A Guardian of Innocents Page 8

  “Huh?”

  “The hot redhead you were lookin’ at the night before—she’s out there in the hallway asking for you by name.”

  As my stomach sank, I asked him, “Did she ask for Jeshua or. . .”

  Since I had wanted college to be a fresh start, I’d started going by Jeshua as soon as my first semester had begun. No one here knew my real name.

  “Well shit, son,” he answered, “How many names do you go by? Of course she asked for Jeshua. Now getchyoor ass out there and lay your mack down and report back to me. I want details!”

  Bo sent me out of the Green Room with a hard slap on the back, right between the shoulder blades, knocking some of the air out of my lungs.

  I felt her stare fall upon me as I pushed the door open. I turned my head to the right and observed some of the girls from the club conversing with a pair of guys who appeared downright gleeful such beautiful women were talking to them. I saw the redhead a few yards away, already approaching me with a knowing smile.

  There was something about her walk that just did things for me. The long legs coming out of the short skirt were great, sure, but there was just something about the sum of all her movements that just screamed female.

  She stood in front of me and crossed her arms, not uttering a word. I didn’t feel any contempt emanating from her and there was a silly smirk on her face I found both endearing and unsettling.

  She held out her hand, ready to shake.

  “Is this good enough for you?” she asked out loud.

  When I didn’t respond, she sighed and reached inside her purse and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights. There was a little plastic lighter tucked into the cellophane wrapping.

  “C’mon, babe,” she said as she drew a cigarette out, “Let’s go outside and find a place to talk.”

  I lead her outside to a place I hoped wouldn’t be too crowded. It was the school employees’ parking lot behind the auditorium.

  It was early March and the air was cool and calm. She lit her cigarette and offered me one. I had smoked before a few times at the numerous post-rehearsal get-togethers, and my anxiety was making me crave one anyways, so I gladly placed the cigarette between my lips and sucked air through it like a straw (the way I’d been taught) while Desiree—

  Is that her name? I think so.

  --held the flame of her lighter to the end of it.

  I’ve been addicted ever since.

  We walked a little ways down the side of the brick building. The alcove we’d just exited was a popular smoking spot for the theatre people and we wanted to be left alone. She seemed to understand the show’s cast and crew was about to come flooding through those doors just as well as I did.

  “So what’s your name?” she asked.

  “Thought you already knew,” I replied.

  “Jeshua’s just your made-up name,” she said, “You got a real one?”

  “Why? Are you gonna give it to the cops?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to say, ‘Hey, Mr. Policeman, I wait tables at a tit bar and had a psychic vision that one of my customers is planning to kill one of our regulars in the near future.’”

  I was both horrified and amused. Her tone was sarcastic but it also gave me verbal confirmation she’d seen into my mind. All those times I’d done it to other people, and just now was I starting to realize how invaded it makes you feel.

  “Name’s Phil,” I mumbled.

  She smiled, “I like Jeshua. Fits you better. I’m Desiree.”

  I half-expected her to offer her hand to me again, but she didn’t She stood silent for several seconds, enjoying her cigarette and gazing up into the clear night sky.

  “Is there any talking you out of it? I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  I leaned against the brick wall and felt its brisk coolness through my t-shirt. With my hands in my pockets, I shook my head slowly once from left to right.

  She sighed, yet I didn’t detect any disappointment coming from her, “So how’d you find out about all the shit he’s pulled?”

  I thought about Kimber and Isaac and the vision. Then, as I felt her mind accessing my own, I realized how stupid I was to think of such things in her presence.

  “Family,” Desiree whispered.

  “Don’t do that!” I snapped.

  “Sorry,” she said as she stared down at her expensive-looking dress shoes, “Force of habit. I’m used to people not even knowing when I’m reading them. I’m sure you’re probably used to that too.”

  “Yeah, well. . . I guess I’ve been staring at televisions for so long, I’m just getting weirded out cuz I’ve found one that stares right back at me.”

  A little snatch of the Counting Crows song “Mr. Jones” played in her head: I want to see me/Staring right back at me.

  “I know how you feel,” she responded, “Look, I don’t like that bastard either. I want to take my nails and rake them across his eyes every time I see him. There are things I see going on in his mind that are just... fucking sick!”

  After a brief pause, I asked, “Did you know that he raped his wife in front of his own little boy?”

  “Yes,” she answered weakly, as if it hurt her to acknowledge it, “He’s done a lot more, but I think that’s the worst of it.”

  “Do you believe his absence from this world will make it a better place?”

  She pondered my question for a moment, “Not by much. There’s so many other men out there like him.”

  It occurred to me then before she continued that she possessed information that could help me.

  “Alright look, babe, I can tell you’re a nice kid. A little idealistic and naïve, but nice—“

  “I’m not a kid,” I interrupted, “I know I look young, but I’m nineteen.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m twenty-six. I’ve got seven years of life experience on you and, believe me, that makes a huge difference in how you make your decisions. I came here tonight hoping I might keep you from doing something really stupid.”

  More than a little irritated, I responded, “Stupid is waiting tables at a strip club when you could make ten times as much money dancing.”

