Chapter 2

Jack buzzed Allison on the intercom, "Get me Chief Handy on the phone."

"Yes, sir." Yes, sir? Since when did she call me sir? She's been moody lately. She's been a great lay and very loyal over the years, but maybe it's time to kick her upstairs, to some admin spot at another school. Get some one new out there at that desk. Get someone in her early twenties with big tits.

"Thank you, Allison." Jack knew that Allison was well aware of an awful lot of closets stuffed with skeletons. The move would have to be done delicately. Just to make sure he hadn't fucked up by mistake he called Jud Hoskin's florist shop and ordered Allison a dozen roses for her desk.

Hoskin probably wouldn't send him a bill. Gardner had covered up the scandal when his girl was found to be giving blowjobs in the boys' restroom for ten bucks apiece. Gardner made sure that the teacher that caught them got a sizable increase in her supplies budget and Hoskin had sent the girl to live with her grandmother in Jackson. The little slut was probably pursuing her chosen profession in the capital now. She probably learned she could get more than ten bucks from men on the streets.

His phone buzzed. "Chief on two."

Time to get the ball rolling. "Chief, how are things going?"

Chief Handy was a big man at least three hundred pounds and had a loud voice that boomed out of the phone.

"It's fucked up, Jack. At least my youngest is fucked up." The chief roared at his joke.

"You know, chief I heard you were letting your little girl hang around Jason McKinley. You should have known that girls walk by that boy and get knocked up."

"Shit, Jack, the little bitch was sneaking out to see him, and her older sister was covering for her." He laughed with an evil lilt to it. "That little cunt won't be sitting down for a while."

"You whipped a nineteen year old girl?"

"Shit, I whip my wife when she fucks up. What the fuck's the difference?"

"Couldn't tell you, chief." Carla Handy the chief's wife, Annabelle, was a mousey skittish woman, who would probably wake up the chief someday from an afternoon nap with a bullet from his service revolver.

"I just want that McKinley fucker to drive one mile-an-hour over the speed limit. I'm going to show him a little police brutality."

"Chief, just remember that Jason McKinley's more popular than you are in this town. Fuck him up and you'll find yourself working for your deputy after the election."

"What the fuck am I supposed to do? Let that little fucker run around town knocking up every girl who drops her panties for him."

"Chief, I understand, from reading the paper, that you're having a little trouble from that deputy running against you?"

"Yes, that goddamn rat-fuck bastard may even beat me. Twenty fucking years as sheriff and this is the thanks I get from this town."

"So you know you can't go around fucking up the best football player in this town in ten years. So let me throw you a bone to forget about McKinley."

"What do you have in mind, Jack?" The chief had calmed down and was listening.

"You need some kind of big arrest. You know that will grab some headlines and make the voters know you're looking out for their safety and not just pulling them over for speeding all the time."

The chief took a breath to think. "You know about some major lawbreaking going on in town?"

"I might."

A pause, "So I forget about that little fucker, and you're gonna give me something that will play well in the papers?"

"Yeah, the coach needs him to win another title."

"What kind of bust do you have in mind?" "A kid who's got enough pot in his locker so the arrest qualifies as dealing. Chief, I can see the headlines, "Handy busts dealer at new high school. Vows to put him away for a long time."

Silence. The wheels in the chief's head are rusty, but they do still turn.

"Well, Jack, I guess one more knocked up little pussy ain't gonna make another bit of difference in this ol' world. She can put it up for adoption, and if she bitches too much, I'll put her up for adoption too. So, where do I find the little fucker?"

"First floor, west wing of the Industrial Arts building, that's the one just east of this building. Bring a drug dog and he'll find quite a find in locker 1248. Bring some lock cutters. I'll call Bob Jamison over at the Citizen so he'll be nearby when you arrest the drug dealer."

"Sounds good, Jack. You tell the Coach that his boy can start showing his face in town again, unless he's got it buried in some young piece of fluff." The chief roared. "When do I show up?"

"At 12:45, the dealer will be in class and the halls will be clear."

"Okay, Jack. See you then."

"Great, see you too, Chief."

Jack used his cell phone to call Bob Jamison at the Black Mountain Citizen. He and Bob were classmates at the original Black Mountain High School. Over the years they had found many ways to further each others careers. Bob was editor-in-chief working for Maybelle Harris, the daughter of the recently deceased publisher Terry Harris.

He answered on the first ring. "Hi, Jack."

"Bob, how's the wife?"

He laughed, "Fat, as ever."

