Crooked Numbers (22 page)

The two of them considered that for a while before the mother spoke.

“What’s he gotta do to get into high school then?”

“Pass the state exams this spring,” I said. “Demonstrate he can read, write, and do math on something approaching the eighth-grade level.”

Jerome let out a burst of air. “Fuck that,” he said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand.

I looked over at his mother. “Are you going to speak to him about his language?”

“Boy’s got a minda his own, Mr.…”

“Donne.”

“Mr. Donne. He don’t pay me no mind.”

“And yet you expect us to teach him enough to get him into high school?”

“That’s your job, right?”

I looked at mother and son, and took a deep breath. “I’m going to explain how this will work. Jerome will have exemplary attendance from now until the end of the school year.”

Mrs. Dexter looked at her boy and nodded. “Okay.”

“He may or may not participate in graduation ceremonies, depending on his behavior.”

She leaned forward. “But he will graduate?”

“If he passes the exams. If not, he’s looking at summer school. At a minimum.”

“I ain’t going to fuckin’ summer school,” Jerome said.

Again, I waited for Mom to say something. When she didn’t, I said, “If your son does not control his language, I’m going to end this meeting and you can reschedule for some other time.”

Mrs. Dexter reached over and gently smacked her son’s arm.

“You hush up, Jerome.”

“You don’t have much of a choice, Jerome. It’s either pass the exams, summer school, or you’re back in the eighth grade come September.”

Jerome Dexter sat there next to his mother and shook his head from side to side. “Fu—uh-uh. No way.”

“Jerome,” I said, “this is not a battle you can win with a box cutter.” I tapped the side of my head with my index finger. “Got to use your brain for this one. Try to play the system, and you’re going to lose.”

He reached out, pushed himself away from the table, and got to his feet. He stood next to his mother, but his eyes were on me. He unzipped his sweatshirt, revealing the Saints jersey he had on underneath. The number on it was ten.
Wrong number for Brooklyn.

“You can’t make me do nothing.”

There comes a time in many a disagreement when one of the parties involved gets a little too close to the edge. Jerome Dexter took very little time getting there. I stayed in my seat.

“You sound like you’re ready to do battle again, Jerome.”

“If I have to.”

I looked up at the kid. All of fifteen years old, and the only way he could see out of this situation was violence. His mother just sat there, blank-faced and helpless. The thought of Jerome Dexter in this school made my stomach hurt.

There was a look in Jerome’s eyes that I had seen more times than I could count. The look of someone whose fear is ready to take him places he doesn’t understand. Another time, I might have found myself feeling sorry for the kid. Right now, I didn’t want an angry, wannabe gangbanger in my school. It was time to play hardball.

“What’s that in your sock, Jerome?”

He took a step around his mother. A step closer to me. I remained seated.

“Ain’t got nothin’ in my sock, man.”

I eased my chair a few inches away from the table.

“Guy like you. Just waiting for someone to ‘bring it on.’ You got something in your sock right now. The left one. I heard it when your leg hit the chair.”

“You’re crazy.” He put his hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Let’s get outta this punk-ass school, Ma.”

Mrs. Dexter reached up and put her hand on her son’s. She closed her eyes.

“Go ahead and show your mom how you came prepared for school, Jerome.” I pushed my chair back a little more. “Roll up your pant leg. Show her what you got.”

He locked his eyes on mine. “You pushin’ it, man.”

I stood slowly and looked around the office. “Bit different than the schoolyard, huh? Not quite that many people around who are scared of you.”

“Don’t need nobody scared a me. And I ain’t scared a you.”

“Then go ahead and show your mom.”

He took a step toward me. “Listen, mister—”

“Do what the man says, Jerome,” Mrs. Dexter said, her eyes still closed.

Jerome looked down at his mother. “Ma. You gonna listen to this—”

“Do it, boy.” Her eyes were wide open now.

Jerome looked down at his mom again and then back to me. After about thirty seconds, he lifted his leg and put his foot up onto the table. He rolled up his pant leg, removed a yellow box cutter from his sock, and slammed it down on the table.

“There,” he said. “Happy?”