  She dropped her cigarette butt onto the black asphalt of the parking lot and stepped on it, glaring at me with eyes full of malice, “Stripping is one step away from prostitution... and I am not a whore. A friend of mine told me the tips were great there and I was desperate for money when I got back from L.A., but—God, why the hell am I even explaining myself to you? You don’t know my past. You don’t know my history. So don’t even attempt to judge me.”

  “No one’s judging,” I said softly, trying to assuage her, “You called me stupid and I countered.”

  She sighed, exasperated. She knew I hadn’t really meant anything by my comment. She was only defensive because she felt guilty about working in such an establishment in the first place.

  Desiree crossed her arms and shivered. The breeze was picking up and carried with it some of winter’s bite.

  “Look. If the only reason you came to the play tonight was to try to talk me out of doing what I know I have to do, well, then you’re just wasting both my time and yours. There is absolutely nothing you can say that’ll change my mind.”

  Pensively, she smiled, “I didn’t think there would be. I felt your hatred for him that night. It was overpowering.”

  She paused again, shuddering. I could tell she was considering giving me some vital piece of information, but I couldn’t tell exactly what it was. She wouldn’t let me. I could only get a hint of what it was she was mulling over behind those grey eyes of hers.

  “He gets paid every Friday,” she said finally, “He uses a good chunk of his paycheck that night of the week going out to Harry Hines and picking up any one of the nicer looking boys that hang out around the corner near Sixth street.”

  Harry Hines Boulevard is a very well-known street in Dallas, a section of it well-known for all the wrong reasons. If you’re a person with any kind of good sense, you do not dr
ive through it at night, and if you have to during the day, you do so with your doors locked, your windows rolled up and your radio turned down so no one nearby hears what a great stereo system you have.

  “And you’re telling me this—Why?”

  Another sigh, “When I saw you that night, you were thinking of ways to get him. And I remember one of the ideas you kept coming back to was that you could pose as one of his umm. . . prospects.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. I’d thought of myself as gifted for the latter half of my life, but now knew all I had ever owned was a pair of binoculars while this girl had the freakin’ Hubble Telescope.

  “God, I must have scared the shit outta you,” I said.

  “No apology necessary,” she replied, “Remember, I’ve seen a lot worse going through people’s minds. Even Galen wasn’t the worst. Strip clubs are like magnets for sick fucks. Oh, I don’t mean you and your friends. There’s plenty of guys who go there to stare at boobs and drink a few beers and have fun, but you don’t even have to be a mindreader to know who the pervs are. They come in by themselves, sit in some dark corner away from the bulk of the crowd and just watch everything. And if you dare to so much as make eye contact with them or acknowledge their presence, they glare at you like they want to kill you.”

  Desiree shuddered again, and it dawned on me that if I’d been wearing a jacket, I would’ve taken it off and draped it over her shoulders, like in some cheesy romance movie.

  As she started giggling, I realized in horror that she had picked up that thought. She cocked her head a little and smiled up at me, “A jacket would be nice, but I’m not looking for a boyfriend. You’re a little young for me,” then added with a slight touch of melancholy, “And I try not to get involved with guys who I know will end up in prison soon.”

  “Ah, is that it?” I replied, attempting to sound cool and aloof.

  “Don’t get me wrong. You’re cute, but. . .” Desiree let the sentence trail off, leaving it purposefully unfinished.

  But I could tell. I could tell there was some unknown level of attraction she felt for me. She had constructed a virtual wall around herself to hide her thoughts, but there were some small cracks, little chinks in her concentration allowing certain things to seep through. She certainly wasn’t in love with me, but I could feel there was at least something there.

  And before she could detect the breach in her mental armor by prying into that thought, I quickly changed the subject. “So if you don’t want me to kill him, why are you giving me information that’ll help me accomplish just that?”

  “It’s not that I want him to live. It wouldn’t bother me a bit if he died; violently. . . painfully. But you look like a nice kid and I don’t want to see you locked up in prison. You do know what happens in there to guys who look like you, right?”

  “Trust me—that crosses my mind several times a day now.”

  “I hope it does. C’mon, I’m cold. Let’s go back inside.”

  As we re-entered the building and approached the Performance Hall, Desiree was greeted by her two friends.

  “Hey, Dez, these two guys invited us to a big party goin’ on in Plano? Wanna come?”

  Desiree glanced over at the two men down the hall, and I’m sure she felt the same thing emanating from them I did: an eagerness to get laid. There were going to be free drinks at this party, and these two courteous gentlemen were going to make sure, very sure, these two lovely ladies never went thirsty tonight.

  “Nah, I’m kinda tired,” Desiree said, “Will you still be able to give me a ride home?”

  Both of the girls’ eyes got big with the universal “uh-oh” expression. And since she was busy reading them, I chose to aim my focus at Desiree to see what I could pick up. As the girls were explaining that Desiree lived twenty minutes in almost the complete opposite direction from Plano, I learned the two girls’ names were Megan and Becky (but while working the Hunter’s Den, they went by Celeste and Raven respectively) and that Desiree hadn’t owned a car since leaving California about five months ago.

