J Rain: Dark horse

“Means I have a job to do, and I’m good at it.”

“This is the last time I’m asking, Jim. You walk away from this now and no one, and I mean no one, will give you another opportunity.”

“Good luck with the coming season. Go Chargers.” I hung up, then called Detective Hanson of Huntington Beach Homicide.

I arrived at Huntington High later that same day just as Mrs. Williams, the vice principal of discipline, was climbing into her Ford Excursion. The Excursion was raised an extra foot or two, and she looked miniscule sitting there in the driver’s seat, adjusting her skirt. Her skirt rested just above the knees, exactly where most skirts should be.

I patted the fender of the Excursion. “You could conquer a small Baltic country with this thing.”

“But could you take over a small Baltic country with your thing?” She glanced down at my crotch just in case I hadn’t picked up on the innuendo.

I said, “Only if they were susceptible to fits of hysterical laughter.”

She reached out and touched my arm. Her eyes were extraordinarily large at the moment. Green as hell. Or maybe blue. Hell, I didn’t know. Her pupils were pinpricks. I could see the fine lines around her eyes and lips. She didn’t blink.

“A big guy like you. I’m sure you’re being modest.”

“Mrs. Williams, are you flirting with me?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Just as long as we’re clear on that point.”

“Oh, we’re clear.”

Her thigh was about face high. It was muscular, smooth and tan. She moved it toward me, and when she did her skirt rode up, showing more skin.

“You and I need to talk.”

“Oh, we’re going to do more than talk, sugar butt,” she said. “Follow me home.”

And so I followed her.

Sugar butt?

We drove south along PCH, through Newport Beach and into Laguna. She drove quickly, darting in and out of traffic, her need to see me without my shirt on pushing her to drive recklessly. Or perhaps she had to pee. Luckily the Excursion was big enough to follow from outer space.

She turned into a gated community, then waited for me to catch up. When I had done so, a pair of wrought iron doors swung open, and I followed her in, passing beautiful Mediterranean homes, each more elaborate than the next.

A garage door opened on my right and she pulled the Excursion all the way into what must have been a hell of a deep garage. I parked in the driveway and got out.

The sun was hot on my neck. I was wearing a loose Hawaiian shirt, jeans and black hiking boots, although I wasn’t planning on going for a hike any time soon.

She stepped expertly down from the monster truck and beckoned me to follow her through a doorway that led into her kitchen. Once inside she tossed her keys on a counter near the phone and dropped her purse onto the seat of a dining chair. I felt the need to toss something of my own, but decided to hold on to my wallet and keys. The kitchen was paved with tan Spanish tile, and the cabinets were immaculate.

“Vice principals in charge of discipline do well,” I said.

“Oh, they do. Especially for those who do their job well.”

“I imagine you are one of those.”

“Discipline is not something I take lightly, Mr. Knighthorse.”

“I see. Does anyone oversee you, Mrs. Williams?”

“Dana, please.” She took hold of my hand and led me out of the kitchen and into a much larger room. She hit the lights. “The answer is no one oversees me. Not really. If I failed to do my duties the school board would consider a demotion, but in actuality I am judge, jury and executioner at Huntington High.”

“An interesting choice of words.”

“Oh, I don’t lay a hand on them,” she said.

“But do you want to?”

“Always,” she said without hesitation. “Some of them need to be beaten into submission.”

“Do you have any children?”

“No.”

“Good.”

She laughed. “What would you like to drink?”

“Soda water is fine.”

The room was very adult. There was a zinc-topped bar in one corner, filled with all sorts of alcoholic delights. Dana was there fixing us a couple of drinks. Off to the right was a large cigar box sitting on a delicate end table. Original artwork from local painters adorned the wall. I walked over to one and studied it. It was a stylized surfer hanging ten.

She walked over with my drink, took hold of my hand again and led me to a leather couch in the middle of the room. I sipped the soda water. She had spiked it with scotch. I didn’t say anything, just set it down on a coaster on the glass coffee table. She was watching me closely.

“Do you like your drink?” she asked.

“It’s very nice.”

“I have never held the hand of someone so goddamn big before. Look at your hand, it dwarfs mine.”

“You should see my feet.”

“And you know what they say about that.”

“I guess you could say I stepped into that one.”

She giggled and drank deeply from her glass, then got up and made herself another. She seemed to be drinking something green on the rocks. Perhaps a Midori sour. She came back and sat closer to me. Our legs were touching. I was not aroused.

“How long have you been separated, Dana?”

“Does it matter?” she asked, leaning over and kissing my neck.

“Well it might should your husband use this moment to show up and make amends.”

“Oh, please. You could handle him with one hand behind your back. However, he won’t be coming home anytime soon. Does that put you at ease, sweetums?”

Sweetums?

“How long have you been separated?” I asked. “Six months? A year? Five years?”

She started unbuttoning my shirt. “Let’s not go down that road right now, sugar butt.”

As she reached for the next button, I grabbed her hand and pulled it away. “You’re not separated are you?”

A small sound escaped from her lips.

“In fact, you are divorced, and have been from Bryan Dawson, current band director at Huntington High, for the past seven years.”

“So what do you want, a fucking reward?” When she spoke, she glanced at the ornate end table. There was a small drawer within the end table. The glance was fleeting, then settled back on me. She leaned over and drank more of her Midori sour.

“Why did he divorce you?”

She shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him that.”

“I will. But I want to know why he divorced you when in fact he was the one cheating on you.”

She shrugged again. “Apparently he was scared of my temper. Pussy.”

“Why didn’t you leave him?”

“It’s called love, Knighthorse. I forgave him.”

“But he was having sex with his students.”

“None of us are perfect.”

“You lived up north. How did you both end up here at Huntington High?”

She was sitting at the edge of her couch, her empty glass dangling from her hand. The ice cubes had a greenish hue to them. Her jaw was tight and rigid. There was a deadness to her eyes that might have been caused by the alcohol. Might.

“I came down first, once I realized the marriage was over. Tried to start over. I have a masters in educational administration. Never wanted to be a teacher, always wanted to someday work on the school board, where the money is. Because of sexual allegations, he lost his job up north, then couldn’t find work anywhere. Said if he came down here and if I helped him get a job that he would go straight and we could start over again. I still loved him; the idea appealed to me.”

“So you got him a job at your school?”

“Yeah. I had enough clout to push his application on through. There are some people who fear me.”