Think Before You Speak (9 page)

I ignored him. “Then last, what can you tell
me about your gang years.”

A definable shudder passed over him, sending
silk ruffles rippling like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon.
“I’ve not thought about that time in so long. At least not until
all of this started.”

“What was the name of the group?” I asked,
ready to detail every painful memory like a court reporter during a
trial.

I hoped Reggie realized I wasn’t trying to be
pushy or bitchy on purpose. If we didn’t go through this exercise,
he just might find himself sitting in a courtroom for real.

“You do realize this is a dangerous line of
questioning.”

“But it’s gotta be done,” I urged. “Name that
gang.”

“Will you promise to treat this as a path of
last resort?” Reggie begged.

“As all the cop shows say, a good
investigator goes where the evidence leads. Gang name, please.”

He returned my pointed stare before
relenting. “The Switchblades.”

I flipped through the notepad and wrote on a
fresh page. “Do you remember the leader’s name?”

“Yeah.” Reggie’s voice dulled. “Switch.”

“Switch from the Switchblades?”

“It was a local group. He kinda started
it.”

I had to work hard to stifle a chuckle. This
was not a time to hurt Reggie’s feelings or belittle any concerns.
“Did you ever know his real name?”

He scrunched his forehead in concentration.
Lips pursed before the light of remembrance widened his eyes.
“Tomas. Tomas Ricardo.”

“Two first names?” I questioned. “Seems a bit
odd. Are you sure that’s his real name and not another cover?”

“Oh, yes. I remember stories about him being
teased as a little kid. That’s why he created the gang when he got
older, to give himself a cool nickname.”

I raised a brow.

“Well, it was cool back then.”

This time I didn’t bother trying to hide my
laugh. “When would being called
Switch
ever be considered
cool?”

“Because that was his signature. He always
took a switchblade to his enemies.”

“You mean to warn them off?”

“No.” Reggie’s tone sobered to a whisper, as
if fearful of being overheard. “To kill them.”

Oh, what new hell was this?

If there’s one thing my mom and I agree on –
besides the spending power of her credit card – it’s that warm
chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk cheer all woes. Scraped
knees in pre-school? Chocolate chip cookies. Boy troubles in middle
school? Chocolate chip cookies. Rescuing my apartment from a
tornadic terror? Freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies saved the day
once again.

Besides the Oreo stash, I was pleased to
discover several tubes of cookie dough in the freezer when
reclaiming my space. Figuring out the new all-digital oven was the
only thing standing in the way of chocolate satisfaction and a milk
mustache.

But I prevailed by dragging a full plate of
not-too-scorched confections downstairs to apartment 102, the home
of my would-be and wounded savior. The sanctuary of the only person
I knew with the potential of gang ties. The pad of
Jimmy-the-Super.

Hey, I never promised Reggie anything.

The building’s superintendent and I once had
an avoid-at-all-costs relationship, meaning I paid my rent on time
and hightailed it out of there during the bi-annual bug hose down.
Gave him no reason to bother me in the interim, mainly because he
kinda creeped me out with all the scars and tattoos. But after his
attempt to save my sorry carcass from being thrown off the roof –
and taking a bullet in the process – I realized Jimmy had a heroic
streak. Therefore, he might also have a softer side I’d yet to see
through the hulking three hundred pounds of bulk and muscle.

Plus, I was pretty sure there were some past
gang associations in his closet that might put me on the right path
in my quest to help Reggie. But when Jimmy opened his apartment
door with his arm in a sling, that creepy skull tattoo on his bicep
winked in the varying light between the thresholds and brought my
earlier assumptions to the forefront.

I smiled – or at least tried to – and held up
the cookie plate to the brawny man. “Welcome home?” I squeaked.

Eloquent I wasn’t – at least not around
Jimmy. There was something about the tattoos across his arms and
the jagged scars across his face that had me swigging a shot of
discomfort and a chaser of fear. Or perhaps my unease stemmed from
the fact that the guy always seemed too interested and
knowledgeable concerning my comings and goings.

Still, he deserved thanks for coming to my
aid that night, even though it didn’t turn out so well for him.

