Crooked Numbers (Raymond Donne Mysteries) by O'Mara Tim

Author:O'Mara, Tim [O'Mara, Tim]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2013-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18

“I THOUGHT WE WAS GOING TO talk to the principal.”

“Mr. Thomas waited as long as he could,” I said. “He had to go to a meeting at the district office. He asked me to speak with you and your son, since I’ll be Jerome’s dean.” I looked over at fifteen-year-old Jerome Dexter, in his sunglasses and black sweatshirt, standing next to his mother. One of them—maybe both—reeked of cigarettes. I gestured toward the conference table. “Have a seat. Please.”

“Don’t know why I hadda come by anyways.” She pulled out a chair, eased her large frame into it, and let out a deep sigh. “Transfer’s a transfer, far as I’m concerned.”

Jerome took the seat next to his mother, while I went over to the window and raised it as far as it would go. The room we were in had an overactive radiator. It was uncomfortably warm, and the smell of smoke was getting to me.

“Jerome,” I said. “Why don’t you take off your sunglasses and hat?”

He grinned at me, slouched, and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Don’t feel like it.”

I took the seat at the head of the table, rested my hands on the folder containing the file of Jerome Dexter, and leaned forward. “How about doing it just the same?”

“Why?”

I waited for a response from his mother. I probably could have gone on waiting for another day or two. She just sat there looking through me, then made a big deal out of glancing at her watch as if I were the one who had been an hour late.

“Because,” I said, “you’re inside a school, it’s ninety degrees in here, and … a grown-up has asked you to.”

Jerome sucked his teeth, reached up with both hands, and slipped his sunglasses off. His eyes were bloodshot. He was either on something or had forgotten to go to sleep the previous night.

I opened the file and flipped through the pages. I already knew what I’d find, because I had spoken with my boss after he got off the phone with the district office that morning. Jerome Dexter wasn’t exactly sent to us because he was an academic superstar. They never are. How he’d ever made it as far as the eighth grade was amazing. He’d been suspended from another middle school for fighting. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be enough for a transfer, but Jerome had held up his end of the schoolyard scuffle with a box cutter. After missing a week and a half of school and admitting to what he had done, the district office exercised its option and shipped him to us. As if that was going to make any difference in his life.

“Cut this other guy a little, huh?”

Jerome Dexter stroked the little wisp of hair above his lip and smiled. “Punk tried to play me in fronta a whole buncha people. He won’t do that no more.”

“This punk have a blade, too, or was that just you?”

“Hey. You bring it on, you best be prepared to battle.

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