22. Poet
22
POET
I spoon stale oatmeal into my mouth and contemplate whether quitting teaching was worth it. Yes, it was, I decide. For freedom and for Zoe, I would quit a million times over and serve my life behind bars.
But just let me save the girl first.
The door opens, and an unimpressed FBI officer stands behind it, ushering me out. I hold up the bowl of oatmeal to signal that I’m not done eating, but he snatches it from my hand and sets it aside.
“Follow me.”
This morning, my muscles feel like they’re made of lead. I couldn’t sleep last night. I spent eight hours in darkness wide awake, tossing and turning on a one-inch thick mattress made of vintage springs that poked holes into my back. I resorted to the floor, and that’s when they woke me up with oatmeal that looked more like lumpy vomit.
The officer sets a card key against the door, and the sensor turns green to allow him access. A window separates the room from the next.
Wrangler has also been pulled out.
Don’t they know we come as a package deal?
“Take a seat please, Mr. Reeves.”
The metal chair scrapes against the concrete floor as I pull it out.
Already, I feel the metal from the backrest dig into my already aching back. I’m blaming it on the uncomfortable furniture, but it could be old age—I’m not exactly the spring chicken I once was.
“Mr. Reeves? I asked you a question.”
“Sorry. Please repeat.”
“I said, what were you doing at Felix Fernando’s place?”
The rape accusation comes back to me.
How dare he?
I tighten my fists under the table. Maybe I should take a shot at telling the truth.
“I know you won’t take my word for it, but we didn’t harm Zoe.”
The man frowns.
I proceed. “If you must know, we were trying to save her.”
He begins typing my response into his machine.
“And what exactly were you trying to save her from?”
“Wrangler told your colleague earlier, before our arrest, that the man is a serial killer.”
The man moves the computer aside. “Mr. Reeves, such accusations can’t be taken seriously without evidence, and all three of you have failed to provide any.”
“Bullwhip— Blazer. He might have some information.”
“Your friend has already been spoken to, and nothing was provided.”
Whose fucking side is this man on? Zoe’s, or her good-for-nothing husband’s?
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He slides the computer back and positions his fingers over the keys, preparing to type again. “Now, the three of you were brought into the station just a few days ago for entering a crime scene and assaulting multiple officers. It’s not looking good, Harrison Reeves. My colleague asked you about your place of employment…” He inspects the screen. “And you said that you were currently seeking new work. Is this still the case?”
“Yes.”
“You used to teach Literature Studies at Top Hill High School, and left due to your mental health. Your two friends, Blazer Grayson and Jason Tyler are also currently unemployed.” He squints. “Blazer claims that he does cash-in-hand mechanic work, but fails to provide tax returns.” The officer abandons the laptop and looks up at me. “Do you know what this means, Mr. Reeves?”
Do enlighten me.
“It means you’re now very high on our radar. You reside in Desert Shores, correct?”
I give a curt, “Yes.”
“Expensive neighborhood.”
“What about it?”
“Are you making money illegally, Mr. Reeves?”
“No.”
“Members of organized crime groups can be punished anywhere from a few years up to a lifetime, depending on the nature of the crimes committed.” The man brings the computer back toward him, and silence rings loud in my ears as he examines the screen some more. “Zoe Fernando, maiden name Warrington, used to be your student, did she not?”
“Yes.”
“Have the two of you ever engaged in sexual activity?”
“No.”
More silence.
He types out something on his laptop, and then closes the lid. “We do not have any satisfactory evidence currently, so you are free to go, but I do caution you, Harrison—tread very carefully.” His eyes find mine, and his face turns grave. “Especially around Felix Fernando.”
Another FBI agent interrupts the intense eye contact, and instructs me to follow him out.
I raise from my chair with just one more question. “Can you tell me what happened to Paul Royal?”
With a nod of approval from his friend at the door, the interviewer answers, “The man had a lot on his plate. He was harboring millions illegally, and used his casino as a front. He killed a whistleblower to avoid the information from being leaked, and then killed himself thirteen months later from guilt.”
I frown. “How do you know this?”
The man’s face turns grave again, adapting the same gray expression. “We’re done here. Peterson, please escort Mr. Reeves to reception and get him signed out of the premises.”
I walk through the long corridor feeling somewhat lighter about the situation now that I’ve been excused.
Bullwhip and Wrangler sit in reception waiting for me. We get the hell out of the station once I get the sign-off, and each take a breath of air.
“That oatmeal sucked ass,” says Wrangler, grimacing as if reliving the memory.
“Almost as much as those feds,” adds Bullwhip.
“You’re the one with the evidence.” I turn my body to face him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Bullwhip shrugs way too nonchalantly given the circumstances. “I didn’t take any photos of the documents.”
“What did the documents say, anyway?”
“Not here,” he says. “It’s too busy.”
The station is situated on a road that leads out of the desert. Only two cars have passed by as we’ve been standing here.
“What are you hiding?” I ask him.
“I’m not hiding anything, it’s just the cops are right there.” He throws an arm behind him to point to the station that I don’t feel like returning to…ever.
“Our bikes,” says Wrangler, “are still outside of Felix’s place, by the way.”
“We should go get them,” Bullwhip says.
“That’s if the guy hasn’t already set them all on fire,” I joke, even though chances of that happening are high.
