Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (16 page)

Stop, Aidan.  She and her mother would make the juggernaut from Hell.  Do
n’
t go there.

“
Le
t’
s get moving
,”
I grumble, ignoring the danger signals and watching rookie investigator Laws come out of the car long legs first.  Joining me on the sidewalk, she dons Ray-Bans against the April sun, protecting her milky skin, creamy as a scoop of vanilla ice cream. 

“
You go in through the reception area
,”
I say, forcing myself to sound official.
 “
Give me five minutes with Bite Doc, then walk Miss Colby back.  After
I’
m finished with him, w
e’
ll question her
.
” 

I motion DeeDee to enter Verbot
e’
s through the reception area to block Alaina from bolting yet again.  I
t’
ll also be good for her to have a female officer escort her to the back.  The news I have to deliver is bad, terrible.  Maybe sh
e’
ll find another femal
e’
s presence comforting.

“
What
?
”
 
I catch DeeDe
e’
s gaze. 
I’
ve just assigned her grunt work, yet sh
e’
s smiling.
 “
Wha
t’
re you so damn happy about
?
” 

“I’
ll bring her back to you shortly
,”
she says, beaming
,“
just as you sa
y—
boss
.
”

I discard my vow to treat her like a man and urge her ahead with a hand to the small of her back, the muscles ripped as a female panthe
r’
s beneath my hand.  As we near the crumbling steps leading up to Verbote Dental, I watch her climb. 

Shapely butt.  Not bad.

But I like the lithe hips and muscular thighs of runners and dancers. 

Nevertheles
s
—

“
Aidan
.
”
 
She turns, smiles.
 “
I can interview Alaina Colby if yo
u’
d like
.
” 

Tha
t’
s when my common sense shoves aside any urge to throw DeeDee down and fuck her.  She wants the Megalo collar.  Fortunately, I see her ambition.  Like a ragged piece of chum luring me, it bloodies the choppy blue Atlantic of her glare, visible through her Ray-Ban
s
’ dark lens. 

“
Why would I want you to do that
?
”
 
I turn her around and point her back up the steps.
 “
Go.  W
e’
re late
.
”

But sh
e’
s read me.  She knows I want her.  Way to go, fool, I tell myself.  Wanting two women wh
o’
ll never call each othe
r“
frien
d”
is a dangerous game.  Wanting two like DeeDee Laws and Alaina Colby is suicide.

Yo
u’
re in over your head now, A.G. 

As usual I have
n’
t even tried.

* * *

The man calling himself Rakesh Gupta turns in the front seat.
 “
W
e’
re done here
.
”

Tate
r’
s body lists sideways, dead weight sunk in the lim
o’
s posh back seat.
 “
Fuck you
,”
he spits, but what comes out is unintelligible.  H
e’
s missing teeth, his lips are swollen and blue and bleeding.  Blood floods his mouth, choking back his expletives with garbled sounds.

“
You Americans
,”
Rakesh says, calm, as immutable as Buddha.
 “
Potty mouths, one and all, are
n’
t you
?
” 

He nods to one of the two men in the back seat, holding Tate
r’
s arms like h
e’
s a banged up garbage can the
y’
re fighting over.  Rakesh says nothing.  It had taken both of his me
n—
gorillas themselve
s—
to stuff Tater inside the limo after the
y’
d left the police station with him in tow.

Once h
e’
d figured out Rakesh was no lawyer, and damn well not his lawyer, Tater started fighting hard.  H
e’
d just had no idea he was going to lose.  He was a Westerner.  Like John Wayne, he was wired to win, to never say die.  Rakesh knew nothing of John Wayne, and cared less.  Tater went slamming head-first into the limo.

The man on Tate
r’
s right blossoms inside the limo like lava inside an erupting volcano.  H
e’
s bi
g—
bigge
r—
than his captive.  His bulk blocks any hope of escape.  The other giant on Tate
r’
s left holds the gun, a fat little shit with the biggest hole at the end of its barrel Tate
r’
s ever seen.  H
e’
s never owned a gun.  Never needed to.  H
e’
s always used size to bully people into doing what he wants.  Staring at the snub-nosed gun, he recognizes, however, that any attempt to shove this gorilla out the door will be met with a tragic death.  His own.

