Chapter 15: Friends of Friends

Kennedy and Mr. Glastonbury walked to his car, parked in the school pickup area. There was a traffic ticket on the windshield. One of the patrolmen who'd been on duty inside the school saw them and noticed the ticket. He walked quickly over and picked it up. "I'll take care of this," he told Mr. Glastonbury. "I'm sorry, Miss. I really screwed up."

"Yep!" Kennedy agreed. "I've screwed up, Mr. Glastonbury has screwed up; God knows, Larkin is a total screw up. It's not that you make a mistake, it's what you take away from it."

Kennedy got into the car, while Mr. Glastonbury got into the driver's seat. As they got in line for the traffic light to get away from the school, she glanced at Mr. Glastonbury.

He looked right at her. "You want to go to that address on the card?"

"It's in the City. Is that a problem? It's not far from Madison Square Garden."

"Miss Kennedy, I don't know what to say about today," he was apologetic.

She looked at him quizzically. "You weren't there. You weren't supposed to be there; there's a rule about that at the school."

"Miss Kennedy, this is the third time he's come for you, and the third time I've been out of position. That's called 'striking out' in American baseball parlance, I believe."

"That's right. But you're wrong. The first time you were close enough so that I could see you and I signaled and you came in plenty of time. The second time, you weren't supposed to be there, either, but you talked to the camp and to the sheriff and they were on their toes and they stopped him.

"You can't, sir, be with me every minute of every day."

"I still feel like I'm failing you."

"Well, you're not. Let's go get some Chinese for dinner and then visit Don Bozo the Clown for dessert."

"Miss Kennedy, I have to call your father and his attorney. I managed to reach the attorney before he got to the school. We didn't need a bigger fuss than we already had and he's furious. Like everyone else, he'd been given assurances that Larkin was safely under lock and key.

"I've tried to make inquiries about who is behind Larkin and got nowhere, so I referred it to the Watchers Council and they got nowhere. When I tell them about this, I imagine they'll put some first class talent on finding out what's going on.

"I still need to talk to your father. He's in Argentina."

"Not my mother?"

"No, he's concerned for you and knows your mother isn't. He's not going to be very happy with the news."

"Well, we'll stop at the train station. I'll get tickets and you try calling him. Tell him to hold off dropping the Hammer of God on the school just yet."

"Why?"

"They tried, Mr. Glastonbury. It wasn't a very good try, but really ... it's like how I was back when I was eight. I tried really hard. But I didn't succeed all that often."

"Often enough," he reminded her. "You touched the sky."

"Close enough for government work," she growled.

The world twisted and spun, she saw a brief glimpse of a vampire's angry face and then there was a moment of excruciating pain in her neck.

It came out of nowhere. The pain lingered, but Kennedy began to sob.

Mr. Glastonbury stopped the car, well back from the station. "Oh no, not again!"

"Yes, again. I don't know which one. But one of them." Her voice cracked; she couldn't stop the sobs. That new girl was sixteen, she'd been told, as was the California Slayer.

"I'll be okay in a minute," she told him, fighting the tears and sudden rush of hormones.

"We can put this off to another time," he told her. "We'll go home and you can rest, while I talk to the Council about these issues that have come up."

Kennedy drew a deep breath and held it for a full minute. "No. I'd like some kung pao chicken. And then I really want to 'pao' someone tonight!" There was no way to describe how much she wanted to pao someone just then!

She walked into the station with the money for the tickets and stood in the short line while working her neck. By the time they were on the way, the pain had vanished, only the memory remained.

Mr. Glastonbury sat next to her, looking nervous. "What?" Kennedy asked him.

She grinned, knowing what would lift his spirits. "Mr. Glastonbury, you need to talk about how you feel."

He grimaced. "Your father will be back in Scarsdale Sunday afternoon. The lawyer will be out at the house as well and we'll have a conference about Larkin. Your father already heard from the attorney and I guess he was pretty blunt about what happens if Larkin gets loose again."

"Bummer."

"The Watchers Council, of course, knows there's a new Slayer. Who the new one is they were mum about; they always are at first. I'll find out more tomorrow."

They had a nice dinner at the same restaurant that she'd been to for her tenth birthday. There were painful memories this time that hadn't been there before.

Finally, Mr. Glastonbury drained his tea cup. "Hopefully my procrastination has given you a chance to have second thoughts."

"No, actually, the plan is pretty straightforward."

"And the plan is?"

"Get his attention, explain about his grandson, get his attention in a nice way a second time, then go home and get a good night's sleep! It's already been a long day."

"And what, if like that detective, they won't let you in to see him?"

"I'm planning on displaying a modest degree of certitude to get his attention. One way or the other."

"And what if that doesn't work?"

She laughed. "Sir, do you know what I did at lunch?"

"Not a clue, Miss Kennedy."

"I took a piece of graph paper and put the date I had my camp physical, when they said I was five feet five on it. Then I put today's date and my new height on the page. Do you know what that means for next April Fool's day?"

