Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda by Nina Wright

Author:Nina Wright [Wright, Nina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery: Cozy - Real Estate Broker - Michigan
ISBN: 1937070190
Publisher: Martin Brown Publishers
Published: 2012-06-09T05:00:00+00:00

23

“How old are you?” I asked even though it probably wasn’t my turn.

“Old enough,” the kid snapped, peering at me through his fingers. “Hey, I know you. You’re the drunk who pushed Vreelander off his bike.”

“Am not. Did not,” I said.

“Shut up,” Brady snarled. “Not you, Whiskey, but you might want to step back.”

I did. Brady moved a little closer to the sneering kid on the ground.

“What’s your name?”

“I know my rights. I don’t have to say anything. I wanna lawyer up.”

“You can do that,” Brady said reverting to his standard relaxed manner. “But you look like a minor, and in that case, we need to call your parents first.”

“He’s a student at The Bentwood School,” I told Brady.

“I’m not just a student there,” the kid said. “I’m president of the Student Council.”

I recalled Chester’s comment about the spiraling quality of The Bentwood School graduates. They seemed to be on a par with the current PTO. Probably there was a correlation.

“You’re the president?” I repeated. “Is that why you hijacked the assembly this morning?”

He grinned. “I hijack every assembly. The kids expect it.”

“Mr. Vreelander let you do that?”

“Not so much, but he didn’t last long, did he?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brady said.

“He’s dead, dude. You’re a cop. You should know that.”

“Stand up,” Brady said. “Nice and slow.”

“What if I don’t feel like it?”

“Cops don’t much care what you feel like, dude.”

Sandra Bullock, who was ominously close to the kid, chose that moment to let loose another Frenchie howl. He scrambled to his feet.

“You gonna cuff me?”

He was talking to Brady, but his nervous gaze was on Sandra.

“It’s what cops do.”

Brady told the kid to put his wrists together just so, and he snapped plastic restraints in place. To me, they looked like a garbage bag tie, apt for this piece of trash.

“You work alone?” Brady asked.

“It’s hard to get good help,” the kid said.

“What are you, twelve?” I interjected.

“Twelve, my ass. I’m fifteen.”

“Fifteen’s a little old for middle school. What’s the matter, can’t ya read?”

“I have a learning disability,” the kid muttered, sounding defensive.

“Oh. So you’re stupid, is that it? Or just lazy? I hear a lot of dumb asses go to your school.”

The night was dark, but I could feel Brady and Jeb staring at me. I wasn’t done.

“What’s a loser like you plan to do in high school? Let me guess. A lot of remedial work, right? And of course you’ll have truancy issues. Followed by a career in—oh, I don’t know—fast food? Or maybe drug dealing? Yeah, that one pays better. Until you land in jail, which is where you’re headin’ tonight, dude. Great job. You get to see your future.”

The kid was whimpering. Jeb cleared his throat and touched my arm.

“Uh, Whiskey, how about we let Brady finish up?”

“Oh. Sure.” But I had one more remark for the kid. “The dog in the sombrero should scare you. If you can’t do the time, don’t piss off the canine. We got lots of crazy dogs in this town, and they bring boys down.

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