Vengeance by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page B

said.
    He got up and pulled two tens out of the pocket of his jeans. He dropped the bills on the counter, patted my back and said, “Sorry. Been having a bad week.”
    “You happen to know a driver named Dwight?” I asked, looking up at Corky Flynn.
    “Driver of what?”
    “Delivery or tow truck, don’t know.”
    “Dwight, Dwight. Yeah, Dwight, don’t know his last name. Don’t want to. He’s trouble. Mean. Works out of a station somewhere off Cattlemen or McIntosh. Triple-A jobs I think. Has a chip of steel on his shoulder, looking for trouble. Mean son of a bitch. He comes to me with that attitude and I’ll knock that steel chip into his neck. My advice, stay away from him.”
    “Can’t. Know how I can find him?”
    “You know what I know. See you around.”
    I held up a hand to acknowledge his departure.
    “Thought he was going to hit you,” said Tim with a touch of disappointment in his voice.
    “Sorry,” I said.
    “You would have shot him, put him away with a kick to his balls or a karate chop,” he said.
    “No,” I said. “Corky Flynn would have beat the hell out of me. Corky left enough to cover your breakfast too. Be my guest.”
    Tim smiled. His teeth were false and white but his smile was real. I touched his shoulder and went out into the morning sun. The high school was about two blocks away, across 301, past the McDonald’s, the Sarasota Herald-Tribune office, a motel, a fried-chicken franchise and a discount eyeglass shop.
    I drove the Metro to the school parking lot, took a space for visitors and left the windows open. Maybe it would help the pine tree get rid of that smell of stale tobacco.
    Kids were heading toward the old red-brick three-story building and the newer one-story blocks behind it.
    The girls were dressed in the latest costume they thought would make them look sexy and the boys were looking at the latest costume that made them look cool. Grunge was back in for both groups. I preferred preppy. Most of the book-toting kids, who looked too young to be in high school, walked in zombie-like steps, eyes hooded from lack of sleep, talking in hoarse voices. I wondered what it would be like to teach a classroom of the teens I was walking through, especially a class in the morning. I’d rather face Corky Flynn in a dark doorway.
    A girl with nothing pierced, at least nothing on her face or tongue, and looking more awake than her peers, directed me to the office of Mr. Kwan, the associate principal and disciplinary officer. He was in one of the older one-story buildings.
    There were four green plastic and aluminum chairs to the right of the door. In front of the chairs was a desk behind which sat a pretty, thin, black woman talking on the phone. Behind her were other desks, file cabinets and a pair of women bustling with papers. To the left were two windowed offices with doors closed. In the first office, a heavyset, gray-haired woman was leaning forward over a desk pointing a yellow pencil at a sullen-looking, overly made-up girl with blue hair. The girl’s arms were folded over her flat chest. She didn’t like what she was hearing. She didn’t like the heavyset woman. I wondered what she did like.
    In the second office, an Asian man of no particular age stood next to a desk. His arms were folded like those of the girl in the next room. The man, who I assumed was Mr. Kwan, was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt, a solid blue tie, tan slacks and a lot of muscle. He was talking to a fat boy, who met Kwan’s eyes. The fat boy had a definitely dense look. He was either stupid, or suffering—or enjoying—the aftereffects of some drug. I’d seen that look.
    The black woman hung up the phone. Before I could speak, she held up a hand with long, red-painted fingernails, indicating to me that I should hold my complaint, thought or request.
    She picked up the phone again and said,
    “Yes, Mrs. Stanley. I know. But Mr. Kwan says it’s important that you see him today … . I