"No?"

"I'll be six feet tall. No fooling."

"Miss Kennedy, people have growth spurts. Four months isn't that long -- usually they last six or eight months. You'll plateau and go like you were before."

"At five eight or more?"

"I'd guess that. You'll probably still have another growth spurt later on. For what it's worth, tall girls don't often become Slayers."

"There are days when I think failing would be the luckiest day of my life."

"But I have not taught you how to fail -- if anything, I've taught you to fight back even harder after failure. Go another round!"

"That you have. If you're finished procrastinating, perhaps we can have an Italian ice for dessert. I have the address of a nice Italian restaurant we can try."

It was a ten minute walk. The evening was brisk; there was a stiff breeze with a hint of autumn chill to it. They found the restaurant, a small hole-in-wall Italian place. She walked up to the hostess's station and smiled at the small dark woman waiting there.

"I'm Kennedy, here to see Father Guido Sarducci."

The woman spoke, shaking her head. "I don't believe we have a guest with that name, miss."

"How about Don Don, boss of the bosses? I'll take him over Father Guido, any day."

She shook her head. "Please, miss, this is a quiet restaurant and our patrons appreciate this. Go someplace else."

"Well, I'm looking for the grandfather of one Dwight Evans. I have some bad news for gramps about little Don Don Dwight."

The hostess looked at Mr. Glastonbury. "The young lady is, I'm sure you understand, not herself. I'm sure you're no more fond of her acting out like this than I am. Please, she should seek help."

Kennedy did a round house kick, gently tapping the woman on her tightly-covered bottom. "Listen, how much butt do I have to kick to get someone to take me to the guy, eh?" Kennedy asked.

As if they'd been watching, six very large men appeared.

"Now we're getting someplace!" Kennedy said lightly. "Take me to your leader, earthmen!"

"Miss Kennedy..." Mr. Glastonbury murmured, cautioning her.

"Oh, sorry, I forgot. If you guys don't think you can handle a girl who just arrived at five eight, feel free to bring another half dozen guys to the party."

She didn't see who gave the high sign, but the man in the back of the group spoke in a rich baritone, "Would you come with us, please?"

"Sure, I understand please and thank you. Thanks and you're welcome."

She followed along behind the six, through the restaurant, down a narrow corridor into a small room, set up for one man to dine in. He was about sixty, still lithe and with a certain leonine charisma that made it clear who was in charge.

"You are?" the man at the table asked, after dabbing at his lips with a gleaming white napkin.

"Kennedy, sir. I've come to tell you that your grandson has been using your name in vain, sir. Dwight invokes you to all of the girls he rapes. He threatens them, their families, their friends. Also the police, the school officials ... It's quite a long laundry list of places your name is being used in vain."

"Miss Kennedy, my grandson is a teenager. He is filled with youthful high spirits. Girls are attracted to such men."

"Sir, if your grandson stuck to that sort, I'd not be here. Are you aware, sir, that the teachers at White Plains High place him by the classroom door and surround him with male students? The closest female student is twenty or thirty feet away? That Dwight gets his girls by lurking in the bushes around school, jumping out, bashing them in the teeth, usually breaking some, then raping them repeatedly, before winding down with a torrent of threats invoking you as a source of retribution?"

He studied Kennedy carefully. "Miss Kennedy, you appear to be an intelligent young woman. Has Dwight wronged you?"

"Sir, most people when I tell them my name is Kennedy want to know if it's my first or last name and what goes with it. You, sir, are one of the very few who got it right in one. Which is my way, sir, of telling you that you aren't a dummy either. So, understand this: if Dwight had tried that with me, we'd have met after his funeral."

"And who, Miss Kennedy, is this very nice, very polite fellow standing quietly behind you?"

"That's my tutor, Mr. Glastonbury. He's not my bodyguard or anything, not really. Nope, this is just me, coming to see you, with something I thought you should know. If I had 'God' in my nickname, I'd purely hate people using my name in vain."

"So you say. Why should I believe you?"

Kennedy waved at the six body guards, then pointed at the third from the left. "Bruno there, I'd say he's the biggest of the bunch, right?"

"His name isn't Bruno, it's Fatso," the Godfather told her.

"He's not very fat," Kennedy said, momentarily confused.

"It's not a waistline he was named for," the man at dinner explained.

"Ah! Sorry! I'm a little young, still. Sometimes you have to spell these things out for me! Tell me, does a fat you-know-what mean a big pair of balls as well?"

"Big enough, I'm sure," the boss said.

Kennedy kicked, connected just below the fat sausage. The man huffed and folded in the middle. Kennedy took a quick step, secured his pistol, then pulled him forward, dumping him on his face.

She ejected the pistol magazine and started to hand them to the man at the table.

"Round in the chamber, Miss Kennedy," Mr. Glastonbury reminded her.

She pulled the slide back and ejected the round.

The boss nodded at the pistol. "If you hold the trigger back, and then pull the slide back past the detent and lift up, it comes off."

