No Brainer ( The Darcy Walker Series #2) (30 page)

I’d avoid that conversation like the plague. Yankee’s hair was perfectly-perfect while mine still had a green sheen. Appearances suggested she didn’t sweat, and I’d only been outside ten minutes and perspiration had mustached underneath my nose. Plus, my legs were stuck together at the thighs. When your legs stick together at the thighs that usually means they contain some extra meat. But who was I kidding. Dating? I didn’t understand anything about dating. I was knee-deep in emotions I couldn’t begin to fathom.

While Dylan politely—and almost too easily—spoke with Yankee, I snuck inside and snatched two doughnuts, then slipped out the front door to visit the Knobleckers. Besides, I didn’t want his stupid hamburger when I could talk Herbie into grilling a hotdog. A girl has to have standards, and right now, I hated cows.

My conscience told me this was tit-for-tat, still I found myself looking for Kyd. When I discovered he wasn’t home, Oinky and I hooked up and currently shared hotdog number two. Oinky was a peculiar little pig, but the fact that he grunted his approval at whatever I confessed caused me to initiate him into my brotherhood. He couldn’t communicate that my actions were bat-poop crazy.

And that maybe … loose emphasis on the
maybe
… I had feelings for my best friend.

“Is this kosher?” I asked Herbie.

“Ya Jewish?” he asked surprised. “Ya never struck me as a Jewess.”

With hotdogs, I was. But right now, I merely asked out of Oinky’s well being. I might’ve made him a cannibal of his own species. “Just curious,” I answered.

“Ballpark frank,” Herbie grunted proudly. “Do you want all meat?”

Not really. It tasted just as good, granted in a different way. I guess I was a hotdog snob. “No, it’s great,” I said.

“I’ve got some cow tongue in the freezer, if you’d like somethin’ else.”

I had an eeeuw moment but shivered it off.

“Maybe later,” I smiled. The three of us sat at a fancy picnic table in the back of his house. Herbie’s banana-yellow board shorts fell a good six inches below what nature intended as his waist. I still wore a brown bikini but had thrown on a white mesh cover-up. Modesty dictated I dress more appropriately, but once again, it was Herbie. I’d seen this man’s fungus-ridden rump. We were close enough to wear our birthday suits if we so chose.

I gave Oinky a bite then returned it to my mouth. “On second thought, I’m going to throw that tongue on the grill,” Herbie grunted, turning toward the house. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Okay, I needed to leave. I’d never seen a cow tongue, and I was pretty sure I didn’t want to smell one. Still trying to make this day successful, common sense told me I needed to get inside the apartment where Cisco Medina lived.

“I need to get inside that apartment, Oinky. Like really, really bad.”

Oinky grunted in approval as I whipped out my iPhone and commenced to dial.

Phileo in Greek means “brotherly love.” It can be biological, or it can be symbolic of a strong affection one has toward someone you’re not related to. To me, phileo meant an “I’ve-got-your-back” type of love, and right now, I needed that “lying-for-your-sibling” type of thing.

Kyd answered on the first ring. “Miss Legs,” he growled suggestively. “What can your brother do for you?”

“I need to speak with Tricky.”

Kyd went wordless. “And the reason for that?” he asked flatly.

He’s your brother, Darcy
, I said to myself.
Tell him the truth
. “I need some help breaking and entering.”

Kyd broke into laughter. “Neptune’s your man, but what exactly are you up to?”

“It’s for a good cause. I’m sorta fixing something.”

“So it’s philanthropic,” he chuckled.

“Think of me as Florence Nightingale.”

“Right.” Then he paused, and a very weird vibe stretched between us. “Exactly where is Taylor?”

Oinky looked at me, I looked at him, and we both knew that could pose a problem. “Not with me,” I replied. “So if you run into him, you need to … you
need
to,” I paused with a grimace, “you need to …
lie
.”

Kyd moaned like he’d just downed an aphrodisiac. “Legs, that will be my pleasure.”

After giving me Tricky’s number, Kyd promised he’d call back tonight. Possibly a mistake, but my experience with Kyd said he’d crash the evening anyway.

I pecked in Tricky’s digits while I patted Oinky on the head. “Tricky, it’s Darcy,” I greeted when he answered. “I need to break into an apartment.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “What part of town?”

“An apartment complex off Conroy Road.”

“Do you need any help?” That certainly was one good idea.

“Would you?” I could hear Tricky mumble something to someone as he paced.

“Absolutely,” he finally answered. “But now isn’t the best time. I’m playing basketball up by the club, and by the way, your best friend is here looking for you.”

H-e-double hockey sticks; mother-trucking son of a ball buster. “Dylan?” I shrieked.

“Uh-huh.”

Pray, Darcy. For God’s sake, drop to your knees and promise your firstborn son
.

“Does he know you’re talking to me?” I grimaced.

Tricky let out whispering laugh. “I’m not an idiot, babe. Of course, he doesn’t know. Do you want to speak with him?”

Heck no! I stole a look over toward
Maison de Saule
. No one had to tell me this was on the list of “thou shalt nots.” Heck, it was probably on the list of “thou shalt nots” for people that didn’t even read the Bible. But that’s the funny thing about lying—you tell one and the second doesn’t seem like that big of a deal. I swiped the bun crumbs off the table into the grass, bouncing my legs nervously up and down. “I need you to occupy him,” I begged, “then
lie
.”

I felt my soul grow blacker by the second.

“I’ll try. He’s not exactly what I’d call pleasant.”

Er, no kidding. I didn’t expect him to be. “Can I call you when I arrive so you can walk me through the process?”

