The khakis are wrinkled, the starched shirt stiff. It makes for an interesting contrast. Not that Richard gives a damn how he looks. But Uncle Bruce had been very clear about what they should wear when they meet with the investigator.
“No ties or blazers,” he said. “You’ll look like you’re trying too hard. But you do want to appear respectful, so go with button--down shirts, nice pants. No sneakers: wear real shoes. Loafers, if you have them. With socks. Nothing screams ‘douche bag’ louder than loafers without socks.”
You would know, Richard didn’t say.
As he sits in the reception room of the Dean of Students Office waiting for Jordan—is the guy really going to be late for his own inquisition?—he almost feels relieved. An hour, maybe two, and it’ll be over. All he has to do is keep his mouth shut and look clean--cut while Jordan answers questions. Then he can wash his hands of this whole deal. Plus the entire Bockus clan.
He’d gone out for dinner with them the night before: Jordan, his mom, and his dad. They’d surprised him. Literally. There he was in his room, attempting homework—actually, he was stalking Haley on Facebook; she has bad privacy settings and he could check out photos going back to her sophomore year in high school—when there was a knock. He opened it to find Jordan, flanked by two adults who looked creepily like him.
“Hey,” Jordan said, nervous fake smile on his face. “My folks are in town and wanted to meet you.”
He got up from his chair. He’d wanted to push the door shut and lock it; instead, he invited the “Bocki” into his cell of a room and shook their hands. Made small talk. Couldn’t think of a single excuse when they asked him, on the spot, to join them for dinner at the inn where they were staying.
Which just happened to be the same bed and breakfast where Uncle Bruce had checked in. Two days earlier, it turns out. He didn’t join them for burgers and steaks, but “would really like to chat before you head back to campus,” Mrs. Bockus told Richard when the coffee came. Hand on his forearm. Red lacquered fingernails. They’d sandbagged him, totally.
At least he’d gotten a decent sirloin out of it.
Later, in Uncle Bruce’s room, Mrs. Bockus explained they had all driven in to “support” Jordan. Well . . . support was her word. Flutter--nervously--and--bug--the--crap--out--of--everyone was more her thing. Richard thought she was nice enough, but Jordan was barely civil to her, especially when she lapsed into tearful, random comments.
“You’ll do great! It’ll all be fine! We’ll be through this soon!” After a while, you tuned her out, like a mosquito buzzing in the corner of the room. This thin woman in stretchy black pants.
Jordan’s dad, in contrast, barely spoke. He glowered, Jabba the Hutt – like, from where he sat in a deep armchair, the folds of his thick neck swaddling his face and his eyes gleaming like blue pinpricks. He scarcely reacted to his wife, but Richard could tell he registered, critically, everything Uncle Bruce had to say.
Which was plenty.
“So, the investigator,” Uncle Bruce explained, “is a MacCallum dean. Rather than hire a pro from outside, the college has decided to save money. Although my sources say this dean—his name is Elliot Hunt—has actually taken an investigator training course, so he might not be a total bozo. Let’s just hope he’s not a crusader.”
“Crusader?” Jordan asked.
“Out to cleanse the campus of predators like you,” Uncle Bruce said.
Jordan’s mom turned a color approximating her nails. “No one finds that amusing, Bruce.”
“Sorry. But in my experience, these folks are either incompetent or out to get you. It blows my mind when colleges don’t cough up the cash to pay a pro to get the job done right. But, that aside . . .” He trained his eyes on Jordan. “This guy could be one of the Marx Brothers. Or, he could be the Terminator. We can’t predict what you’ll get. So stick to the script.”
As Richard sits in the reception room waiting for Jordan, he imagines the dean dismissing them from his office with “Hasta la vista, baby.” He laughs to himself. Definitely not the script Uncle Bruce has in mind.
Just then, he sees Jordan enter and announce himself to the young woman at the front desk. His wet hair is slicked back, and his trousers have been ironed to a neat pleat running down the front of each leg. Uncle Bruce must have advised him to abandon his usual Vineyard Vines and go for the Young Republican look. His expression is grim as he crosses the room toward Richard.
“Something funny?” Jordan asks.
Richard realizes he’s still grinning and attempts a somber expression. “No. How’s it going?”
“How do you think it’s going? Rest of my life pretty much depends on what I say in the next hour.” Jordan runs his fingers across his scalp, his eyes darting toward the stairs at the back of the lobby. “The girl at the desk said we could go right up.”