100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (43 page)

Licking my finger, I flipped open the file and replaced the coffee-stained original of Brantley McCoy, keeping Finn’s copy for myself. Next I spread its contents wide like a rainbow while both boys thumbed through the sheets, realizing we were looking at Valley’s skid row.

Grumpy and I stared at one another processing the same things, wondering if we were in over our heads. My nervous giggle pretty much answered in the affirmative.

Finn slid into the black folding chair next to me, and after a few more beats of what the H, he finally stood up. “Am I supposed to corral Taylor for a while?” he asked. My word, Dylan would kill me, he’d kill Grumpy, and heck…he might just eat us.

Grumpy chuckled while I rocked back and forth, gnawing on my pinky nail. I briefly wondered if I was going mad. It was possible. The Walkers had some crazy people in the bloodline from what I’d been told. “We’re not exactly on good terms,” I whispered.

“So that’d be much appreciated,” Grumpy completed for me.

Finn looked at me with one of those laughing frowns. A corn-silk colored tendril of hair had fallen from his ponytail, leaving him still overly masculine. No wonder Gucci went crazy. He was too beautiful to not look at yet masculine enough you’d consider doing bad things. “What kind of spell did you cast on Taylor anyway, duckie? He was in a better mood today, but here lately, I feel like it’s a health hazard just to be near him.”

Those words were all it took to spur a coughing fit. Finn pounded on my back while my nose ran like a spigot into my mouth. Afraid I’d infect him, Grumpy pulled his shirt up over his nose, shoving over a beat-up box of tissues probably from last year.

Once Finn felt comfortable I wasn’t going to drown in my snot, he strutted his long legs out of the office. It was Grumpy, me, and a percolating pot of hot coffee. I played waitress.

When I sat back down and blew into the Styrofoam container, it dawned on me we lounged in a man’s office who rode around with “wanker” on his bumper. That was my original caper, and I’d all but abandoned it thinking ten grand was the answer to all of life’s roadblocks. Not totally true, but the trail had gone cold, and the next step wasn’t readily clear.

It’s like Grumpy read my mind. “Listen, Walker,” he said, blowing into his cup. “I remember you were after reward money for this guy called The Ghost. I’m assuming these photos have more to do with
him
than Coach’s
car
. Am I correct?”

“That would be a ten-four.”

“Well, do you have a plan?”

Hmmm, good question. I gave him a sheepish shrug. In another word, nope. Besides, if I had a plan, then I wouldn’t be Darcy. I always performed better on an as-needed, in-demand basis.

You know…the interchanging verb.

“Just so you know, Taylor cornered me this morning and asked if you were up to anything bizarre. I held him off, Walker, but I can assure you that won’t be for long.”

Actions I could’ve predicted—but Dylan cared. Of that, I had no doubt, but there was a part of me that still couldn’t buy into his forever-after spiel. Deciding to worry about that later, I brought Grumpy up to speed regarding Mean Girl, Madison Flannery. Before school dismissed, I marched straight to the school office, trying to find out her schedule. Imagine my surprise when I discovered she withdrew from school via telephone. I mean, wow. Where did that leave me? When I told Grumpy she knew the Beemer had been hit—and I suspicioned Brantley McCoy was the driver—we both realized we needed to put our energies elsewhere.

“We need to shakedown Damon Whitehead, Grumpy.”

A transistor radio sat on a bookshelf up against the wall. KISS 107 spun “Holly Jolly Christmas,” and that was like projectile vomiting Christmas joy in your face.

Grumpy looked like he stood in front of a stampede of wild horses. “Sure, Walker. I can shake Damon down, but that dance is Thursday night. I’m still stag.”

Slumping down in his seat, his brown hair covered his eyes, and his orange sweatshirt had mostly faded to peach. The laces of his sneakers should be retired. I had my work cut out for me, but my guess was it would take a Benji to make him look presentable.

I’d run into Bean outside the bathroom, and he claimed Clementine was game for Grumpy to call (introducing Bean Anatoly, salesman of the year). I forced a grin, wanting someone to be happy. “By the way, Clementine is expecting a call.”

Once in a blue moon, Grumpy broke into a smile that showed his teeth. Today I got the full-faced grin. He made some sort of kissy mwah sound with his lips which I took as a thank you. “What about you?” he said, coming back down to earth.

I felt like I’d just given birth—without an epidural. Snagging the pencil on top of Coach’s desk calendar, I drew a stick figure of Dylan with a donkey tail on this Thursday’s date. My guess was he had other plans. He said we were going out on Saturday…not Thursday.

