Call Me! Read online

  I wince, then ask, “What’s the sugar content of that cereal?”

  “I dunno. Why?”

  “The smell makes my teeth itch!”

  “Want some?”

  I shake my head, put the car in park.

  “Stay here,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Five minutes,” he says. “Or I’ll come in and embarrass you.”

  I flip him the finger and exit the car.

  Janice Uvula’s office is on the ground floor of the Kotter-Banks Legal & Medical Center, a four-story concrete structure featuring a large, airy lobby and a beautiful turquoise-blue brick floor. The bricks have some sort of shiny glaze on them, which seems insane, since anyone in black, silver-studded ankle boots with four-inch heels, like I’m wearing, could slip, take a nasty tumble, and crawl in any direction to be treated for the injury, then limp in any other direction to file the lawsuit. But though my narrow heels click and reverberate through the lobby as I walk, the surface has adequate traction, and I arrive at Janice’s office without incident.

  After I introduce myself, Donna has me fill out some paperwork. When I hand it back to her she says, “We pay seventy-five dollars for service of process.”

  “That seems fair,” I say.

  She gives me one of those all-encompassing looks where her eyes go from my face to my body to my ankle boots and back up to my face again. I get the feeling my wardrobe is telling her something about me.

  She says, “Have you ever served a subpoena before?”

  “Only in PI school.”

  “PI school?”

  “I took a training class.”

  She nods, but looks skeptical. “You’re aware there are two types?”

  “One is for people, the other’s for physical evidence, right?”

  She looks at me the way my ninth-grade geometry teacher, Mrs. Moody, used to look at me when I got the answer right but couldn’t recite the formula.

  “That’s essentially accurate,” Donna says.

  Mrs. Moody said I’d never survive in the real world without a thorough understanding of geometry, so I spent hours every night studying, and wound up getting an A. That summer, when Colin Tyler Hicks chloroformed me, threw me in his van, and locked me in the basement of his farm house, I learned the hard way Mrs. Moody was full of shit. Geometry had nothing to do with my survival.

  “Which type of subpoena will I be delivering today?” I ask.

  “Ad Testificandum.”

  “Which type will I be delivering today?” I repeat.

  She frowns. “Ad Testificandum orders a person to testify before the ordering authority. You’ll need to identify yourself as a representative of Conner, Palate, Tonsil, and Uvula, and place the subpoena directly into the hands of one William DeWitt.”

  “What’s he done?”

  Donna frowns again, and it strikes me that women seem to frown a lot in my presence.

  She says, “What Mr. DeWitt has or hasn’t done is really none of your concern, is it?”

  I shrug, take the subpoena, and say, “Is there anything I need to know about Mr. DeWitt?”

  “Just his address,” she says. “It’s not brain surgery, Dani.”

  “Maybe not, but it seems awfully easy for seventy-five dollars.”

  “Mrs. Uvula bills her clients five hundred an hour, so she’s ahead of the game hiring someone to do it. Plus, she likes you. Do a good job, and you’ll probably become our go-to process server.”

  I like the sound of that.

  “Anything else?” I say.

  “Just call me when you’ve delivered the subpoena, and make a note of the date, time, and circumstances, in case you need to testify.”

  “Testify?”

  “Don’t worry, it won’t come to that. But you do need to have documentation.”

  I set my jaw.

  “I won’t let you down,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s just handing a guy a piece of paper, Dani.”

  “Still.”

  “Fine. I’ll let Mrs. Uvula know she can count on you.”

  I salute.

  “To the bitter end,” I say.

  “Dani?”

  “Yes?”

  “Go serve the paper.”

  “Okay.”

  BACK IN THE car, Dillon says, “You were in there twelve minutes.”

  “No way.”

  He holds up a stopwatch to prove it.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I clicked it when you closed the car door,” he says, “clicked it again just now.”

  “Your parents must be so proud.”

  “My parents are morons.”

  I decide a subject change is in order.

  “Want to go with me to deliver a subpoena?”

  “Ad testificandum or duces tecum?”

  Eyeing him closely, I say, “The first one.”

  He laughs. “You can’t even pronounce it, can you?”

  I work it out in my head, but decide it’s not going to come out of my mouth accurately.

  “I don’t need to pronounce it, I just need to deliver it.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Man.”

  “Home or business?”

  “Home.”

  “What’s the address?”

  I tell him.

