Crazy From the Heat (3 page)

“He’s
good looking. Fills out a pair of Dockers nicely. Dude’s got a nice bubble
shaped ass that I wouldn’t mind…” Paul trailed off with a laugh to let Vinnie
know he was just joking with him. “Besides, Gato, even if he was gay or on the
downlow or whatever, he thinks I’m a kid, and nothing is ever going to come of
that but trouble.”

Vinnie
climbed in the passenger side of their beater, a sure sign that he was
exhausted. Getting Vinnie to let him drive was nearly a full time job. Vinnie
had been a car requisition artist back in his teens. He could drive better than
a damned NASCAR racer and they both knew it. He'd been scared straight when his
older brother was killed in prison for doing the same thing Vinnie did—steal
cars and run drugs.

Because
they looked so much alike, the New Orleans Narcotics squad had teamed them up
the second Paul had transferred down. And when it came to sending someone over
to the Mobile, both Paul and Vinnie had gotten the transfer whether they wanted
it or not.

“He
ain’t straight, Chicago. Hiding is what he is. The kids have a bet going on how
long it takes Miss Sweet Cheeks to figure it out. He’s prettier than she is. How
the hell could she not see it?”

“Being
pretty don’t make you gay, Vinnie. Look at me, I’m ugly as ass and I’m gayer
than a three dollar bill or some such shit.”

“If
you’re ugly then what the hell does that make me?”

“Plug
ugly.”

“Dude,
you are seriously crazy is what you are. Now drive, Boudreaux, to dat little Creole
bistro over on Conti so I can get a chicory and a beignet. They ain’t like at
home but dey close.”

“Only
if it tames the wild Cajun. Because Gato, I’ve had three hours sleep and I’m
not in the mood.”

“Pissy
little bitch is what you are.”

“Who
you calling little? I’m the big brother in this and don’t you forget it.”

“Sir,
yes, sir. Or in your case, ma’am yes ma’am.”

“Bite
my ass Gato Loco.”

“Nah,
man. I’m going to leave that for the professor.”

Paul
laughed. A wishful thinking type laugh, or a Vinnie is delusional type laugh,
or a Chicago is probably fucked type laugh. But damn he wouldn’t mind if the
professor would bite his ass. He’d hold it right in front of his face if…Oh,
hell, no. He could not be thinking about this shit. Even if the professor was
gay, Paul couldn’t approach him. Paul couldn’t do anything to put the
assignment in jeopardy, and he sure as hell couldn’t get the professor in
trouble because he was supposedly underage and sniffing around. Not fair.

He
started the car and pulled out into traffic, trying to remember his way around
this fucked up city with the one way streets that came out of nowhere, so that
he could take Vinnie over to get him a hit of home before they hit the streets
to hang with the dope heads.

Chapter
Three

Having
to park a block away from his apartment sucked. Of course, he knew the minute
he vacated his nice, prime, meter-free parking space on a summer Friday night
some asshole would snap it up. But the shopping downtown didn’t include a
grocer and Grey wanted something besides takeout food.

Full
dark now, he carried his groceries in a couple of canvas reusable tote bags.
Not because he was all that eco-conscious but because it was just easier to
deal with than flimsy plastic bags. Both hands full, keys tucked in a pocket,
he trudged down the broken sidewalk listening to the thrum of one of the night
clubs a street over. Or, rather,
feeling
the thrum of the bass coming
from the nightclub as it vibrated the very air around him.

He’d
stopped at more than just the super market. The book store had called to him on
his way home. He’d ordered several books that weren’t in stock and picked up a
magazine. He even stopped for coffee at a quaint little New Orleans café and there
were beignets in one of the bags. Hot and fresh. And a shrimp Po’boy because,
after he went all the way to the grocery store, he just wasn’t in the mood to
prepare anything tonight.