Bullwhip exhales a sigh. “We should listen to the cops. Lie low for a while. I can’t be getting into any more shit, can you? We’re just building a court case at this point.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Zoe’s still in trouble.”
This turns his gaze to the ground.
“Agreed,” says Wrangler. “We should head back to the casino.”
Bully frowns. “Cash Pot Palace?”
“That’s the one,” he says. “I overheard some cops talking. By the sounds of things, it’s been reopened. We should check it out.”
Bullwhip tilts his head. “And just how do we plan to get there?”
* * *
I stick up my hand and wave the Russian and his deluxe BMW goodbye.
“Fucking hell.” Wrangler shakes his head. “Do you know who we just hitchhiked with?” He flicks his eyes between Bully and me, waiting for a response that neither of us seem to be giving him. “Bratva.”
“Bratva?” I deadpan.
“Yes. You remember last year. Some of the boys got tangled up with them over a girl.”
“God.” I swipe a stray piece of hair away from my face, the dry desert heat starting to dehydrate me. “I’d rather deal with those than fucking Mr. Perfect. At least they’re not in the cops’ good books either.”
“Speaking of,” says Wrangler as we walk down the strip toward Paul’s casino. “What did they say to you when they let you go?”
“To tread carefully,” I answer. “Especially around Felix Fernando.”
“Same,” says Wrangler.
Bullwhip nods.
Nice of him to join the conversation.
A cluster of people walking ahead of us suddenly turn around to let us pass. They point fingers, whisper among themselves.
I hear one of them say, “I wonder if they’re returning to Cash Pot Palace to attempt another break-in?”
Nosy bastards.
So we made it to the news? Lucky us. Felix has competition.
Although he probably paid somebody to record and air us diving into Paul’s casino to spread the hate.
Seems like it’s working.
Wrangler turns to Bully and me with a cautionary face. “It was all fun and games before about the biker costumes, but it looks like we’re gonna actually have to pay the costume store a visit this time to conceal ourselves a little.”
“What do you propose?”
Wrangler slides us away from the main sidewalk and flips up maps on his phone to direct us to the nearest costume store. To be honest, it’s more of a sexual-fantasy dress-up retailer that allows you to rent sexy outfits for the night.
Where are prices for the day?
Cop uniforms, firemen outfits, various superman designs…
Of course Wrangler selects the cowboy theme for us.
“This will fit us right in.”
I turn in the mirror to examine the costume—of lack of thereof. Aside from a white-and-red bandana tied loosely around my neck, I’m topless. A brown cowboy hat sits on my head, very conveniently shading me from the sun, and on my bottom half are dark denim pants with knee rips—because apparently that’s more authentic. My favorite part about the whole getup are the steel-toe boots that clack against the floor every time I take a step.
And we’re covered.
Thanks to the giant hats, nobody suspects a thing. They see three cowboys strutting down the street in a line and assume—male strippers.
All four doors at Cash Pot Palace swing open and guests come and go. People crowd every machine and huddle in every corner. Posters of Paul’s charming face stick to the walls. There are so many images, some from when he was younger, and some more recent. He was quite the looker back in the day before the eye bags and crow’s-feet emerged.
It’s also nice to see that he carried the same smile with him throughout his life.
I survey the surroundings. Guests clink glasses and make toasts, celebrating his life.
It was taken too soon.
And therefore has Felix Fernando written all over it.
When we spoke to him just the other day, nothing felt off about Paul. His suicide makes no sense.
A loud THUD! breaks the area around us into gasps.
“Oh my god!”
“What’s going on?”
“Literally so uncalled for.”
I snap around and see Wrangler shoving a dealer up against the wall, an arm across his neck. The young boy chokes, and red eyeballs start to pop out of the sockets as he chases his next breath of air.
“What the fuck?” I tear Wrangler away.
The kid sucks in a raspy breath, clutching his throat.
“What are you playing at?” I ask my friend.
“I need answers,” says Wrangler.
“And I was about to fucking have some until you came in and tried choking somebody that has nothing to do with…Aaron?” It’s one of my former students.
He forces a smile. Out of all the students I taught, Aaron is the one I bump into. This kid did zero work and spent his time in class discussing GTA with his buddies, never on task. Parent evenings were always negative.
“Long time no see, Mr. Reeves. Nice to see you cracking on with Zoe, pervert.”
“Do you want your back to meet that wall again?” Wrangler folds his arms over his chest. “I don’t care who you are.”
“What’s with the cowboy outfits?” laughs Aaron.
“Enough.”
“Is it true what they’re saying?” Aaron looks between us three. “Is Zoe really sleeping with you guys? I slept with her back in school, you know.” This brings a sly grin to his face. “She was good, although she wouldn’t go on top for me. I think she was shy.” He changes to a whisper. “ It was her first time .”
My hand tightens around the bastard’s neck.
BANG!
Back against the wall.
Aaron laughs again. “So it is true.”
“Did you get any answers?” I ask Wrangler.
He shrugs.
“There’s no need to resort to violence, gents,” says another voice.
I turn and see Warren. Just who we fucking need.
“If you want answers, all you need to do is ask,” he says.
“Ask you? Pfft. ” Wrangler laughs. “And be fed more bullshit?”
I loosen my grip on the boy. We just came from the police station—we can’t afford to go back.
“I’d take your hands off properly, if I were you.” Warren scowls at me. “That’s no way to treat my staff member.”