  “That’s not far,” he says. “What’re they paying you, a hundred?”

  “Seventy-five.”

  “I’ll go with you for half.”

  “I’ll give you ten dollars.”

  He frowns. “Twenty.”

  “Have a heart, Dillon. I got nothing from Jeredith.”

  “That’s not my fault.”

  I sigh. “Okay.”

  His face brightens. “Okay as in you’ll pay me the twenty?”

  “Okay as in I’ll take you home and deliver the subpoena myself.”

  I put the car in gear and exit the parking lot. We get about a mile and Dillon says, “I’ll go with you for ten.”

  “Don’t do me any favors,” I say, huffily.

  “You don’t know what’s behind that door,” he says. “You’ll be safer with me there.”

  I glance at him, wondering if he’s being sincere. Dillon’s eighteen, with industrial strength acne and long, greasy hair he keeps in a pony tail. He’s six-three, thin as a rail, and has the type of build that, if he were athletic, his teammates would call him Stretch. But he’s not athletic, he’s a computer nerd. Smart enough to be a forensic investigator, skilled enough to hack the Pentagon, but socially inept. He seems sincere.

  “I’ll make it fifteen,” I say. “We’ll go in together.”

  “Deal.”

  Fifteen minutes later I pull into William DeWitt’s driveway. William lives in a tiny, one-story ranch in dire need of a paint job. The left side of his carport is caved in. An old, rusty Nash Rambler sits on cinder blocks in the right side, directly in front of us.

  “Wonder if he’d sell the car,” Dillon says.

  “You can ask him, if you like.”

  I park the car, hand Dillon fifteen bucks, note the time, 2:23 p.m., and the weather. Sunny, warm, few clouds.

  “Ready?”

  He nods.

  “Let’s roll!”

  We get out of the car and start walking toward the front door. Dillon looks at me and says, “I thought you went to PI school.”

  “I did.”

  “Hide the papers.”

  “What?”

  “He’ll never let you in if he thinks you’re going to serve him papers.”

  I look at the paperwork in my hands.

  “I knew that,” I say.

  I walk back to the car, put the papers in my handbag. By then, Dillon’s already on the doorstep. As I approach, carrying the handbag, I hear music, and a woman’s voice shouting instructions. Dillon turns toward me with a disgusted look on his face.

  “What’s the matter?” I say.

  He puts his finger to his lips, indicating me to
be quiet. Then motions me to join him on the concrete slab that serves as a doorstep.

  I do, and whisper, “What’s wrong?”

  He points to the screen door, but I can’t see inside from my vantage point.

  Dillon whispers, “Do this,” and puts his hands on either side of his head, to shield his eyes while looking through the screen. Then turns to me and whispers, “It’s always about sex with you.”

  I frown, shield my eyes the way he did, and look inside.

  THE MAN I assume to be William DeWitt is standing in his living room facing his television. He’s watching an exercise program, trying to follow the moves called out by the female fitness guru. But William is enormously fat, the fattest human I’ve ever seen, and appears only capable of shifting his weight from side to side, while pawing the air with his arms in a way that bears little similarity to the action taking place on the TV screen.

  Oh, and William is completely naked, save for the silver chandelier earrings that hang a full eight inches from his ear lobes.

  The earrings are getting a better workout than William.

  Dillon and I look at each other, and I start laughing.

  DeWitt hears me, and turns to look. He squeals, and rushes to turn off the TV. Then he comes to the door and starts to unlatch it, but changes his mind.

  “Are you here to serve me papers?” he says.

  Dillon and I look at each other.

  “If you are, I’ll let you in. You, Blondie, not him.”

  “I’ll have to insist that my friend comes in with me,” I say.

  DeWitt frowns. “He can come in, but he has to stand by the door at all times. Those are my terms.”

  I look at Dillon for the third time. He says, “This is the business you chose to embrace.”

  “Are you William DeWitt?” I say.

  “I am.”

  I lock my eyes on his and tell myself No matter what happens, don’t look below his chin. If you do, your head will burst into flames!I take a deep breath and say, “I’m Dani Ripper. On behalf of Conner, Palate, Tonsil, and Uvula law firm, I hereby serve notice you must appear before the court. The details regarding your court appearance can be found in these papers.”

  I remove the papers from my handbag and hold them against the screen door so he can view them.

  He unlatches the door and backs up ten feet. I open it, and Dillon enters first. I follow him inside and close the screen door behind me.