23. The Real McCoy

R
ealizing I might need snakebite
medicine, I punched the directions for BTCC into Jagger Cane’s GPS system. I’d taken a creative route to my locker and then the parking lot, still not positive I wanted to run into Dylan. Let me rephrase, I “always” wanted to run into Dylan. Trouble was, I wasn’t sure what I’d do when I found him. Smack him, kiss him, or burst into female tears and ruin my kickass reputation. Okay, I didn’t have a kickass reputation, but Lord help me, I wanted one.

It wasn’t like I’d left him high-and-dry, without a final word. I made up notes for tonight’s basketball game in seventh period and stuffed them inside his locker door. The notes included average free-throw percentages, who tended to shoot twos or threes, and who had a tendency to foul out. I’d watched a video of the opposing team’s last game on their school’s website when I couldn’t sleep. Shoot, that screamed of codependent behavior, but people like me kept shrinks in business.

When I had one leg and hip in Jagger’s Mercedes SUV, Finn literally pulled me out of it by my hair, foaming at the mouth about ending Armageddon. I’d like to say we drove home silently, but Finn had diarrhea-mouth. “Are you stupid?” he bellowed. “He’s such a bloody bugger, lovie. Don’t you know what he’s capable of?” He’d stop only to breathe and regroup, throwing in, “I’m not one to be a critic, but you’re being wonky. There’s no other word for it.”

Remembering Dylan left my mouth en fuego hours ago, I lightly ran my finger along my bottom lip and attempted an explanation. “To quote the immortal rant and ravings of Ivy Morrison, whatever is going on with Dylan and Brynn will definitely be getting a sequel. What’s going on between them, Finn? Is it going to intensify? Is it possible to deep-six their fledgling feelings before they mature into something else? Because let me tell you something, Dylan was all over me this morning like a cheap suit, and I liked it. Me,” I snorted, “but I didn’t like it enough to become one of those girls that gets dumped on.”

Wow, poetic.

My English teacher would be proud.

Finn’s response was curt. “Quite flowery, love, but I cannot answer that.”

Cannot or will not?

Finn was
my
brother, but again he seemed to forget our brotherhood creed. Escorting me to the door, he shoved me inside, giving Murphy a downturned look like I deserved to be locked in a torture chamber.

Egads, my life stunk.

“You work your guardian angel overtime, kid,” Murphy grumbled when I told him what Finn was angry about, “and I hope he’s at least getting paid time and a half.”

Still in reindeer pajamas but with a healthier glow, Marjorie lay on the floor of the study, half of her body underneath Murphy’s desk, the other half outside playing with a naked Barbie.

“What if
he’s
a
she
, Daddy? You can’t say for sure if Darcy’s guardian angel is a
he
,” she said adamantly. My sister was a full-blown feminist at six years old. God only knew if she’d be burning her bra at seven.

Murphy mumbled to himself about going to church more as he dropped his weary body into his black leather chair, surrounded by a pile of bills two inches high. While he continued to lecture that he “had a good name” and to not “screw up the Walker lineage,” I snagged the remote from his desk, switching on the small flatscreen TV mounted to the wall. Giving him a half-hearted “I’m sorry,” I flipped to a vintage Hong Kong Phooey cartoon. I thought of Hong Kong Phooey’s superhero skills and how he was kind of like me—he never really had a plan; he sort of fell into the answer.

Straining to hear Hong Kong Phooey overtop Murphy’s tirade about hidden cell phone charges, my iPhone jumped around in my jeans with a text. I downloaded a ringtone for texts last night that sounded like gunshots. When it blasted at the highest setting with a
pop, pop, p-pop-pop-pop
, Murphy shook his head, praying, “Good Lord.”

Pulling it out of my back pocket, I glanced at the number and slid into the navy leather chair in the corner. Ben Ryan’s name popped up in the center of the screen.

How’d things go with Jojo?

Once again, this served as a reminder I had nothing for Coach Wallace. I fought a sigh; I’d failed him, and my investigational skills were second-rate at best.

Not guilty
, I typed.

Sorry. What now?
he asked.

My mind went on a walkabout. Taking a sip of Murphy’s V8 Fruit Fusion, my next immediate move was Brantley McCoy. The Calypso Cove address—where I’d swear Vinnie fought him—we knew belonged to Bishop Fowler. I still had no answer why Fowler and McCoy apparently shared an address, and the man who could fill in the blank was currently on a slab in the morgue.

I typed,
I need whatever u can find on Brantley McCoy.