Jimmy grunted like a good Texan. “Been home
for a month, unlike you and that cat.”

What’d I tell you? “Call this a thanks
offering then, for saving my life.”

That got me a hard stare. “I was little more
than a distraction for all of two seconds.”

He had a point. “Well then here’s to those
few seconds of distraction that kept me from becoming a pavement
pancake.”

That got me another tattooed skull wink as he
opened the door wider. “You wanna come in?”

I gulped. Cross the threshold into the
unknown? Enter the lion’s den? Those gang-related questions begged
to be asked if I was going to be useful to Reggie. I stepped
inside.

The apartment was surprisingly clean for a
man. I mean, for a currently one-armed man. It was a mirror image
of what mine used to be – you know, that whole eighties theme.
Furniture was older, but in good condition with newer slipcovers.
The electronics were state-of-the art. A bank of small, dust-free
monitors took up most of the space on the corner desk.

So that’s how he knew so much about my
comings and goings. I’d never before noticed cameras scanning the
parking lot and each floor’s main hall, providing Jimmy with more
than a bird’s-eye view of everything in and outside of the
building.

I unwrapped the plastic wrap from the cookies
and set the plate on his coffee table, while Jimmy opened the
fridge and grabbed a jug of milk.

“Milk?” he asked.

“Uh…sure,” I hesitated, wracking my brain to
come up with more than small talk – and failed. “I like your place.
It reminds me of what mine used to look like BB.”

“BB?”

“Before Bombing.”

The chuckle sounded more like a bulldog’s
growl. “Believe it or not, your remodel kinda lit a fire under the
new landlord. Sounds like the whole place is gonna undergo a
refresher.”

Two words in those sentences caught my
attention:
new
landlord and
refresher
. Both portended
an increase in rent, something I could ill afford with all the time
off I’d been forced to take while looking into Amy’s death and then
recovering from injuries. Nearly two months later, I was still in
catch-up mode with some of the bills – and no, I wasn’t about to
ask for anymore assistance from my mom.

“Sounds expensive,” I said.

Jimmy shrugged and handed over a glass before
snagging another and sitting on the sofa before the cookie
offering. “It’s overdue, and so far there’s been no talk of rent
increases.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“They’re gonna start on the couple of empty
apartments first then others as tenants move out.”

He popped a cookie in his mouth and then
grimaced. Picking up another one, he flipped it over to study the
slightly
burned underside. Jimmy tossed me a smirk before
shoving the cookie in his mouth then took a careful drink of milk
to mask the flavor char. Oh well, a gourmand I will never be.

I tentatively picked up a morsel and nibbled
the crisp edge. “What about your apartment? Are they going to
renovate it while you live here?”

A little drool dribbled at the edge of his
mouth, caught quickly with a napkin. “Nah. They’ll move me over to
the empty one across the hall after renovatin’ it.”

“Well that’s good. It’d suck to work here and
not get to enjoy at least one of the perks.”

I took a sip of milk. Nice and cold, perfect
with a good chocolate chip cookie. Too bad mine strayed a bit from
the
good
category. Okay fine, they strayed more than a
bit.

I nodded at his sling. “How long are you
going to have to wear that thing?”

“Until the doc clears me. The bone is pretty
well healed by now.”

I almost spewed milk. “Bone? What bone?”

“Think I was wearin’ this from a little
gunshot wound?”

“Well I…”

“When that asshole shot me, the bullet
bounced off my collarbone. Doc had to bolt the shattered ends
together with titanium and what amounts to crazy glue.”

“Ouch,” I cried. “No one told me that.”

“Like I said, it’s pretty well healed, but
the doc won’t release me for anythin’ other than light duty for a
few more weeks. Might even order me to some punk-ass physical
therapy.”

With that attitude, I already felt sorry for
whoever got assigned to that duty. I might be the one who owed the
guy, but count me out for physical therapy chores. “Do you need
some help around here until then? It’s not like I owe you my life
or anything.” I smiled.

“No thanks.”

He returned the smile – a little lopsided –
which brought me around to the real reason for my visit. Okay,
okay, I had an ulterior motive with the cookie reception after all,
and Jimmy’s civility lulled me into seeing him as almost human.