Kennedy disassembled the pistol and put it on the table in front of him. "As you can see, if Dwight had come for me, we'd have met under different circumstances."

From the floor, Fatso wheezed, "She took me by surprise, boss!" However, he was still curled around his sausage.

"Dwight, sir, harassed a young Hispanic male last week. Dwight goaded him to the point where the young man drew a knife, intending to start cutting on Dwight. I was there, sir. I saw what happened. I didn't know about Dwight then. I thought he was about to be knifed, so I took the knife away from the boy who was attacking him.

"Dwight, sir, was fully prepared to take the first wound. I'm betting that his intention was to then kill his attacker so he could come here and brag that he was a made man."

"I wouldn't know anything about that. I'm an Italian-American restaurant owner. Perhaps it was just a surprise to Dwight."

"I saw him watching the knife, sir. He was waiting for his chance. He didn't think the first wound would be either serious or incapacitating. At first, my thought was that he was a deer caught in the headlights. Then I realized he was just waiting for his shot."

The man sniffed. "You're saying Dwight is not only a bully, but recklessly foolish as well."

"Yes, sir, I'd bet on both."

"I think, young Miss Kennedy, I've heard enough. Just how old are you, anyway?"

"Thirteen, sir. But you're making a serious error if you judge me by my age."

"Well, let's just say that I'm not used to thirteen-year-olds coming here and making demands of me, demeaning my grandson."

Kennedy sighed loudly, for effect. "Sir, if one wasn't enough to convince you, how about the other five?" She nodded at the five remaining guards.

He looked at her steadily. She could see when he reached his conclusion and sniffed in derision.

She had numbered her opponents, from right to left. One was on the far right, six was on the far left, four was Fatso and he was still not able to sit up.

Her intention was to make her first move between two and three. She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye as number six stepped back into the corner of the room, a pistol appearing like magic in his hand. It wasn't pointed at her though, not at first. It was pointed right where she would have gone if she had moved at once.

"But, what need is there for all the violence?" she said smoothly. "You're not a stupid man. You can believe me or not, but I'm betting it's too important not to check. And that's all it will take."

She turned to Mr. Glastonbury. "I think we're done here."

"If I was the mafia don you think I am, about now the two of you would vanish."

"If you're the mafia don I'm sure you are," Kennedy told him, "I'd want to make sure there isn't someone across the street waiting for us. Where did I get your name and address? What was I doing at school today? All sorts of questions, sir, that if I was in your shoes, I'd want answered before I did anything I might regret later."

The old man at the table nodded at number one. "Go and see if anyone is hanging around outside."

The other was back a moment later. "There's an unmarked police car across the street. I don't recognize the driver."

"By himself?"

"Yes, sir."

He turned back to Kennedy. "How old are you, girl?"

"Thirteen, sir. You're slipping, because I already told you that."

"Well, you have a civil tongue in your head which argues well for upbringing."

"My stepfather is Peter Stuyvesant of Scarsdale. Nothing but the best for his stepdaughter."

She saw the momentary crinkle of the crow's feet in the corners of his eyes as he digested her father's name.

"You are, however, full of yourself and prone to rash mistakes. I would not be surprised to hear that at some time in the future you come to a bad end."

"I think you can pretty well count on it, sir," she said, knowing she sounded a little sad. But when you've died three times, it does give you a little perspective.

"Get out of here. Please don't come back."

They left, ignoring the car parked across the street, and made their way back to Scarsdale. It was nearly midnight when they got home and Kennedy went right to bed.

She didn't sleep, though, not at first. She sat in the lotus position on her bed. First she replayed the events with Agent Larkin. She didn't think she'd ever been in real danger there; Larkin wasn't much sharper than the two patrolmen who'd lowered their weapons against him. Detective Harrison was more complicated. It had been him parked across from the restaurant earlier. Why had he come?

She replayed the scene in the mafia don's office four times. She knew now what her mistakes had been, and the Mafia guy had it right: she'd been full of herself. She'd seen six large men, and the first one she focused on really was as dumb as a stump. It had been folly for her to believe that they were all like that. She'd looked at number six a couple of times, and there had never been any expression on his face.

Would he have shot her, if she'd tried to knock them all down? Probably. At least a warning shot. She hadn't been going to hurt anyone seriously, but how could he know that?

Put it down as a learning experience and be ready to admit the mistake of not being more careful about judging opponents to Mr. Glastonbury in the morning.

She played over the momentary glimpse she had of the Slayer's death, imprinting the vampire's face in her mind. Someday, it may fall on me to kill you, she thought. I do want to be ready. And I'll be sure to tell you that I remember!

When she woke in the morning she felt fit and fine. She did a little extra running, then met Mr. Glastonbury for practice.

He'd been doing something else while she ran, she found out when she came back to the practice room. He'd occasionally used classic clothes stands as substitute dummies. He'd put old shirts on hangers to serve as targets.