  Her head whipped around to face me, “Can you give me a ride?”

  I was so caught off-guard by the question, it took my brain a second to register the request, “Ummm, sure.”

  Desiree turned away from them immediately without saying any goodbyes, visibly upset she had been dumped for two “hard-dicks” (her word, not mine) who happened to know some people with money. She was making damn sure Megan and Becky saw how pissed off she was.

  * * *

  On the drive to her apartment, Desiree did most of the talking. I just nodded my head, said “Mm-hmm” in the right places and that was pretty much it. But I was okay with that. I liked listening to her.

  It took several turns through the large apartment complex before we came to Desiree’s building. The white fluorescent lights throughout the parking lot illuminated everything in such a way that every object appeared gray and every shadow looked menacing.

  As I pulled into a parking space, I watched out of the corner of my eye as Desiree extracted a crinkled white envelope from the depths of her purse. She scribbled something on the loose flap, tore it off and handed it to me just as I finished shifting the gear into park.

  “That’s the number to my cell phone, “she explained, “If you behave yourself, I’ll eventually give you my home number.”

  “Behave myself?” I asked.

  “Behave yourself meaning don’t call me ten times a day or at three a.m. or leave psycho messages on my voicemail.”

  I couldn’t help laughing at the way she rattled off those three items so quickly, “Sounds like you’ve had some experience with guys of that type.”

  She sighed, but with a smile, “You’d think being a psychic would give a girl a little foresight into who she should and should not give her phone number out to, but the craziest ones always seem to be the ones who appear the most normal.”

  “So you think I might be a Hannibal Lecter, or maybe a Ted Bundy?” I inquired with a silly grin.

  Desiree laughed, “God, no. You’re the least normal guy I’ve met in a long time.”

  And after she got out of the truck, she closed the door and looked me straight in the eye through the rolled-down window. Her telepathic voice resonated inside my head, That was a compliment.

  Chapter 8

  A few days after our final performance, Bo invited Lloyd and me to witness the wondrous creation of his band’s first single. Each member of the band, then known as the Funk Punk Renegades, had been saving up money for several weeks to pay for half a day’s worth of studio time.

  With nothing else better to do after class, I followed Bo’s written directions into Dallas. And since it was only about a mile away I took a detour and checked out the intersection of Harry Hines and Sixth Street.

  The neighborhood was just as ugly and unwelcoming as I’d imagined. Even though it was just three-thirty in the afternoon, I spotted several grossly underdressed, glazy-eyed prostitutes (one of which was even carrying the proverbial bottle of liquor wrapped in a brown paper bag.) They dispersed themselves among three different corners of the intersection, leaving the fourth for the local drug dealer to conduct his business.

  Upon the windows of every establishment were a set of iron bars, even on the old gas station which looked like it had been closed and unoccupied for the last decade. And, of course, the litter-covered sidewalks and graffiti spoke volumes about how the locals had long since given up trying to make this part of the city a nicer place to live.

  I’d thought the studio would be in a large building and was surprised to find it was in a rather small one-story structure not much larger than an average size house. Although the neighborhood was definitely better than the one I’d just vacated, I still took note of the three black vertical bars that protected each window of this so-called music studio. Had it not been for his unmistakable, light blue van parked in the driveway, I would’ve been convinced I had misread Bo’s poor penmanship and
had come to the wrong address.

  I walked through the front door and felt how heavy it was when I pushed it open. It was built solid. No sense in having barred windows if you’re going to have a cheap-ass door anyone can kick through, I guess.

  Since there was no one to greet me in the reception office, I took it upon myself to have a brief look around and then stepped softly down the threadbare carpet of a hallway which I assumed lead to the actual studio.

  At the end of the hall and to the left I heard some people talking, Bo’s voice among them. I turned left and walked down a short flight of stairs into the building’s basement. I tried opening the door at the bottom. It was locked. I glanced up and noticed a blood red light bulb protruding from the wall just above the door, but it wasn’t lit.

  I heard footsteps approaching from the other side, then Eli opened the door for me.

  “Sup, dude!”

  “Not much, man,” I answered, “Just thought I’d come by and listen in for a little bit—See how ya sound.”

  “Eh, you might be disappointed,” Adam, another of the band members stated, “We all seem to be in consensus there’s something seriously fucking wrong with this track but none of us seem to know what the fuck it is, yuh know?”

  “Wanna listen?” Bo asked. Before I could reply, he punched a button and was sliding something upward on the control panel.

  It began with a drum solo that faded in, Eli’s bass guitar shortly following. The first thing I noticed was the pure rawness of the music. It seemed obvious Eli and the drummer were not gifted musicians.

  Bo’s low, droning voice came on. I was relieved to discover the boy could at least sing. His style was reminiscent of Jim Morrison and Billy Idol.

  “I went to the bar. . . lookin’ for. . . a cute lil’ piece of assssss!”

  I couldn’t help cracking up just then. I held up my hand palm outward to ward off the tension I felt creeping into some of the guys.

  “It’s not the music. You guys sound great,” I lied, “It’s just the lyrics. No one but Bo could’ve written that line.”