Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (12 page)

“
Good girl
,”
I say, shoving past her down the steps to the street.
 “
W
e’
ve got work to do. 
C’
mon
.
”

“
Where t
o—
boss
?
”

I ignore her sarcasm. 
I’
m a pi
g—
a
damn
pig. 

“
W
e’
re heading to Verbote Dental
.
”

“
You done any footwork
?”
DeeDee asks.

“
Yep
,”
I say, worrying if ther
e’
s any conflict in my investigating Alaina for personal reasons, especially since
I’
m heading to Verbot
e’
s on the Megalo Don case, where
I’
m hoping to see Alaina.  Maybe
I’
m rationalizing, but I tell myself it should be okay.  I can maintain my professional distance. 

“
I started at Oma
r’
s
,”
I say, telling DeeDee what
I’
ve done.
 “
In Kentucky, all exotic dancers are required to be registered with the state.  Prevents them from hiding cash on their income tax.

“
After Alaina made her escape last night, I went back, cornered Omar Jain, and got the ba
r’
s dancer registration certificate.  From that, I found Alain
a’
s home address and one for Verbote Dental, her day job
.
”

“
Impressive for a fulltime student
,”
DeeDee says.

“
Yep
,”
I agree. 

I respect women who make their own way, like my mom did.  Judge Hawks, the man I officially cal
l“
Dad
,”
plucked Babbs from Kentuck
y’
s backwoods.  When she married into the Hawk
s
’ money, Mom took no handouts.  Instead, she worked years as Da
d’
s legal secretary, paying her way through law school.  Whe
n—
i
f—
I look for a wife, sh
e’
ll be independent like my mom.  Unlike DeeDee, my brassy c
rè
me puff dominatrix in shee
p’
s clothing, sh
e’
ll also let me take the lead in certain intimate areas of our relationship. 

Good luck with that.
  I hear my sarcastic laugh echo through my brain.  Such women are mythical.

Another unsavory thought follows on that on
e’
s heels.  What will I d
o—
what will I
d
o
—
when I meet the woman wh
o’
s to be my wife?  How will I recognize her?

I want to know the answer, so I can run like hell. 

How does any man figure out this quandary?  Experience, I guess, happy imagining the women I get to run through before I have to start worrying about meeting my wife, but miserable thinking what it will be like to b
e—
married.

Aware DeeDe
e’
s staring, I reconnect with reality.
 “
I faxed photos of Megalo Do
n’
s most recent vic to Doc Verbot
e’
s early this morning
,”
I tell her.
 “
W
e’
ll be swinging by to go over those with him, plus we can share thes
e
”
—
I wave the ones DeeDee and
I’
ve been looking at over breakfas
t
—
“
and then w
e’
ll question Alaina Colby
.
” 

“
Where are you parked
?”
she asks.

“
Over by the levee
.
” 

“
We can take my car if you lik
e
—”

Hell no
!
 
“
Leave yours in the lot.  W
e’
re taking mine
.
” 

The walk to the levee from Arne
e’
s gives me the chance to scope out any turf outside the restaurant, any areas LaFiglia might use to run drugs, or worse.  Driving my NPD car also helps keep me in control of where and how DeeDee and I travel.  I pat my belly, rub my beer bump.
 “
I need the walk after that breakfast
,”
I say. 

“
Yeah, me, too
,”
DeeDee agrees, shooting me a sour look.  She could coach Olympic runners, so her fake humility about her non-existent belly fat turns me cold. 
I’
m not afraid sh
e’
ll steal the collar once I catch Megalo Do
n—
and I will.  Tha
t’
s not the problem.  I
t’
s knowing that, if I ever let DeeDee Laws into my bed, sh
e’
ll take control and turn so mean i
t’
ll make Megalo Don look tame. 
Sh
e’
s a wolf in wealthy beauty quee
n’
s body
. 