“My phone is on. Be careful, though. I recently did a job over there and ran into a guard dog.”

Figures … and an idiot like me wouldn’t consider that a deterrent.

“I was not the lion, but it fell to me to give the lion’s roar.”

Winston Churchill

20. NINE LIVES

W
HEN
I
LOOKED AT AN
aerial view of the park, only one apartment complex was in sight. So if Cisco’s grandparents lived near the park, chances were good it had to be that one. If I got into their apartment, I hoped to determine their pattern of behavior. Bills they needed to pay, people they needed to see, blah, blah, and senior citizen blah. I’d look for anything out of place or out of the ordinary. Hopefully, that would lead to Lola, and if Hector was right, Lola might know exactly where her son was.

As I showered, Dylan knocked on the bathroom door saying he’d like to speak with me. I told him I had a headache. I didn’t have a headache, but women seemed to work that line successfully throughout history when they needed some “me” time. Apparently, Tricky wasn’t successful, but asking him to stall Dylan was like asking a T.rex to chew on a twig when he wanted to chomp on a side of beef.

He’s lucky he made it out with all his limbs.

When I finally stepped outside, Dylan was singing in his shower as though he hadn’t a care in the world. I didn’t take the time to decipher the tune—knowing him, it was some sappy love song that would make my teeth hurt. Wrapping a towel around myself, I sprinted to Sydney’s room, changing into what I felt was appropriate apparel: black shorts, black spaghetti-strap T, Dylan’s Ranger cap, Ray-Ban Aviators, and my beloved Chuck Taylor sneakers. When my last zebra lace was tied, I stood up and gazed into Sydney’s mirror with a cheesy smile. If this apartment were equipped with some sort of doomsday device, at least I’d go down looking like an American hero.

Roaming into the kitchen, I opened up the fridge and removed a hotdog from its packet, grabbed a plastic baggie from the cupboard, then slipped back into the bathroom. The only drugs in the medicine cabinet were Tylenol PM capsules. The back of the box stated that adults should take two, and I prayed that applied to canines.

After I shoved a pill in each end of the hot dog, I placed the wiener in the baggie and crawled out the window, landing in a bed of mulch. I river-danced my way across the flowerbed and hurdled the hedge while I thumbed in the number for the Yellow Cab service. I took off at a leisurely jog toward the gated entrance, not wanting to be too conspicuous, while wanting to make my date with Destiny.

This place was dump city. Paint peeled from the metal railing, and rust bled through the blue enamel still hanging on. I paid the cabbie and requested he wait, then hightailed it up to the manager’s office. Placing my hand on the doorknob, I twisted it both ways only to deduce it was locked. The windows framing the door were smudged, and a swipe of my hand didn’t make it any easier to peer inside.

Glancing overtop the door, I spied a small window that had been busted out. There didn’t appear to be any residual glass, but if the goal was to get inside, it looked to be my only option. I raised myself up on the railing, balanced both feet, and took a hulking jump until my body was suspended half-in, half-out. Wriggling my hips through, I felt like a newborn—I birthed myself through that narrow hole and fell out with no body control whatsoever, screaming.

I crashed into a dive forward roll, lost my sunglasses, and busted my nose while Dylan’s hat flew several feet in the air. I bear clawed my way to it, getting one heckuva rug burn in the process. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to conclude this wasn’t going well, but what I lacked in skill I prayed the universe rewarded me for enthusiasm.

Once I retrieved Dylan’s hat, I shoved it back on my head and unlocked the door for good measure. Appraising the space, I journeyed to the reservation desk and tapped the silver bell on the orange countertop. When I yelled “Hellooo” and got an echo’s worth of nothing, I decided to do what came naturally.

I snooped.

To the rear sat a desk. I wandered behind the counter and thumbed through bills, a bank statement, and an unopened letter in a light green stationery. A coffee blot covered the return address, but from what I could tell, “ose” were the last three letters. When nothing struck me as out of the ordinary, I snapped a few pictures with my iPhone then opened the door on the back wall.

Assuming this was the manager’s apartment, my stomach lurched at the squalor. It smelled like a rotting compost bin full of beer bottles, moldy dishes, dirty socks, and what looked like a dead rodent. Dodging a dive-bombing fly, I swatted at a cobweb and hopped over a stuffed animal pelt that appeared at one time to be a cow. Its head had been lobbed off, and all that remained was brownish-green fur and collapsed udders. Before I had a chance to vomit, two voices boomed from behind, and a deep bark told me I was seconds from coming face-to-face with a guard dog.

I panicked.

Prayed.

Then hoped it was all in my head.

It wasn’t—barreling through the door, like I’d just stolen its last bite of kibble, was a Rottweiler mix someone had sicced on me. The black hairs on its neck were up like a hyena’s, and its brown jowls dripped a long string of slobber. Nervously ripping the plastic baggie in two, I threw the hotdog toward the door. After a sniff and a growl, fleabag gobbled it in one bite, ran his tongue over his lips, and maintained his protective stance at the door.

Holy shizzers
, I was toast.

Animated talking filled the space outside, and common sense told me this moment was do or die.
Say you’re lost, Walker
, I said to myself.
Smile and act like the dumbest blonde on Earth.

A man and woman ventured inside. At least, I think I’d term him male because he was the most idiosyncratic creature I’d ever encountered. His head was watermelon-round, and a black, permed ponytail lay at his neck like the tail on a horse. Wearing shorts too tight and a dingy wife-beater, his ensemble showcased the hair on his shoulders, knuckles, and elbows. Top that off with buckteeth, and he just might’ve owned the corner on weirdness.