It
was nearly ten now. He was later than he meant to be, and farther from his door
than he wanted. He watched the few people who strolled the street with him,
nodding politely as they passed. He could see the antiques store sign just up
ahead, he was almost there, three more stores then his secluded entry and…

He
turned at the sound of someone running. Fast heavy footfalls, wheezing for
breath, the guy had a gun in his hand. Grey couldn’t see him very well—he ran
from well-lit to shadowed too fast. Grey turned and started moving faster
determined to make it at least to the antiques store where the owner would
still be inside cleaning up, the sidewalk there well-lit and friendly. He froze
when a hand landed on his shoulder, coming unfrozen as he was spun around and
held from behind.

“Back
off, asshole, back off,” the guy shouted into the dark. Grey held his breath
mostly from the gun that was pressed to his head, but secondly because the guy
reeked of sweat and fear and, dear God, he smelled like piss.

The
world slowed down and sped up all at once. Light and shadow and sound and smell
all converged into one ball of confusion. Louder footfalls meant another
runner. This one had a gun too, and a gold shield around his neck. The one who
held him cursed viciously in Grey’s ear and pushed him hard toward the other
runner. Grey’s feet didn’t oblige and he went slamming face first onto the
broken sidewalk, his groceries spilling everywhere.

Terrified,
no
petrified,
he looked up just as the second gunman launched himself in
the air and went sailing over him. He landed on one foot and twisted around to
look at Grey.

“Professor?”
he said confusion clear in his voice, but all Grey could see was a pair of
familiar beat up Converse as they chased after the guy who’d just flung him to
the concrete.

* * * * *

Paul
could hear Vinnie yelling in his ear. The Rawlings punk was up the street and
hauling ass, and the Professor lay behind him on the sidewalk. He looked
stunned.

“I’m
on him, shut up. Where are you?” he said normally, the microphone picking up
every word.

Vinnie
laughed in his earpiece, the sound deafening. Rawlings was racing down the
street toward the river. He’d cut through the alley and be lost somewhere on
Alabama Docks if Vinnie didn’t hurry his ass up. A black SUV came skidding to a
halt at the cross street, the back door flying open and Rawlings all but jumped
head first inside as the truck took off. 

“Son
of a bitch, where the hell are you Vinnie?”

“About
a block behind you, what happened?” Vinnie stopped laughing.

“Asshole
jumped in a black Escalade with tinted windows and tricked out rims, they sped
off toward Water Street. And he body slammed a pedestrian for his trouble. I'm
going back to check on him. You take a left on Water Street and see if you can
spot the ride.”

“I’m
on it,” Vinnie hit the horn on his way past Paul. “Do you need me to call in
the casualty?”

“Don’t
know, call for back up if you spot the thing.” Paul raced back up the street to
the man just now pushing himself into a sitting position on the sidewalk.
“Sorry I didn’t get the plate.”

“These
things happen, cuz, don’t sweat it,” Vinnie said through the ear piece. “I’ll
get back to you in a few.”

“Copy
that,” Paul replied, and clicked the set off. He knelt on one knee in front of
the stunned history teacher who sat looking at the blood dripping from his
hands.

“Hey,
Prof. Fancy meeting you here.”

“You
have a gun,” the history teacher said his gaze riveted to the piece in Paul’s
hand.

“Yeah,
sorry. Comes with the badge,” Paul said softly as he holstered his weapon. “Are
you okay, Dr. Talbot?” He didn’t like the way the teacher just sat there,
almost as if he were in shock. Which he probably was. Blood seeped through the
denim covering his knees now. A scrape showed on his cheek. “Where are your
glasses?”

“Grey,”
the teacher said inexplicably, still holding his hands out palms up as blood
welled in them.

“What?”
Paul started gathering the spilled shopping bags up, finding Dr. Talbot’s sexy
glasses lying nearby. He placed them back on the man’s face drawing his
attention from his scraped hands.

“My
name. It’s Grey, like the color. Since when do they let kids on the force,
Spicoli?”

“Since
about ten years ago. Come on, Grey. Let’s get you home.” Paul tried to help
Grey find his feet and hold on to the shopping bags at the same time, but one
spilled, a bottle of wine shattering on the sidewalk. “Damn. Sorry about the
booze, Prof.”

“It’s
fine.” The arm beneath Paul’s hand shook slightly. Grey’s voice and eyes seemed
distant.