Not that
I’
m impressed by the fact her family owns half of Newport.  My family, the bastard Smalleys, owns the other half, and my adopted da
d’
s family, from the right side of my family sheet
s—
the Hawk
s
’ sid
e—
owns a sizable chunk of Cincinnati. 
I’
m not impressed with the Hawk
s
’ money, any more than I am the Law
s
’ or the Smalley
s
’ wealth, but one of the bonuses of being born into it is being able to give back.  When
I’
m finished restoring Hawk
s
’ Opera House, it will give a community theatre to girls less fortunate than DeeDee Laws can even imagine being. 

Girls lik
e
—

I force thoughts of Alaina Colby from my lust ridden brain.  What do I care if she was raised in a trailer park?  I
t’
s not her fault. 

I check my watch.
 “
Ten forty-five.  W
e’
re going to be early.  Alaina Colby is
n’
t due at work until eleven.  Doc Verbote says she usually shows up late, some time around eleven-fifteen
.
” 

I feel sorry for her.  School.  Two jobs.  Yet sh
e’
s a kickass gi
t‘
r done kind of girl.  I like that.

“
Wh
o’
s Alaina Colby
?”
DeeDee demands.

“
She works part-time at Verbote Dental
,”
I say, leaving out the part where she and a friend stole Theodore McCloske
y’
s Coke truck.
 “
When we get done with Bite Doc, w
e’
re gonna sweat her down
.
”
 
I smile to myself.  Sweat-down just took on a whole new meaning. 

“
I got that part, Aid.  But . . . who
is
she
?
”

“
She knew the vic
,”
I say, irritated but feeling like a heel.  I
t’
s my duty to brief DeeDee.

“
Sh
e’
s not a suspect
?
”

“
No
.
”

Sh
e’
s not satisfied with my answer.  Too bad.  I school my face to official blankness, a necessary survival measure against DeeDe
e’
s shrewd inquisitive brain.
 “
Sh
e’
s a friend of the vi
c’
s
,”
I say, imagining Alain
a’
s breasts, the image curling my toes.

I recall Alaina flinging long black curls, their blue-black gloss shimmering in Oma
r’
s flashing strobe lights.  I think of her coltish breasts that could better grace a painting by Raphael than the dim interior of Oma
r’
s topless bar. 

“
Dang, Aid, getting info from you is like pulling hen
s
’ teeth
.
” 

“
She dances at Oma
r’
s
,”
I add, feeling guilty about withholding information
,“
where Megalo Do
n’
s been dumping his bodies in the alley
.
”  

Picking up on my defensive tone, she cuts me a sharp look, which sustains my growing suspicion that women like DeeDee seduce and then crush you. 
I’
m having none of tha
t—
and none of her.  I know who I want, or at least who
I’
m going to call and ask out.  I
t’
s damn well
not
DeeDee Laws.
I get another of those weird prickling sensations on the back of my neck.  Telling myself I need to stop thinking about Alaina Colby, I relax.  I
t’
s safer to fight the lust DeeDee generates in my groin than it is to give rein to thought
s—
incredibl
y—
of marriage and a mysterious future wife. 

My mother would
not
be happy
I’
m fighting the feeling, but fuck it. 
I’
m not husband material.

Chapter 9

Is class over?  How long have I been sleeping?
   Gazing around the classroom, I drag open one eyelid and lift my jaw from the des
k’
s surface.  This sucks.  Professor Levin would
n’
t let me take my quiz when I showed up fifteen minutes late.
 “
Wait until after class
,”
h
e’
d ordered.
 “
I have a message to give you
.
”

He could
n’
t give it to me before class. 
No.
  He had to punish me for showing up late, had to make me wait.  So
I’
m sitting here checking out the dull gray concrete block walls, the laminate-topped desks, glaring whiteboard, fluorescent lights.  College at its best.

When class is over, I watch everyone stampede out the door.
Finally. 
I yawn, my brain still buzzing from memories of what happened last night and from a lack of sleep. 

“
Ms. Colby, so glad yo
u’
ve enjoyed your nap
,”
Professor Levin says. 

