Lassiter

37 The Old Instep Stomp

I drove across the MacArthur Causeway on new steel-belt radials and looped onto I-95, which dropped me off on Miami Avenue. The top was down, and Ramblin’ Jack Elliott was going full throttle, singing “The Sky Above, the Mud Below,” a tale of horse rustling and kangaroo court justice.

“Someone go and dig a ditch, there may well be a hanging.”

The old Eldo rolled through the business section of Coconut Grove, then under a canopy of Japanese banyan trees, and into the gated entrance of Tuttle-Biscayne, the ritzy bayfront school where Motor Boating is an elective.

A moment later, I was in the reception room of Winston Perkins, Director of Student Affairs. His assistant said “The Commodore” would see me now.

Commodore Perkins was in his fifties and wore a blue blazer with gold buttons, a blinding white shirt, and a red silk ascot. Yeah, an ascot like the Duke of fucking Windsor, or Don Knotts on Three’s Company. My nephew sat in a chair in his regulation khaki pants, long-sleeve shirt, and a mossy green tie. I was the only one without neckware. Today’s T-shirt read: “I Would Kill for a Nobel Peace Prize.”

“Tell me, Mr. Lassiter,” the Commodore said, “does violence run in your family?”

I didn’t get it. Then he made a small gesture toward my face. Aha. The bruises and scrapes.

“Oh, this? I got stomped by an ex-cop I’d kicked around a few days before.”

He looked as if he’d just tasted curdled milk, so I added, “But I’ve always taught Kip that violence is wrong.”

My nephew stifled a semi-snicker.

“Then how can you explain his assaulting Carl Kountz?”

“You kidding? Carl’s a horse, your star fullback and first baseman and whatever you call it in lacrosse.”

“Mid-fielder,” the Commodore said.

They played a lot of fancy sports at Tuttle. Squash. Golf. Sailing. Four-oar shells. Plus some varsity teams that didn’t seem like sports at all. Paintball. Chess. And my personal favorite, the Green Technology Team.

“Carl is an outstanding scholar-athlete, and your nephew sent him to the hospital.”

“That sounds serious.” I tried not to sound pleased but didn’t quite succeed.

“I hit him with the combination you taught me, Uncle Jake,” Kip said. “A left jab, then a right to the jaw. He didn’t fall, so I stomped on his instep as hard as I could.”

The Commodore made a tsk-tsk sound. “Broke three metatarsals in Carl’s right foot.”

“The prick pissed in my locker, and all his friends laughed,” Kip said.

“Watch your language, lad,” Commodore Perkins said. “Even if Carl did such a thing, there was no reason for violence. We have channels to air grievances.”

In my experience, you air laundry. You handle grievances by yourself.

“I didn’t hit back right away,” Kip said. “But then, at baseball practice, Carl sucker punched me, really hard.”

“Only a bully and a coward does that,” I said.

I hate bullies. Big guys who are puny on the inside. Filled with self-hatred, they take it out on those they think can’t fight back. I’d told Kip to clobber Carl the next time something happened. A fist to the nose is a good start. It will make a man’s eyes tear, and a gusher of blood makes some guys pass out. The instep stomp is a little more creative. I’d bought a dozen bags of potato chips for practice. After a few tries, Kip was able to explode the bag and shoot crushed chips halfway across the backyard.

“Carl denies instigating the event, either physically or verbally,” Perkins said.

“Fine. Bring him in, and I’ll cross-examine.”

The Commodore tilted his chin upward so that I could count his nose hairs, and gave me a tolerant little smile. I hate that look.

“We don’t have trials here, Mr. Lassiter. I personally handle all disciplinary hearings, as outlined in the parent-student handbook, which I assume you have read.”

“Cover to cover.”

“In this case, I will take into account Carl’s stellar record and your nephew’s problematic status.”

“Meaning?”

“On his application, you failed to disclose his juvenile record. Trespassing. Malicious mischief. Destruction of property.”

“A little graffiti tagging.” I felt my face heat up, the scrapes on my forehead burning. “Kip was living in an abusive situation with his mother-that’s my sister-and he acted out.”

“Your sister, I note, also has a criminal record.”

“She’s a tweaker and a crackhead. You gonna hold that against Kip?”

“Only insofar as it affects his actions.”

“Kip finished a counseling program, and the record was expunged.” Then it occurred to me. The juvenile file was sealed. “How the hell did you get Kip’s file?”

The Commodore shifted in his chair and looked out the window. He had a fine view of the campus quadrangle. Overprivileged girls in tartan plaid skirts and knee socks sashayed to class alongside gangly boys in white shirts and loosened ties.

“I have certain connections.” Measuring his words like yeast in a bread pan.

“Where? Only the clerk and the State Attorney’s Office …” I felt a ball of molten lava rising in my gut. “That bastard! Alex Castiel told you.”

The Commodore didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. Castiel was a “distinguished alumnus” with his photo in a trophy case in the lobby. He’d helped get Kip into the school. Now he was using that against me.

“That motherfucker,” I said.

“Mr. Lassiter, please. You’re making things worse.”

“Okay, Commodore. Or Admiral. Or swab jockey, second class. Kip’s situation is not ‘problematic.’ You expel him or suspend him or put a pissy little note in his file, and I’ll tie you up in lawsuits for the next ten years.”

“I think not, Mr. Lassiter. We comply with all laws, state and federal.”

“Was that weed I smelled walking across your quad? Let’s get some police dogs in here and open some lockers.”

“I assure you, Mr. Lassiter, we monitor the students quite closely.”

“Do you monitor the teachers, too? I’ll bet there’s some real popular young guy who’s banging a cheerleader. A coach who’s juicing his players. Now that I think of it, Tuttle-Biscayne is probably a racketeering enterprise that ought to be shut down.”

“That’s absurd!” The Commodore’s eyes were wide, his cheeks flushed, and his ascot seemed askew. “I run a tight ship, and I yield neither to headwinds nor threats.” The Commodore began flipping through his date book. “I’ll set a date for a disciplinary hearing and we’ll conclude this matter.”

My cell phone rang. Caller I.D. said “Private Number,” which pissed me off. If you’re calling someone, you’re going to say your name in a second, anyway. Why not give a little preview?

“I’m busy,” I answered.

“Jake, it’s Amy. Thank God you’re there.” Her voice rushed and frantic.

“Where are you, Amy? Where’ve you been?”

“They found me, Jake.”

“Who?”

“Ziegler’s people. I moved into a new motel. They broke into my room while I was gone.”

“Try to calm down. Tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you.”

“Can I come to your house?”

“Of course.”

“They tore up my things, Jake. Ripped my clothes to shreds like wild animals.”

“Important thing is, you’re okay.”

“My gun, Jake! They stole my gun.”