  “You,” he says to Dillon, “Stay where you are and don’t move. You,” he says to me, “Roll the papers up and place them in my hand.”

  I roll the papers so they resemble the cardboard tube that’s left when all the paper towels are gone. I take a few steps toward him, extending the papers, but DeWitt puts his hands behind his back and giggles. Each time I approach him, he turns his body so I can’t get to his hands. I make a couple of attempts, and he grins and says, “Serve me, Blondie! Serve me!”

  I feint to the right, try to slide around him to the left, but he hops and spins and manages to keep his front to me at all times.

  I frown.

  “Dani?” Dillon says.

  “Yeah?”

  “You don’t have to actually place the papers in his hand.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No. You’ve identified yourself, revealed your purpose, and whom you represent.”

  I look at him. “Did you just say ‘whom?’”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know if it’s whom or who. But either way, put the papers on the table, and consider him served.”

  “You’re an asshole!” DeWitt says to Dillon.

  I put the papers on the end table by the sofa and say, “William DeWitt?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Consider yourself served.”

  “Fuck you both!”

  In the car, on the way to Dillon’s house, I say, “Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?”

  “About the papers? I was having fun watching you dance with the naked guy.”

  We ride awhile and he says, “Did you see the size of his nuts?”

  “His what?”

  Dillon laughs.

  “I most certainly did not!” I say.

  We ride some more in silence. Then I ask, “Why? Was there something wrong with them?”

  “His nuts?”

  He pauses a minute, then says, “You ever go to the state fair?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Ever visit the livestock area?”

  “I love the animals.”

  “Ever see the sheep?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  Then it hits me.

  “Eew!”

  “Not the ewes,” he says. “The rams. DeWitt’s balls were purple, and looked exactly like the nuts on the rams at the fair.”

  “Thanks for sharing,” I say.

  “Are you going to sit there and tell me you never look at their private parts?”

  “On the sheep?”

  “The sheep, the goats, the bulls, horses, dogs, men…”

  “No.”

  We go silent until we enter his neighborhood. Then Dillon says, “Does your husband know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That you’re bisexual?”

  “WHAT?”

  “It’s okay. I’m cool with it.”

  I give him a look. “Why would you say that?”

  “It’s obvious.”

  “How?”

  He starts to say something, then stops. “Let’s just change the subject,” he says.

  I say, “Is it because I don’t stare at animal dicks?”

  He says nothing.

  “Is it because of DeWitt? Could you possibly think all hetero women would want to look at that poor man’s genitals today?”

  Dillon says nothing.

  “William DeWitt’s a sad case,” I say. “He’s obviously disturbed. I can’t believe you’d stare at his private area! What does that say about you?”

  I turn into his driveway.

  “Oh, wait!” I say. “Is it because I wouldn’t blow you for fifty bucks? Is that it? Well, here’s a question for you. Your mother’s hetero. Would she blow you for fifty bucks?”

  “No need to get hostile,” he says.

  I park the car and shake my head.

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he says. “Hell, I’m still a virgin.”

  “I’m not ashamed,” I say. “I mean, I wouldn’t be ashamed. Either way.”

  He starts to say something, but I interrupt him.

  “Whatever I am, it’s none of your business!” I say. “And certainly not the sort of information I’d share with you, in any case.”

  “I just told you I’m a virgin!”

  “So?”

  “Do you have any idea how hard that is to admit?”

  “I would think you’d be proud.”

  “Proud? It’s humiliating!”

  “Well, that’s ridiculous.”

  He gives me a look. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “No. Don’t forget your cereal.”

  Dillon’s lower lip trembles and I remember he’s still something of a child, emotionally. He’s about to cry. That happens sometimes, when emotionally-challenged young men find themselves in the presence of a complete and utter bitch. He opens the door to leave, but continues sitting in my car. I think he’s waiting for the apology I owe him. Then again, this is Dillon we’re talking about, and he might be lingering because he hates his home life.

  I’ve had a rough day, what with Roy threatening to blow my cover and ruin my life. I’m frustrated, angry, and scared. And feel completely helpless, knowing Roy’s in control of my future happiness. I’m also sexually confused. Confused about how I felt with Sophie Monday night. Confused about how I felt with Ben last night. Confused about what Dillon just said to me. Am I bisexual? Or just hopelessly screwed up because of what Colin Tyler Hicks did to me in that basement nine years ago?