid resembling swamp water. “What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to get my psychobabble on.

Immediately, he thought I’d referred to the file. He blew into his cup as I slid back into my seat. “Bad childhoods for the most part. Some make it out with a good support system. Others wind up liking the constant rollercoaster. All I know is I have them over and over in the school’s detention program. Maybe that’s all they know.”

If I had the time, I’d think about that rollercoaster and myself, but Coach turned and looked at an itty-bitty photograph on the side of his desk, stealing my attention. It was displayed inside one of those clear plastic frames with no border. So you not only saw the front, but the back. A quick look showed a hand-written caption on the rear:
Jacinda Olivia Jemima Opal and me
. One heck of a long name.

My nose started itching. “Who is she?”

He glanced up with a deep inhale, exhale. “Ex-wife.” First of all, if someone were
my
“ex,” the last thing I’d want would be a daily reminder in my face. But consider Rookie and Red; their relationship was so dysfunctional I couldn’t even term it.

Emotions slashed across his face. And even though he appeared troubled, he handed me the photograph as if it was a priceless heirloom. I drew the photograph up to my eyes. He was his usual “coachy” looking self, but she had that ditzy bimbo look about her. Big, bleached-blonde hair with too much makeup.

I gave him my spill-it face.

“Divorce was final in June,” was all I got.

June was six months ago, so why the extra pain? Anniversary, the upcoming holidays, a torch he couldn’t extinguish? I pulled my shrink back on, but the mood was broken by someone loudly clearing his throat.

I heard the funeral march in my head.

A grin painted on Coach’s face, but soon enough, he acted like someone had him by the
happies
(er, testicles) and squeezed. “Taylor?” he sort of coughed.

The guy and girl doing homework coughed too.

Dylan’s voice murmured, “I’m here to chat with my colossally idiotic best friend.” My hands gripped the desk, my right leg motoring like Jagger Cane’s libido. I should’ve known he’d find me, but I was never prepared for the way his presence made me feel. I was practically fibrillating. “What can I do to fix this, sweetheart?” he asked.

You could kiss it and make it all better
, I laughed hysterically to myself.

“And would that be so bad?” the girl muttered.

Where’s a stun gun when you need it…

Evidently, I’d said that out loud.

A current sliced through the air from Dylan’s direction, charging the air with electricity. “God help me,” Coach groaned after he swallowed.

Coach and I met eyes, him frowning deeply at my R-rated thoughts.

Dylan murmured, “Darcy…”

Oh, boy, when he addressed me by my first name that meant I should fall in line before he resorted to force. I caved and dutifully got out of my seat, shuffling over to stand in front of his begging-to-be-mauled body. His left shoulder leaned against the doorjamb, right ankle crossed over the other.

Good enough to eat
, I thought.

Dylan had a body built for bad things. I let out a heavy sigh, wondering why I thought my best friend was better looking today than yesterday, knowing I’d repeat the same confusing phenomenon tomorrow.

When my attempt to get a smile fizzled, I lifted his stubborn jaw. “Hey,” I grinned.

He stared.

I stared.

Then I knocked him flat…on…his…gorgeous back—figuratively, of course.

“I need prayer, D. Even
I
know you shouldn’t fib at Christmas, and I’m trying to live a clean life.”

Dylan had that look like he’d fallen off the wagon train and got his jeans caught in the hitch. A gutsy move on my part, adding God to the mix—still, I glanced heavenward for a lightning bolt. Dylan repeated what I’d said, actually stuttered on it, looked to the ceiling, but gave up and dropped his jaw. We stood there for a few seconds while he tried to assess whether I’d formed a relationship with the Creator of the Universe or reached an all-time low. See, Dylan was a good Catholic boy—Mass, Lent, all the stuff that showed you truly cared about your final destination. I wasn’t anything except trouble.

With a sigh, he reached for my hand.

Coach muttered from behind, “Do you two always act like there’s no one else in the room?”

The girl to my left sighed dreamily, “Yes.”

Who in the heck
was
this chick?

Dylan released a devilish grin that instantly turned naughty. I had no idea what he thought but found myself fanning a blush. Coach suddenly stood near us, throwing his arm around Dylan’s shoulder, steering him out of the room like he removed a boiling pot from an open fire.

The bell jingled for the next class, and I knew I had to act quickly before they pulled the plug on my plan. In matters of sin behavior, I was lucky. Things fell into my lap. Seeing this file seemed too much of a coincidence to be coincidental in my world. At least, that’s the story I planned to tell my conscience when it woke me in the middle of the night.