I tense.  Tha
t’
s sarcasm on steroids I hear in his voice.  He warned me about being late. 
I’
m scared h
e’
s gonna boot me from class for good.  This is an hono
r’
s class, perfect attendance required.

“
I have your message
,”
he says
,“
but firs
t
—”  

What? 
I’
m on edge waiting for the ax to fall.  I watch him toss books into his briefcase, no doubt so he can leave.  I do
n’
t blame him.  This room really sucks.  Even on the few days when
I’
ve had sleep, its leaden feel sinks me to a new bipolar low. 

“
Mmm, a message?  Really?  What
?
”
 
Hoping h
e’
s forgotten his promise last week to toss me out of class next time
I’
m late, I sigh and wipe drool from my desktop.
 “I’
m really sorry I missed my quiz, Doctor Levin.  I did
n’
t get a chance to study last night becaus
e
—”

I stop.  Brain freeze.  Would
n’
t the truth make a better story than anything I can make up?  Why did I let Stoke drag me away in that Coke truck?  It only added to my long list of crimes.  I hate it.  Same MO, I think, analyzing myself as I would any criminal. 
I’
m self destructive.  Bent on harming myself, destroying my life before
I’
ve even had the chance to salvage it from my horrid past.

Professor Levin stops jamming papers into his briefcase and shakes his head in that slow, reproachful way
I’
ve come not to like because it feels personal.  I
t’
s a look that says
I’
m his firs
t—
and onl
y—
lost cause, a look that says
loser
.

I want to tell him
,“I’
m tired.  Being Oma
r’
s best exotic dancer affects me academically.  I want to study and show up for class on time, like my classmates, the middle class whiney heads from Hyde Park.  But I have to work so I can pay my tuition and take care of myself and Robin. 
I’
m trapped
.
” 

I doubt he gives a crap, so instead of unloading my personal drama, I keep quiet and listen.

“I’
m upset you missed my quiz
,”
he says. 

He looks like a Baptist minister from Goshen.  Silver gray hair.  Baleful blue eyes.  Strict frown.  I want to react to his lecture, but I ca
n’
t.  I do
n’
t want to upset him.  Professor Levin wrote letters to help me get my scholarship.  He looks judgmental, but h
e’
s not.  H
e’
s been kind, helpful, more of a friend than I deserve.

“
Uh-huh.  I understand
,”
I say, processing the drop in my GPA.  If I lose my scholarship, I could end up owing the college money, maybe even having to move home.   

“I’
m sorry
,”
I offer. 
Lame.  Purely lame.
  I hold my breath, still waiting.  Whe
n’
s the ax going to fall? 

“
Yo
u’
re my brightest student, Ms. Colby
,”
he continues.  His shoulders sagging like h
e’
s the one about to walk the plank instead of me, he stares like
I’
m the biggest disappointment ever.
 “
And
I’
m not saying this because you carry a four-oh like your . . . friend
.
”
 
He rolls his eyes, like h
e’
s expecting Stoke Farrel to swing down from the overhead projector attached to the ceiling, behaving like some unruly monkey.
 “
If you work hard
,”
he drones on
,“
I have friends right here in Cincinnati I could introduce you to after graduatio
n
—”

Happy h
e’
s not going to boot me from class, I feel the tension loosening in my shoulders, but hide my smile.  Does he have visions of me becoming the next Sonia Sotomayor or some such crazy idea?  Tha
t’
s not
my
dream.  My Bachelo
r’
s in criminology will get me a job and pay my bills in New York.  I
t’
ll help me take care of Robin.

So
I’
m not fated to become a Supreme Court justice.  Why does
n’
t Professor Levin get that?  Why does
n’
t anyone, including Go
d—
Dude, I resent your crappy deal
!
—
get it? 

“
Are you listening
?
”
 
Professor Levin stops lecturing and stares at me, his diamond in the rough.  Or maybe
I’
m no diamond.  Maybe
I’
m just rough. 

