"This 'jock' is the new principal at JFK High," Ben informed.
"Hi, Mr. Stevens; I'm Everett James," I said, extending a hand to him.
He stared at my hand for a while but refused to shake it, so I lowered it, anger rising in me at this man's rude reaction. Still, I knew that I had to be professional, so I did my best to remain civil.
"We need to ask you about your son," said Ben.
"Uh, yeah, why the hell else would you be here? Well go on, spit it out; I don't have all day. What's that stupid little turd done now?"
"He was involved in a shooting that happened on the school premises," I added.
That seemed to shock some life into the bovine-like ogre, and his eyes widened with surprise. His attitude remained defiant, though.
"What?! You're sayin' my boy shot someone?! Like hell he did! I know he does some stupid things sometimes, but he ain't no killer!"
"No, no, he didn't shoot anyone. But he was buying drugs from the shooter, and we need to talk to him to find out who this person is."
"That little bastard. What was buying? Grass? Blow? I'll kick his damn ass when he gets back here. The drinking and the fighting and the vandalism and the stealing I can live with, but if he's getting' hooked on something like drugs, I'll crack that boy's skull wide open if it means some sense will get into it."
"I take it he's not here then," asked Ben.
"He hasn't been home since last night."
"Well, do us a favor, Mr. Stevens, please call us as soon as he comes back, okay? Here's my number, and here's Everett's cell number, too."
He took the paper with the numbers on it from Ben and stuffed it into the pocket of his grubby vest.
"Is that all?" he asked gruffly.
"Yes, that's all for now," Ben replied. "Thanks for your help, Mr. Stevens."
He didn't say anything else to us; he simply turned around and closed the door in our faces.
"Wow. If that's what he's like, I don't even want to imagine what his kid is like," I remarked.
"Like I said, he should have been expelled long ago. Anyway, come on, we have to get over to the Brownell house."
"Are they as nice as Mr. Stevens here was?"
"They've got a lot more money, but they might even be worse people than this slob, believe it or not."
"Oh boy. This is gonna be fun."
"Yeah. Well, you'll see when we get there."
"So, this kid, Leon Brownell, is he as bad a kid as William Stevens?" I asked.
"He doesn't have nearly as long a rap sheet, no. He was actually a pretty decent student for most of his school career. Got really good grades all the way through elementary school, was on a number of sports teams. The when he got to junior high and hit puberty, he seemed to do a 180. Started flunking classes, dropped out of most sports – except football. He was kicked off the team when he was caught doping, though."
"Doping, huh? What was he using?"
"An array of steroids. The kid's only 16, but he looks like a 30-year-old. It's pretty scary. He and Stevens have both been using steroids for a number of years, it seems. Probably contributes to their aggressive behavior."
"There's a pretty decent chance it does. Good thing I'm not scared of some puffed up steroid-popping punk kid."
"Yeah, because they need someone who isn't scared of them to put them in their place. Too many teachers are simply intimidated. These guys are big, strong and overly aggressive."
After another 10 minutes of driving, we reached the Brownell house. As Ben had said, it was a lot more upmarket than the Stevens’ residence. Indeed, it was downright fancy; almost a mansion. A gleaming new top-of-the-line Mercedes-Benz sat in the driveway, and the house itself looked immaculate.