“So what happened here?” I asked with a
gesture toward the corner of my mouth. “Was it a gang fight or
something?”

The smile dissipated. “Where did you get the
idea I was in a gang?”

“Oh,” I stammered. “I-I just assumed with the
tattoos and all…”

“Tattoos are from a stint in the Army. The
scars are courtesy of shrapnel from an IED in Iraq.” He dabbed at
his mouth again. “The Bell’s palsy? I guess you could say that’s
from God.”

Warmth flooded my face – and trust me if you
haven’t figured it out yet, I don’t blush easily. There were plenty
of other things I’d done that had never caused me embarrassment.
Much. But once again, that dreaded foot-in-mouth disease had reared
its ugly – um – heel?

“I just assumed. Sorry. I mean, how many
people can say they have Bell ’s palsy anyway? I didn’t mean
anything by the gang reference.” I’d descended into full-blown
babble mode.

“It’s why I couldn’t get a good bead on that
guy who manhandled you without endangerin’ you too. If you can’t
properly sight your weapon in a shootout, you’re a greater
liability than an asset. It’s why I got an honorable discharge from
the Army after multiple episodes.”

That was the longest speech I’d ever heard
the super make. Normally it was a couple of words. Better yet, a
grunt. “Will it ever go away?”

Jimmy shook his head. “Looks like I’m one of
the lucky four percent. At least it hasn’t permanently affected my
taste buds though.” When he shoved two cookies in this time, I had
my doubts about that last statement. Guess Jimmy had adjusted to
the flavor of chocolate chip charcoal. “So why’re you askin’ about
gangs?

“Well, I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?” he asked around the crumbs.

“Some old gang leader in the area. Someone
who goes by the name of Switch.”

Jimmy gave me the once over as if determining
whether I was a worthy opponent. Don’t think I made the cut.

“Let me tell you somethin’,” he said, setting
the glass of milk down a little too hard. “The last thing a girl
like you should be doin’ is tryin’ to get in touch with that man.
Believe me…he’s already a little touched. Touched in the head.”

The last point he emphasized with a finger to
the temple like a gun. I really could’ve gone without the reminder
of my rooftop dalliance with Bud. And hey, I was a bonafide woman,
not just some
girl
. That kinda twisted my catnip all sorts
of wrong – and for a second, I forgot who I was talking to. That
lulled with civility thing came right around and bit me in the
butt.

“I need to find out some information…”

“Then find it another way,” Jimmy bellowed,
standing straight up off the couch and marching toward the door
without consideration for his healing collarbone, my ears, or those
of the other tenants in the building. “Don’t even consider that
direction. If somethin’ happened to you, your…” Jimmy stopped and
his lips thinned into a hard line.

“My what?” I asked intrigued, lurching to my
feet and following him toward the door.

“Just take my advice. Avoid gettin’ involved
in some gang turf war. You might find yourself at the wrong end of
a switchblade...or worse,” he said, slamming the apartment door in
my face with a rattle to wake the neighbors.

Hmm. Was that as a threat? The closed door
was centimeters from my nose, the rough grain in need of a good
sanding and a fresh coat of shellac. Maybe I could sic Reggie and
his crew on the super to bid on this remodel project, though it was
doubtful the landlord would be willing to pay the designer’s fees.
Still, it’d be fun just to witness Jimmy’s discomfort while Reggie
played the role to the hilt – a last hurrah for my friend before
retirement claimed him.

It’d serve the super right for his
belligerence. So much for trying to be nice to the guy. I brushed
the newfound camaraderie with Jimmy aside and started up the
stairwell. It took all of trudging up one floor before it hit
me.

If Jimmy had no gang ties, how did he know
Switch?

***

This week’s semi-final round of the alcohol
X-games kept the bar hopping all night long. With me slinging out
drinks in such rapid succession, I had no time for even a sip to
wet my whistler – or to stew on the conversation with Jimmy.

While keeping beer and the shot-of-the-night
prepped and ready for Grady to hand out to game participants, I
also had to serve those sitting at the bar. With Rochelle taking on
the extra server duty the games required, we were in danger of
draining every keg and bottle within a five-mile radius.