“
Yeah,
I’
m listening
.
”

“
Alaina, yo
u’
ve got a bright future, but if you ca
n’
t get to class, if you do
n’
t want to work like your classmate
s
—” 

Like the other zombies!  I zone out, letting my professor rant. 
I’
m so tired I no longer care if he tosses me out
.

“
—
then i
t’
s your life
.
” 

He snaps his briefcase shut.  Gazing over his glasse
s
’ rims with that alarming judgmental glare, he pins me to my desk.
 “
Ther
e’
s nothing I can do to help you.  I
t’
s your future, not mine
.
”

You got that right, I want to scream.  I
t’
s
my
futur
e—
mine.  Wishing h
e’
d stop lecturing and give me my freaki
n
’ message, I sneak my hand into my pocket.  Fingering my razor blade, I stare straight at Professor Levin, feeling my flesh give as I push against the thin blade, I stew about the bad turn my life seems hell bent on taking.

This is Robi
n’
s fault. 

I press harder, feel skin give away to the blad
e’
s pressure.

If h
e’
d told me where he is,
I’
d have gotten sleep. 
I’
d have studied for my crim qui
z
—

Harder.  The razor slices the thin layer of meaningless ephemer
a—
m
e—
exposing wha
t’
s lurking underneath . . . the part no one sees.

I hate Robin!  I hate Berta!  I hate all Colbys!

When I got back to my apartment sometime around four-thirty this morning, h
e’
d not shown up. 
I’
d called Robi
n’
s friends, checked hospitals, the morgue, everywhere except police stations, a last stop on every Colb
y’
s BOLO list.  I almost called my mom, but did
n’
t, subconsciously fearing
I’
d find him.  He only goes there when h
e’
s using, or when h
e’
s about to be busted.  I
t’
s a last resort for him.  He and Berta do
n’
t get along.  I understand.  I do
n’
t care much for Mom, either.  When people ask, I tell them
,“
I do
n’
t have a mother
.
” 

“
Trust me
,”
Robin had begged on the phone when w
e’
d last talked on Monday.  He does
n’
t understand why I do
n’
t?

My headache exploding, I ease my hand from my hoodi
e’
s pocket, roll my fingers together, feel my bloo
d’
s stickiness, feel it drying up and disappearing, like I want to. 

Feeling the release from cutting, I rest my head against my elbow. 
Bleh, bleh, bleh.
  On Professor Levin goes, ranting. 
I
t’
s your life yo
u’
re wasting.  Why do
n’
t you talk to me?

How easy it would be to quit school.  I could go back to my apartment and sleep.  I could stop worrying about my shot four-oh GPA and losing my scholarship.  I could jus
t—
forget everything. 
I’
ve had one hour of sleep.  I got it right here, waiting like Professor Levin ordered for class to be over.  I had no time last night to study for my quiz.

“
Here, Ms. Colby.  Your message
.
”
 
Professor Levin nudges me awake.  Lucky my face, propped up by my elbow, does
n’
t hit the desk.

“
Thanks
,”
I say, so embarrassed I do
n’
t ask who the not
e’
s from.  

“
Sure thing
,”
he says. 

Baptist ministe
r’
s blue eye
s—
judging.  Message must not be so good.  On his way out of the classroom, probably to go save the soul of some student worth his time, my prof plunks the note on my desk. 

I read it. 
Call me before eleven today.
 
I
t’
s urgent.  Detective Hawks.

H
e’
s found me.  No surprise.

I crush the note between white knuckled-fingers, the thin red cuts from my razor visible to anyone with the guts to look.  Whatever Robi
n’
s done, it must be bad. 

“
Arrogant bastard
,”
I spit into the classroo
m’
s emptiness, hating Detective Hawks.  Just think, I was turned on by that badass LE
O’
s hot marauding gaz
e
—

I’
d cry, but tha
t’
s not my style:
I’
d rather cut. 

“
Arrogant bastard
,”
I murmur again. 

“
Wh
o’
s an arrogant bastard
?
”