“
Towel-headed bastard
,”
Tater spits, resorting to the expletives that so far have had little effect on his captors.  H
e’
d called them all towel head
s—
and other racist epithet
s—
earlier.  It had almost pissed off the gorilla, earning Tater a broken rib or two.  Aware h
e’
s once again the target of Tate
r’
s racial slurs, he fists Tater in the kidney. 

“
Owwww
.
”
 
A wheeze escapes Tate
r’
s lips, barely moving now, except to mumble. 

“
Tell us who killed her.  We will make this less painful
,”
Rakesh says, bored, sounding like h
e’
s filing his fingernails.
 “
Tell us what Detective Hawks said, any names he mentioned
.
”

“
Mmm
,”
Tater mumbles.  Has
n’
t he already told them all he knows?  By now i
t’
s clear h
e’
s not coming out of this alive, but dying quickly is
n’
t a satisfying option, either.  Head sunk on his barrel chest, lumberjack shirt caked in blood, he gives it one more try.
 “
I . . . d-d-do
n’
t know.  Maybe he mentioned Ang . . . Angie Miller
.
”

In the ca
r’
s fetid silence, the stench of violence and blood overpowering despite his exotic odor of spice and jasmine, Rakesh sits up, alert.
 “
Tha
t’
s it
?”
he asks.
 “
Angie Miller?  He did
n’
t mention any other names?  An Indian gir
l’
s name
?
”

Tensing and waiting for another sucker punch to his kidney, Tater lifts his head. 
Huh?
  The only Indian girls h
e’
s seen are on TV, and the
y’
re being chase
d—
or courted and chased alternatel
y—
by cowboys.  He picks his brain, trying to recall any name that big bastard cop from NPD migh
t’
ve dropped.  Anything, did he say anything at all that will deliver him from any more sucker punches, maybe save his remaining fingers?

The gorilla on his right, blocking escape, flicks open the butterfly knife.  Tater already knows the ma
n’
s no stranger to the knif
e’
s use, but the elegant whip of his wrist speaks worlds.
 “
I do
n’
t know!  I do
n’
t know!  I do
n’
t fucking
know
!”
he sobs. 

Nothing comes to mind.  The detective did
n’
t mention no damn Indian girl.  Detective Hawks had
n’
t said a word during their sweat-down.  Tater has nothing to give these fucking towel heads.  Is it possible that he, indomitable badass with a world-class rep among his good buddy trucker friends, is really praying for death?  Is he really hoping this will end quickly, as Rakesh promised? 

Tate
r’
s dim eyes open, briefly registering his protes
t—
and shock.

The butterfly knife swishes silently in the gian
t’
s hands, slithering toward one of Tate
r’
s few remaining fingers, a thumb. 

“
Did the detective mention anyone called Guyatri
?”
Rakesh asks, wearied by the fat America
n’
s weakness, his easy subjugation to pain.  Rakes
h’
s friends are conditioned to die noble deaths, yet h
e’
s done business long enough to know: in the end, any man being tortured cries and begs for death.
 “
A name
,”
Rakesh says, pitiless, nodding toward the gorilla with the butterfly knife.
 “
Any name.  An
Indian
gir
l’
s name
.
”

H
e’
d sat his ass in a Coke truck since he was eighteen.  His was
n’
t what yo
u’
d call a life of learning, so Tater felt it, the irony of being asked to name an Indian girl, but he could
n’
t name it.  His ignoranc
e—
the fact h
e’
d never get the chance to look up the term in his little pocket dictionar
y—
frustrated him, made him angry beyond reason.  Who were these men in their fancy suits and limo to treat him this way?  One-on-one h
e’
d chew off these bastard
s
’ balls and eat them.  But they were
n’
t playing fair.
 “
For fuc
k’
s sake
,”
he says
,“
I do
n’
t know no Goddam
n—
any Indian girls. 

“
Wait
!
”
 
He gives it one more try as the gorilla grabs a thumb.
 “
He mentioned Alaina Colby
.
”
 
It does
n’
t sound Indian, but Tater tosses it out, anyway, hoping against hop
e
—

“
He said . . . Alaina Colby. . .
.
”

His thumb plops quietly onto the posh leather seat, the sound lost in Tate
r’
s screams.

Chapter 13

Praying my boss wo
n’
t notice
I’
m late, I slip down the hallway of Verbote Dental.

“
Alaina, is that you
?”
Brick yells from his lab. 