“Thrilled.” I grabbed the box cutter and put it in my pocket. I stepped over to the door, pulled it open, and kicked the wooden doorstop into place. “Mrs. Dexter,” I said. “Find your son another school.”

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“Jerome will not be attending school here. Go back to the district office. Tell them anything you want. The school wasn’t to your liking, it’s too far from home, whatever. I don’t care what you tell them.”

“You can’t do that. The district told us—”

“That’s because the district didn’t know Jerome would be showing up on his first day at his new school with a weapon in his sock and gang beads around his neck.”

As she stared at me, Jerome stood at the table, silently going over his options.

“You lucky we in school, man.”

I stared back. “I think we’re probably both lucky, Jerome. Does Tio know you’re sporting Royal Family colors?”

“Who the fuck’s Tio?”

“That’s what I thought. You wear the colors, you best know the players.”

He had no answer for that. He waited a few seconds, thinking maybe I’d challenge him. When I didn’t, he mumbled the word “pussy” under his breath and stormed past me out of the room. Jerome’s mother slowly got up from her seat. I walked her out into the hallway.

“You’re going to have to do something about your boy, Mrs. Dexter. He’s going to have more problems than getting out of the eighth grade.”

She gave me one last blank look, shook her head, and followed the path her son had taken out of the building.

AS THE LAST OF THE KIDS STARTED
to make their way home, I decided it was time for me to do the same. But first, I had a phone call to make. I checked the Yellow Pages in the office and got the number for Tio’s pizza place. Someone picked up after two rings.

“Pizza.”

“Yeah, hey. This is Raymond Donne. Is Tio around?”

“Who this?”

“Raymond Donne,” I repeated.

“Who Tio?”

I thought I recognized the voice. “Boo?”

“Who’s askin’?”

This was turning into an Abbot and Costello routine.

“Boo, this is Raymond Donne. I met with Tio Saturday morning.”

Silence from the other end and then, “The white guy from the paper?”

“That’s the one, Boo. Can I talk with Tio?”

“He ain’t here.”

“When do you expect him?”

“Not my job to expect him,” he said. “You gonna be at that phone a while?”

“Yeah.”

Boo said, “Okay,” then hung up.

I put the phone back down, and less than half a minute later it rang.

“Mr. Donne,” I said.

“Teacher Man,” Tio said. “What’s the haps?”

“Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I want to tell you something, but I need you to promise me you won’t take what I say and react with violence.”

“Now you sound like a cop, Teacher Man.”

“Do I have your word, Tio? No violence?”

He was silent as he thought about it. Probably thinking, who the hell was I to tell him how to react to something?

“Yeah, okay,” Tio said. “Talk to me.”

I told Tio about Jerome Dexter, the box cutter, and his beads and jersey. Again he was silent as he thought about what I’d just said. I heard him let out a long sigh.

“You know where this Jerome lives?” he asked.

“I do.”

“You wanna tell me?”

“I have your word, right? No violence?”

“I don’t promise things twice.”

“Okay.” I opened the file and read off Jerome Dexter’s address. “It’s near the subway.”

“I know where it is,” Tio said. “Good lookin’ out, Teacher Man. Me and one of my boys’ll go have a face-to-face with young Jerome. Can’t have no wannabes going around rockin’ our colors and makin’ us look bad. Cause us all sorts of trouble.”

“That’s why I called, Tio. I appreciated our conversation the other day,” I explained. “Just talk to the kid, all right?”

“Oh, we talk to him, all right. Scare the boy straight, know what I’m sayin’?”

“I think I do.”

“Okay. Good lookin’ out. See ya ’round.”

After we hung up, I had my doubts about having made the call. I eased them by telling myself Jerome Dexter was an act of violence waiting to happen. Someone had to stop him, and it wasn’t going to be a teacher, and certainly not his mother. If Tio kept his word, and I believed he would, maybe Jerome
would
be scared straight. At least enough to cut the shit with the jersey and beads.

I looked at the clock. I had some paperwork up in my office that I thought about knocking off, but I was too damned tired and could think of little else except lying on my couch, watching TV while I ate some dinner, and then dozing off. So I left for the day.