“Don’t
go into shock, Grey. Okay, buddy? You’re okay, just some scratches that we can
fix right up.” And a fucking gun to the head, which might stay with him for a
while. Paul’s phone rang Darth Vader’s theme. “I gotta take this. It’s my
captain, so hang on a minute.” Paul gently pushed the teacher against the wall
keeping a hand on his shoulder for support, holding his gaze so he’d know if the
man really did go into shock.

“Gaines,”
he said into his phone. The captain’s voice a shout over the line, words
unintelligible with anger. “He dove head first into a SUV, Cap. What was I
supposed to do, run it down on foot? Plus he grabbed a pedestrian as a shield,
I chose to help…Okay, no. No. My cover is blown, Cap. It’s one of the teachers
at the school. Bloodied up, looks shockey. Call Vinnie back and send him to
bed. He’s wasted. Yeah, Cap better luck next time. I will Cap.” Paul answered
every shout in rapid fire succession until the Captain cooled down. “We’ll see
about that on Monday morning, won’t we?”

Paul
hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket. “Okay, Grey. Where are we
going? Do I need to call 911?”

The
teacher pointed his head in the direction he’d been heading before Paul had
raced past him. “Just before the antiques store. Key’s in my pocket. Third
floor.”

“Okay,
Grey, let’s get you cleaned up.” Paul spoke softly, slowly, not wanting to
freak the teacher out further. By the time they’d climbed the two sets of
stairs, the front of Grey’s jeans from the knees down were soaked with blood.
He shook harder with every step leaning more and more on Paul. Maybe the
scrapes weren’t as superficial as Paul thought. Maybe Grey was bleeding to
death while Paul watched. Once inside, he dropped the bags on the lone sofa in
the middle of a barren apartment. Damn but the Professor lived like a monk.

“Where’s
your first aid kit?”

“Bathroom.”
Grey lumbered toward a door on the wall across the room, and Paul followed him
through a tiny bedroom with a queen size bed that took up most of the space and
a dresser and wardrobe. The bathroom wasn’t much larger than a walk in closet,
a tub, toilet and sink fought for space, so much so that the door opened out
into the bedroom instead of inside.

Grey
almost collapsed onto the closed toilet, his face gone white. He didn’t make a
noise as he stared into his blood encrusted hands.

“The
bleeding has mostly stopped, that’s a good thing. We just need to clean it up
now.” Paul fumbled through the professor’s lone linen closet and found a loaded
case of first aid basics. Antibacterial cream, bandages, gauze, tape and, to
his surprise, condoms and lubricant. Because one can’t be too prepared. He
grinned a little, starting to wonder if maybe what Vinnie'd said…
Shut it
Gaines
. He found a couple of wash cloths, and wet one. “I’m going to start
with your hands, okay? I don’t want to hurt you, just want to see how bad it
is.”

“He
had a gun,” the professor said, as Paul wiped at the blood on his hands. “You
had a gun. You’re a kid.”

Paul
sighed. The injuries weren’t the problem. He’d thought of that on the street.
“I’m not a kid, Grey.”

“You’re
Spicoli. You’re in one of my classes.”

“I’m
an undercover narcotics officer, and I probably won’t be back on Monday.”

“Why
not?”

“Because
you
know
,” Paul said, moving around to sit on the side of the tub so
that he could watch the professor’s face for signs of shock.

“Oh.”
The professor sighed and looked away. His hands shook in Paul’s grasp. “Was he
going to shoot me?”

Paul
couldn’t answer that question. Rawlings was a loose cannon when sober, high on meth,
Paul wouldn’t put it past the asshole to shoot everyone on the street. But he
wasn’t going to tell the professor that.

“I’m
not sure he had bullets, Prof, so no I don’t think so. He was just trying to
scare me.”

Paul
spread antibacterial cream on both palms, and wrapped the teacher’s hands with
gauze and tape.

“Okay,
I’m not getting fresh or anything but you’re going to have to take off your
jeans so we can clean your knees. Do you want me to leave the room or something?”