Stuart Kaminsky - Vengeance

“This year?”

I ate while I talked. Tim the welder was listening, waiting for some violence he could talk about with his friends over an open campfire.

“I only served papers on two people in January,” I said. “Both women.”

That was true.

“I could swear…” Corky Flynn said, examining me closely.

“Ever make a mistake before, Corky?” I asked.

He sighed.

“Too many times. I married three of ’em. That’s why I work a double-hour day. Got to pay them off. Used to drive trucks, big rigs, but my back… never mind. Sorry. I’ll pay for your breakfast.”

“I accept,” I said.

He got up and pulled two tens out of the pocket of his jeans. He dropped the bills on the counter, patted my back and said, “Sorry. Been having a bad week.”

“You happen to know a driver named Dwight?” I asked, looking up at Corky Flynn.

“Driver of what?”

“Delivery or tow truck, don’t know.”

“Dwight, Dwight. Yeah, Dwight, don’t know his last name. Don’t want to. He’s trouble. Mean. Works out of a station somewhere off Cattlemen or McIntosh. Triple-A jobs I think. Has a chip of steel on his shoulder, looking for trouble. Mean son of a bitch. He comes to me with that attitude and I’ll knock that steel chip into his neck. My advice, stay away from him.”

“Can’t. Know how I can find him?”

“You know what I know. See you around.”

I held up a hand to acknowledge his departure.

“Thought he was going to hit you,” said Tim with a touch of disappointment in his voice.

“Sorry,” I said.

“You would have shot him, put him away with a kick to his balls or a karate chop,” he said.

“No,” I said. “Corky Flynn would have beat the hell out of me. Corky left enough to cover your breakfast too. Be my guest.”

Tim smiled. His teeth were false and white but his smile was real. I touched his shoulder and went out into the morning sun. The high school was about two blocks away, across 301, past the McDonald’s, the Sarasota Herald-Tribune office, a motel, a fried-chicken franchise and a discount eyeglass shop.

I drove the Metro to the school parking lot, took a space for visitors and left the windows open. Maybe it would help the pine tree get rid of that smell of stale tobacco.

Kids were heading toward the old red-brick three-story building and the newer one-story blocks behind it.

The girls were dressed in the latest costume they thought would make them look sexy and the boys were looking at the latest costume that made them look cool. Grunge was back in for both groups. I preferred preppy. Most of the book-toting kids, who looked too young to be in high school, walked in zombie-like steps, eyes hooded from lack of sleep, talking in hoarse voices. I wondered what it would be like to teach a classroom of the teens I was walking through, especially a class in the morning. I’d rather face Corky Flynn in a dark doorway.

A girl with nothing pierced, at least nothing on her face or tongue, and looking more awake than her peers, directed me to the office of Mr. Kwan, the associate principal and disciplinary officer. He was in one of the older one-story buildings.

There were four green plastic and aluminum chairs to the right of the door. In front of the chairs was a desk behind which sat a pretty, thin, black woman talking on the phone. Behind her were other desks, file cabinets and a pair of women bustling with papers. To the left were two windowed offices with doors closed. In the first office, a heavyset, gray-haired woman was leaning forward over a desk pointing a yellow pencil at a sullen-looking, overly made-up girl with blue hair. The girl’s arms were folded over her flat chest. She didn’t like what she was hearing. She didn’t like the heavyset woman. I wondered what she did like.

In the second office, an Asian man of no particular age stood next to a desk. His arms were folded like those of the girl in the next room. The man, who I assumed was Mr. Kwan, was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt, a solid blue tie, tan slacks and a lot of muscle. He was talking to a fat boy, who met Kwan’s eyes. The fat boy had a definitely dense look. He was either stupid, or suffering-or enjoying-the aftereffects of some drug. I’d seen that look.

The black woman hung up the phone. Before I could speak, she held up a hand with long, red-painted fingernails, indicating to me that I should hold my complaint, thought or request.

She picked up the phone again and said,

“Yes, Mrs. Stanley. I know. But Mr. Kwan says it’s important that you see him today… I understand, but if you can just get away from work for half an hour… Yes, William is in trouble again. Yes, it is very serious… Noon? Fine.”

The woman looked up at me and hung up the phone.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Kwan,” I said.

“About…?”

“Adele Tree, or she might be using her father’s name, Handford.”

“You are…?”

“A friend of Adele’s mother,” I said, looking over my glasses.

“Well…”

The phone rang. She reached for it and pointed to the lineup of plastic and aluminum chairs. I sat next to a kid in overalls who had slouched so far down that he seemed to be in serious danger of slipping onto the floor and into oblivion. The boy was young, black and bored.

“What’re you in for?” I asked.

He looked up at me.

“Who’re you?”

“I’m nobody. Who are you? Are you nobody too?”

“What ya talking about?”

“Just talking,” I said, looking down the line at three other waiting students in the seats next to us. Two girls were whispering. The third kid was big. He was white. He had short hair. A tattoo showed dark through his white T-shirt. He seemed to be sleeping.

“You know a girl named Adele Tree or Handford?”

“Maybe. You a cop? You don’t look like a cop.”

“No, a friend of her mother. What do you know about Adele?”

“Nothin’.”

He looked at the busy secretary.

“Nothing? What would five bucks do for your memory?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I don’t know what I don’t know. But I’ll tell ya somethin’. I only know one Adele. She’s not as dumb as she makes out. She plays dumb to get close to the football players, basketball players, like that.”

“Adele?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“How do you know she’s not dumb?” I asked.

He looked over at the woman behind the desk, who was still on the phone. She had a pencil and was taking notes as she nodded. She pointed the pencil at the kid I was talking to and made a motion with it. He sat up. Pencils seemed to be the weapon of choice in this office.

“She was in my math class,” the kid said, still looking at the woman behind the desk. “In there only maybe, let’s see, a week, two weeks. This is advanced math, man. Honors. I don’t know how she got in, but she tested in or some such and she was hard to figure. Too much makeup. You know, like a whore, but she was smart. Nothing Mr. W. could throw at her she couldn’t come back with. I mean just like that. Same in English.”

“You said ‘was,’ not ‘is.’”

“Haven’t seen her for three or four weeks.”

“You’re an honor student?”

“Yeah, surprised?”

“Yeah,” I answered.

“‘Cause of…”

“What are you in trouble for?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you here?”

“My mother wanted to talk to me,” he said, nodding at the black woman behind the desk. “She’s workin’ on a scholarship for me to Howard.”

“Howard?”

“Damn straight. I wanna be a city planner. I wanna come back here with one of those real sharp suits in six, seven years and tell them to rip this whole fuckin’ city down, startin’ with Newtown, and start a new one.”