Realizing he who hesitates is lost, I grabbed my things and shoved Coach’s file into my backpack. My next steps were currently vague, but they involved a little meet-and-greet with the people in this file. My instincts on the guy Tito faxed over to Rookie were bone-deep. If he was from Valley, as Tito’s source claimed, he was either in this file or chances were good those in the file knew of him.

Smiling at Dylan who’d turned around with a wink, I knew I’d done something I couldn’t undo.

5. The Little Engine that Could

E
very once in a while
the planets line up in your favor when you walk into class. The teacher tells you to read for the entire hour. She’s not going to bug you, discipline you, rat you out to higher authorities; she’s simply going to let you find your personal zen and veg. That’s what happened this afternoon in English literature.

Collette Reynolds had been subbing for our regular English teacher for the past three weeks. She was early twenties and a sex-crazed substitute who always wore a G-string and a skirt three inches too short. Frankly, she deserved an award for defying physics, and it not riding up her butt. Whatever the case, she appeared under the weather. Slumped over her desk, her ash blonde hair had been pulled up in a messy bun overtop one of those red holiday sweaters with a Christmas tree on the front. Making love to a jumbo cup of coffee, she popped Jolly Ranchers and cough drops like she ended a forty-day hunger strike.

Can we just say,
Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom
, problem solved?

As soon as Coach’s folder was in my possession, I wondered how I’d get the time to pore over it before school ended. Now the sub had given me carte blanche to do as I pleased. My plan was to look at it, memorize the details, and return it while it still fell under the auspices that I’d “borrowed” it.

When I clued-in her mind was elsewhere, I opened the file and grouped students by grade, offense, and time they’d actually spent at the county jail. Believe it or not, his file had an asterisk by those that’d been in the Mack County Juvenile System.

God love the organized people. Made my job easier.

I narrowed the list down to two, possibly three. All three had theft on their list of offenses as well as credit card offenses. Number one was Slapstick Wilson. Wilson reminded me of Hercules, so huge it’s like his momma fed him steroids in his baby bottle. He stood around six and a half feet tall, and for a boy who was still a teenager, that height was on a plane of bizarre you didn’t see often. His black hair was thick and fell at his shoulders, pushing the limit of what the school deemed acceptable. His hazel eyes were deep-set with a crooked line on a nose that’d been broken, but it didn’t detract from an otherwise appealing face. Slapstick was hiding one fine-looking body by not having the outer package society said made your marketable.

I’d heard the same thing about me (via Ivy)
, I laughed to myself.

According to the file, one felony offense was stealing his neighbor’s wallet two years ago and going on a spending spree at the grocery store. The judge let him off easy with community service because the neighbor ultimately didn’t want him to see time. Other offenses were misdemeanors like vandalism and disorderly conduct on the Fourth of July. Misdemeanors normally didn’t carry jail time, but there was another felony offense listed of carrying a knife in public. My guess was the judge wanted to send him a message because the charge involved a deadly weapon. As a result, Slapstick did a short stint in juvie this past summer.

Potential number two was Damon Whitehead. Once again, a felony offense of burglary and check forgery (he stole his uncle’s check card and bought a bicycle). Listed as a senior, Damon’s file said he’d endured several broken bones in foster homes, but they weren’t attributed to abuse. Not at least to what had been proven or what he’d admit. Whitehead was like a circus carnie, literally running along rooftops and performing death-defying feats for the heck of it. Sometimes he made it; sometimes he didn’t. He’d been in Juvenile Detention for vandalism and smoking marijuana…in Target, I might add.

Sort of impressive.

Now came prospect number three. Coach had spilled coffee on the lower half of the paper that listed his name. As a result, I had to peel it from the sheet in front of it, which unfortunately left his jawline murky. Because of the obscured photograph, my memory meter registered zero; he didn’t look familiar. His right eye was swollen shut, but darkness still resided in his gaze. Something was gone inside. Snuffed out too soon, perhaps. Like the others, he had the common thread of theft. He didn’t look exactly the same as the photo Tito faxed Rookie—this guy had dirty blond hair—but the beating he took made it impossible to tell for sure. I blew out a sigh. This made
Where’s Waldo?
look easy.

I closed the file and thanked the Milky Way Murphy was a clean-living man who came home each night. All of us had problems, but this file told me these three lived with a different set of circumstances than I did. Perhaps it was who they were, no matter their surroundings. Or perhaps they gave up and simply walked in the world they’d been born into. I’d learned the fine art of selective blindness when I was a child too. It was easy to shield your eyes from the painful if it was a matter of survival.