Why??
Ben responded.

He’s The Ghost.

THE IDENTITY THIEF?
he returned in all-caps
.

Yep.

Ben didn’t respond right away. My guess was he’d changed his underwear or debated how many moral and penal codes he’d break by being associated with me. He’d helped me out with Jojo for some reason, and I never questioned it. And he’d obviously remembered that Tito and I were in partnership with The Ghost. So the big question was,
Why did he even care?

Maybe that was something I should worry about.

Murphy kicked my foot, jerking his chin toward my iPhone. “Who are you talking to, kid?”

“Ben Ryan,” I shrugged.

“The boy who hit you with his car,” he clarified.

“The boy who hit me with his car,” I echoed. “You know, the boy you said I could date.”

“Well, you don’t have time to think about boys. What you need to be thinking about is tomorrow, kid,” he said, pointing an angry finger in my face. “You’re going nowhere real fast, racking up quite a reputation for yourself. How about we make this the year where you get all As?”

Good God, he was serious.

Trying to look naïve and innocent, I gave Murphy my best I’ll-give-it-a-shot face. He wasn’t buying it…imagine that.

When the doorbell rang, Murphy leaned out of his chair and put two fingers through the window blinds, peering outside. “Dylan’s here,” he grinned. Immediately, my lips felt like an inferno. He should be dribbling all his cares away right now, but if he’d come back for some lip action, then maybe…

Murphy narrowed his eyes, giving me a look like he wasn’t budging, so I trudged to the door and gazed through the peephole, eying Grumpy.

“Oh, God,” I groaned, banging my head twice against the door. “I’ve died and gone to heck.”

“Don’t curse, kid,” Murphy said from the study.

“I didn’t. It just means Grumpy’s here.”

Grumpy’d sprained his ankle over the weekend and wasn’t slotted to play tonight. My guess was he’d been sent for the search and rescue. I opened the door, and when he smiled, I slammed it in his face.

He rang the bell again. “Kid, you’re rude,” Murphy grumped. “Open the darn door.”

Opening it again, when he smiled bigger, I slammed it even harder. “No dwarfs,” I yelled.

Murphy pushed away from his desk, stepping overtop Marjorie, winding his hand around the knob, cracking the door wide. “My daughter has no manners,” he chuckled. “Come in, Jon.”

Wearing a brace around his ankle, Grumpy lumbered across the hardwood floor eyeballing Claudia who’d slumped onto the brown leather couch, her green and white muumuu scrunched up above her white slip.

“Si, Grumpy,” she waved. Then on command, her eyes closed.

“What’s wrong with Claudia?” he asked, scratching the back of his neck.

“She takes to the bed when she gets rid of a bad spirit,” I shrugged.

“Takes to the bed?” Grumpy asked.

“Kentucky talk for when she lies down, son,” Murphy explained, as he went back to his chair. “Apparently, she’s a little overtaxed. Must’ve encountered some bad ones.”

Claudia occasionally cleansed the house of bad spirits. Sprinkling holy water, praying over each room, chanting Puerto Rican gibberish that made Murphy as nervous as a sinner in church. Marjorie would walk through the room, and she’d smile and say, “Angelo.” I’d walk through the room, and she’d gasp, “el Diablo” and flick a dab of holy water at my forehead. No wonder the holiday season was confusing. My best friend was Catholic. My Puerto Rican nanny was a Catholic who performed exorcisms while my protestant father basically hid under the bed reciting the Ten Commandments. Then there was my aunt—whose favorite part of the Christmas story was the donkey in the “Little Drummer Boy”—the ass. Christmas was about hope and faith and goodwill toward men, but all I wanted to do was enjoy a coney hotdog with my rebellious, half-breed Jewish uncle during Hanukkah season.

That spelled stability in anyone’s lexicon.

Grumpy laughed, “I bet she spends most of her time in your room.” All on its own, my hand landed on the top of his head.

“Ouch!” he screamed, rubbing his crown. “Why did you smack me?”

“Blood is allowed to smack,” I shrugged.

Murphy raised a brow and shook his head. “You’re so screwed up, kid.”

“That’s not all she is,” Grumpy added.

Murphy took one last gander at the bills and marched to the kitchen to make dinner. He’d been hinting since morning he needed soul food. Whenever Murphy got his Kentucky on, that usually meant his world was falling apart. He’d surround himself with mashed potatoes, green beans, cornbread, and fried chicken or pork chops. Dessert would be fried apples or banana pudding with a midnight snack of cold, congealed leftovers.