Oh, crap
.
 
“
No, i
t’
s Aurelia
,”
I yell back.  Maybe Bric
k’
ll believe my lie and think
I’
m the newbie dental assistant.

Aurelia Moreno shoots me a murderous glare from her dark eyes when I slide by her, giving her an embarrassed grin.
 “
Guess you heard that
?
”

Sh
e’
s clutching her notebook and wearing clean scrubs splotched with teddy bears, in contrast to my co-ed grunge. 
I’
m rumpled, wearing my usual uniform: jeans, hoodie, ballet clothes layered beneath, the ones I do
n’
t need now that I have to skip dance class right after work and go look for my deadbeat brother.  My favorite worn Nikes encase my feet.

Her frown, and the string of epithets in Spanish, say it all.  She hates me, and I cannot figure out why.

“
If you were
n’
t such an acid tongue,
I’
d like you
,”
I tell Aurelia.  Her dark-lashed eyes shrink to little black-slitted almonds.  Times like this I wish I spoke Spanish, although I get Aureli
a’
s general drift when she spits at my Nikes and calls me
,“
puta
.
”
 
Bitch
.

“
Yo
u’
re late
,”
she says, switching from Spanish to English. 

“
News flash, Aurelia
,”
I say, irritated
,“
I like you
because
of your acid tongue, but you still do
n’
t get to be my time keeper
.
”

“
I haf been asked by Doctor Verbote to keep attendance records
,”
she says, despite the fact our boss insists we call him Brick. 

“
Whatever
,”
I say.
 “
Yo
u’
re in charge.  Tha
t’
s what Brick tells me, anyway
.
” 

“
Bric
k”
is aptly named.  Once h
e’
s made up his mind, nothing changes it.  Tha
t’
s a minus in my case.  H
e’
s decided h
e’
ll teach me the tenets of his Mormon faith.  I know h
e’
s already converted Aurelia, who goes to church with him and, who in English at least, pretends to worship thi
s“
Heavenly Fathe
r”
Brick prays to.  H
e’
s worki
n
’ to get me to join his LD
S“
cult
,”
as Ang calls it, and Aurelia is his little proselytizer.  But lik
e—
I need a father?  Never got the chance to know my own, so why bother now?

Aurelia and I lock gazes, and then because
I’
m already late I say
,“
So what now
?
” 

“
I haf written your arrival time down for Doctor Verbote
.
”

I groan.  Aureli
a’
s and Bric
k’
s noose is tightening.  I can feel it.  I wonder if Brick is aware Aureli
a’
s conversion to his Mormon faith might be motivated by something darker, like the need to use him to get money?  I ca
n’
t think of any other reason for her devotion. 

Seeing a flicker of discomfort in her eyes before she turns away, I feel sorry for her.  I want her to open up and spill the beans.
 “
Aurelia, wha
t’
s wrong?  If yo
u’
d talk, yo
u’
d have more friends, you know.  I mean,
I’
ll help you
.
”

“
Nothing is wrong
,”
she says, tossing another glance over her shoulder.
 “
I was going to tell you something important, but not no
w
—”

“
Whatever
,”
I say.  Let her play her stupid game.

“
No, no
t—
whatever
.
”
 
She turns and nails me with an angry glare.
 “
You need to show up on time.  Act more grateful.  Many girls in Tijuana would love to haf your job
.
”

“
Okay, so
I’
m privileged
,”
I say, shaking with sarcasm Aurelia ca
n’
t possibly fathom.  Gimp with two jobs.  Drug lord for a mother.  Meth head brother.  Tha
t’
s my life. 

Yeah, sure, Aurelia,
I’
ve got it made.  Livi
n
’ the dream.
 
I’
m privileged.
 

I want to tell her these things, but do
n’
t.  Despite being pissed at her, I know sh
e’
s right: I need to get to work on time. 

“
First rule
,”
Brick had lectured when h
e’
d hired me
,“
arrive on time
.
” 

Seven months ago,
I’
d have agreed to anything. 
I’
d have killed for this job.  But
I’
m struggling. 
I’
m supposed to hold down two jobs, go to school fulltime, track my criminal-minded brother, and someho
w—
always, always, alway
s—
show up for work on time?