Bob's wife, Faye, easily tipped the scale at three hundred pounds. Once when they were drunk he asked Bob what he saw in her. Bob had told him that she was the dirtiest bitch you've ever imagined in bed. She would suck down his cum, suck him to another hard on, and get in the doggie position and take all his cock up her ass. She would scream for him to fuck her hot ass, and she loved to watch porn. Bob told Jack she had the longest tongue and would push it all up his backside while she jerked off his cock, and if he could find some skinny bitch who could fuck like she could, he might turn her in, but he wasn't betting on it. Jack still had troubled imagining the quiet Sunday school teacher who overflowed the small classroom chairs would scream for anyone to fuck her ass.

"You lucky SOB. My wife could stand to gain a few pounds." Yeah, and learn how to fuck, too. My biggest trouble with Clarisse is that I don't have a pussy.

"What can I do for you, Jack?" Good friend or not, Jack usually had something on his mind when he called.

"Chief Handy's bringing a drug dog through today."

Bob was no dummy. "Why call me? I would think you would want any busts at the school kept quiet."

"We suspect a student has been dealing, and I want a message sent about dealing drugs on school property." Jack could rationalize anything.

"What time are we talking about? I have to have lunch with Faye today."

"Be around the school at 12:45."

"Okay, Jack. I'll be there personally."

"Thanks, Bob. We can't have drug dealers at this school."

"No, you can't, Jack. See you later."

"Thanks, Bob."

Jack stood up and buttoned his coat and left on his daily tour of the school. If they don't see you, they may think you're not still the boss.

Harvey Kapowski saw him as he rounded the corner into the west wing of the Industrial Arts building. The Coach was standing in front of a locker. Harvey ducked back around the corner. He and the Coach had a long standing hatred of each other. The coach didn't like dwarfs and had mercilessly harassed Harvey about his three-foot nine inch height. So Harvey had been transferred to the Industrial Arts custodial staff. Harvey could see that the coach was struggling with a combination lock on one of the lockers.

Coach twisted and turned the small dial. Harvey could hear him swear as he tried again. After two more tries the lock opened and the coach opened the door. Coach picked up a black gym back and pulled out a rubber glove. Shit, what the fuck? He struggled to get it on his large hand. The gloved had dipped into the bag and pulled out a gallon-sized zip lock bag stuffed with some green stuff. Coach pushed the bag into the back of the top section of the locker behind an empty backpack.

Harvey was no dope. He knew the Coach was a bastard who would do anything to fuck someone who crossed him. I wonder who he's setting up? The clock on the wall read 12:31. Coach relocked the locker, picked up the bag and headed out.

After waiting until the coach was out of sight, he strolled around the corner and walked past the row of lockers. He noted the number, 1248. He acted as if he had forgotten something and turned back to the custodian's office.

He sat down at the computer and entered his password. He clicked on the Locker Administration button and typed in "1248." The replay came back instantly "Sean Avery," followed by his locker combination Why Sean Avery? Harvey didn't know the name. A name he did know came to mind, Margaret Horner, the head cheerleader. He was still steaming after she, Miss Perfect, stopped to watch him clean up a milk spill near her locker. She had leaned over and said, "Having fun, shrimp dick?" He had almost punched her. He was glad he hadn't because now he had the opportunity to really hurt her.

He typed her name into the name query box and the program returned 1894 followed by 18-21-34. He wrote down her locker number and combination. Tearing off the paper he picked up a rubber glove from the sink and a plastic garbage bag and set off for locker 1248. His three-foot nine-inch frame strode with purpose out the office door.

The black-and-white pulled over at the main entrance to the school. Bud Pearson, the K9 officer, jumped out of the car and stepped around to open the door for Chief Handy. The chief slowly pulled his bulk from the car. He automatically reached into his pocket for a Pall Mall. Safely stuffed between his lips he flicked his Zippo and lit the tip.

Bud opened the back door and grabbed Casey's leash. Casey was a two-year-old collie who was trained to detect drugs and explosives. The three of them walked up the ramp to the glass and steel doors.

Jack met them with a small crowd. Peter Franklin and Ashanta Johnson, his two assistant principals, and Arthur Conrad, the head of the teachers' union. He wanted unimpeachable witnesses for Sean's arrest. Everyone knew Conrad and he hated each other; too many union negotiations had killed any friendship they may have had. Anything they agreed upon had to be true. Conrad carried the lock snips, in case they were needed.

Jack led the entourage through the school lobby to the outside corridor that led the Industrial arts building. The dog was the only one who walked into the Industrial Arts Building without a care. He pulled on the leash dragging Bud after him. The collie loved his work and was anxious to get to it.