I had barely made it to the corner, when a black town car flashed its red grill lights, whooped its siren, and pulled over to where I stood. I first thought maybe Dougie’s uncle was dropping by to read me the riot act again. That thought quickly disappeared as the rear passenger window rolled down, revealing Uncle Ray. He looked too large for the back of the car.

“Nephew,” he said, removing the ever-present cigar from his mouth and blowing the smoke out the window. “Surprised?”

“Yeah, Uncle Ray. A little.” I placed my hand on the top of the car to lean into the window. “Twice in one week? You got business at the nine-oh?”

“Nah. Just wanted to cross the river and pay another little visit to my favorite nephew.” He paused for effect. “
The schoolteacher
.”

The way he said those words, I knew someone had reached out to him. The only question was whether it was Dennis Murcer or Dougie’s uncle. I chose to play dumb for the moment and just say, “Cool. You got time for a beer?”

He looked at his watch. “Some of us are still on the clock, Raymond. Not every employee of the great City of New York gets to go home at three thirty. But I guess with all your after-school activities these past few days, you might not be going home just yet. What’s it going to be this afternoon? Back to the private school? Maybe a home visit to a family in crisis? Huh? Whatcha got in mind, Nephew?”

I took a deep breath, let it out, and watched as it disappeared into the chilled air. Uncle Ray did not invite me to have a seat inside the car, and I knew damn well he wasn’t going to come out in the cold just to chew on my ass. No, he could do that just fine from the back of his warm and cozy town car.

“Who called you, Uncle Ray?”

“Who didn’t call? First, I hear from Dennis Murcer. Said—real respectfully—he appreciated your help the other day, but would I please suggest to my nephew that he allow the investigation to proceed without his assistance from this point.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I got the message. I was only trying to—”

“Then,” he interrupted me, “I get a call from a lawyer. Douglas Lee, Esquire. He said—again, with all due respect to me—my nephew would do well to stay away from a certain family.” He paused to flick some cigar ashes out the window. “Quinn, I believe the name was.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I can explain that.”

“I knew you could, Raymond. You’ve always been so good at explaining things.” He turned away from me and spoke to his driver. “Didn’t I tell you, Smitty, my nephew would be able to explain the situation?”

“Yes, sir,” Smitty said, without turning around. “I believe you did.”

For the first time, I noticed the driver. From the way he barely fit behind the steering wheel, Smitty appeared to be quite large himself.

“It’s okay, Raymond,” my uncle said. “I don’t need to hear your explanation. I just need to hear you’re through messing around. Both of those phone calls were a courtesy to me. If we didn’t have the same name, you might very well be in a lot of trouble at this point.”

“I understand that, Uncle Ray. I just—”

“Good,” he said. “Then I don’t need to remind you of what happened last time you went down this road.” He turned back to Smitty. “My nephew here is one of the few teachers in the New York City public schools who ever needed police protection.”

“What else did Dennis tell you?”

Uncle Ray took another drag from his cigar and blew the smoke out the window. He rubbed his eyes before speaking.

“That you were very helpful. Up to a point. Said you also handled the press thing well, too. Shame about that situation.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”

“Good kid gone bad. How many times we seen that?”

“Dougie was not a good kid gone bad, Uncle Ray. He was a good kid who got involved in something that…” I realized I didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

“Come on, Raymond. Good kids don’t end up under the Williamsburg Bridge after midnight. A good kid wouldn’t put himself in that position. You know that. You work with these kids.”

“Which is why I know Dougie … why we think he was meeting somebody there. His mother said he was already in bed for the night. He must have gotten a phone call and then snuck out without her knowing.”

“You’re making my argument for me,” Uncle Ray said. “What did Murcer say when he checked the kid’s phone records?”

“The last call Dougie received was from a disposable, so they have no number to go with it. Dougie’s phone can’t be found. The working theory is the killer took it.”

Uncle Ray smirked. “Oh, is that the working theory? Listen to him, Smitty. Sounds like he’s still wearing the uniform.” Back to me. “Let Dennis do his job, Raymond. He’s a good investigator.”

“I never said he wasn’t.”

“Now,” Uncle Ray said, “about the Quinn family.”