How can I educate old people like Brick?  We live in alternate universes.  Outside this office, there are worse things than caffeine and arriving late for work.  People my age are jacking horse tranquilizers into their foreheads with hypodermic needles.  The
y’
re eating boogers from each othe
r’
s noses to get the residue of Methamphetamine floating in their snot. 

Thinking of ways to get Aurelia deported and still wondering why a good Catholic Latina would become a Mormon, I limp deeper into the buildin
g’
s bowels.  On my left are several empty rooms once used for treating patients.  Stuffed to their ceilings with boxes, the rooms now serve as storage for Bric
k’
s various projects.  While our patient list dwindles, the boxes pile up.

Avoiding Aurelia, I sneak into one of the empty rooms and make one last try to call Ang.

She does
n’
t answer. 

“
Crap.  To hell with this.  All of it
,”
I say.
 “
Why should I care wha
t’
s happened to her?  Why should I care about anything, other than the fact
I’
ll be dancing An
g’
s shift again tonight
?
”

My left foot screaming, I limp toward the front reception area, fisting the hallway wall.
 “
Stupid beige thing with its rich Hyde Park wallpape
r
—” 

Wha
t’
s wrong with me?

I’
m late.  Like Stoke says,
Yeah?  So.

I have
n’
t called the cop. 
Yeah?  So.
 

If he arrests m
e—
he does. 
I’
ll be a criminal like everyone else in my family.  Maybe then
I’
ll fit in.  Besides, ther
e’
s nothing I can do, nothing I
want
to do. 
I’
ve run my butt off getting here, trying to be on time, trying to call people, find Ang, find my stupid brothe
r
—

My brain freezes, the anger I feel building pushing up and getting ready to explode.  Robi
n’
s forgotten I made him an appointment with a dentist who specializes in repairing teeth damaged by meth.  Does
n’
t he
know
?  I was too busy the first time.  Now
I’
m tracking him to see if
I’
ll have to call again and make him yet a second freaki
n
’ appointment.

And what about Mr
.“
call me before eleven
?
”
 
Does
n’
t he know
I’
m not on his schedule? 
I’
m on the universit
y’
s schedule.  And Brick Verbot
e’
s.  And Oma
r’
s.  And Robi
n’
s and An
g’
s.  Ther
e’
s only so much time in my day, and i
t’
s one helluva fight to get a bus from campus to Hyde Park, even for someone with two good feet.

As always, I lecture myself.
 “
Alaina, stop feeling sorry for yourself.  Yo
u’
re here.  Yo
u’
ve made it
.
”

I
t’
ll be alright.  I
t’
ll be alright.  I
t’
ll be alright. 

Absorbing my much needed buck-up speech, I sneak down the silent gray-carpeted hallway.  Just when I think
I’
ve made it safely to work late and without getting one of his lectures, the door to Bric
k’
s lab flies open.  My boss, six-four and built like Hulk Hogan, fills the hallway, blocking my path. 

“
Alaina,
I’
ve been looking for you.  We need to talk
.
”

Oh, crap.  H
e’
s going to fire me.

* * *

I freeze.  Could Aurelia already have reported me this soon?  I search my brain for an excuse for being late. 
You see, Brick, I spent last night jacking a Coke truck and committing robbery.

Figuring Brick does
n’
t need to hear about my life outside the office, I keep quiet and watch a frown posing as a benign smile spread across his face. 

“
Yo
u’
re late
,”
he says. 

Yeah?  So. 
I lean in a defiant closed hunch against the wall, feeling my backpack sinking into the textured wallpaper.  Rich peopl
e’
s walls have uses after all, I guess.
 “
Uh, Brick, I can explai
n
—”

Fact is, I ca
n’
t.

We indulge in a stare-down.  For a few seconds, I get this irrational sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.  Brick Verbot
e’
s huge hand, clenching my shoulder, frightens me.  I feel his strength as his fingers dig in before I shrug him off.  He could crush me if he wanted to.  He could jerk me up off the floor without half trying.  He coul
d
—

“
Sure, sure
,”
he says, finally, letting go of my shoulder.
 “
I know yo
u’
re busy, but try to be on time, okay
?
”

Holy crap.  Why am I so frightened?  Brick Verbote really is a brick, in a rich old white bread genius sort of way.  I admire him.  He single-mindedly pursues one passion: bite wounds.  His only problem?  His clients, whose derelict records I manage, get little of his attention.  He spends all of his time working on hi
s“
projects
.
”