Look Before You Jump

by D. A. Bale

  Of my ears, silly.

  A quick run home to change into something more appropriate and gather some gear, then I whipped the Vette toward the outskirts of the Dallas metropolis. When I arrived, the shooting was already heavy and the temps already hot. The hefty bucket of bullets thudded at my feet as I took position in the assigned lane, checked all four magazines to make sure they had six bullets each, then snapped one in and chambered a round before sighting my target. Let the games begin.

  Most instructors will tell you to aim for center mass when seeking to take out an assailant. That’s why the paper targets have the bullseye marked in the torso area. But I always did have a thing for painting outside the lines, and figured if they didn’t want me practicing headshots they wouldn’t have included a head as part of the target outline.

  The first shot went high somewhere off the paper. Anticipating the shot always got me in trouble, and I heard Zeke’s voice in my head telling me to relax. A roll to loosen my neck and a deep breath then I sighted again.

  The bullet pierced the paper near the right shoulder. Damn! At one time I could blackout whole sections with my tight groupings. Now I couldn’t even get it within the freakin’ outline anymore. I really needed to get out here more often. By the time I flicked the switch to slide the target back to my position, it was apparent I needed to get out here a hell of a lot more often.

  Snickers peppered the nearby lanes before I ripped down the papier-mâché cutout that had become my target and popped in a new one. By the time the bullet bucket was barely a fourth of the way empty, my hands and wrists were aching, and sweat ran like Niagara Falls down my back. Shoulders I’d feel tomorrow. Only an hour in and I was already done for. However, I was also a little more focused as I grabbed my gear and headed for the car.

  A quick text exchange with Bobby and I was on track with the necessary interrogation scheduled for noon. Gee, I was beginning to sound like an investigator already. Must be something to do with shooting off weapons instead of my disease-ridden mouth this time.

  “Vic?”

  The familiar voice pulled me out of the phone, but it only took a few seconds to focus in on the mustache. “Grady? What are you doing here?”

  My boss set a black duffle on the ground tucked up close to his boots and pushed back his hat. “Getting a haircut?”

  I smirked. “Yeah, okay. This is Texas. You’re at a shooting range. Dumb question.”

  The mustache tilted as he glanced between my face, down my sweaty t-shirt and shorts-clad bare legs to the gun and magazines I’d laid atop the bullets in the bucket. “Apparently ya know what you’re doing, but why haven’t I ever seen ya out here before?”

  “I haven’t been very regular in awhile.”

  “You might try a stool softener instead.”

  “Grady!” I laughed. “I mean shooting.”

  “Oh,” he chuckled right along with me.

  “I don’t usually come out to this range anyway. Too many off-duty cops like to come out here.”

  “Like that boyfriend of yours?”

  “Ex,” I clarified.

  The scent of manly-man followed as Grady leaned in closer, his chocolate brown eyes twinkling almost golden in the sunlight. “Good to know.”

  All my spit dried up in an instant and headed toward more southerly regions. My legs went all noodley again. Away from my place of employment, the subject of this man being my boss whisked away like a tumbleweed on the leading edge of a hurricane. Expecting a kiss, I leaned closer.

  Then nearly fell forward in the dust when Grady stepped backward, cradled his duffle and took off toward the range building.

  “See ya Wednesday night,” he called over his shoulder.

  That’s it. I really was done with men. For sure this time.

  Damn men.

  Chapter Eight

  The Vernet clan goes through maids almost as fast as they spend Sunday morning’s offering. I’m not sure if it’s an agreement they have with the placement service, but nine times out of ten they end up with those named Maria. Maybe it’s part of their contract. Perhaps they feel closer to God by employing someone who shares a close relation to His earthly mother’s name, though I doubt if the entire crop could claim virgin status. Either way they save the congregation some money because they don’t have to buy a bunch of new nametags every few weeks.

  Personally, I think it’s so they have more left over for Mary Jo’s designer shoe collection. And for the weekly new handbag, though these days it more likely goes toward Botox injections.

  After a shower and third change of clothes for the day, this week’s Maria escorted me to the formal living room before trudging up the winding staircase to locate Bobby. The living room – or Blue Room as Mary Jo preferred, as if her home was the White House and she the First Lady – reflected the heights of gaudy extravagance.

  Silver-gray paper adorned the walls while the windows were swallowed by heavy brocade gray-blue drapes. Metallic threads were woven in so that, as Mary Jo once stated, they captured and scattered the light as God intended. Matching tufted chintz sofas and chairs dotted gray carpet with far too many mirrored coffee and end tables scattered about. These were then cluttered with crystal and silver bowls, vases, and trinkets that reflected what sunlight penetrated the drapes. The glare and inception effect threatened to give me a headache.

  After the wait extended past five minutes and the Maria-of-the-week didn’t return, I decided to make myself at home and headed up the staircase. Halfway up, a door somewhere on the second floor slammed. I stopped. Another door slammed. I almost rode the banister down the staircase when Mary Jo’s shrill voice echoed up the corridor.

  “Don’t you dare walk away from me when I’m talking to you, Robert!”

  Bobby’s lowered but firm voice followed. “I’ve left Vicki waiting long enough, Mother.”

  “That girl has already caused this family enough scandal. Why did you invite her over here? Don’t you care how it reflects on you?”

  “Don’t you mean how it reflects on you and Dad?”

  “Robert!”

  “If you’ve forgotten,” Bobby continued, “I’m just as much at fault for what happened. More so actually.”

  “If more people find out you’re spending time together again, they’ll assume the worst.”

  “That was eleven years ago, Mother. You’re so quick to forgive me, and yet you continue to hold this over her head.”

  “This is my house, and I don’t want her in it,” Mary Jo commanded.

  “She was in it Saturday.”

  “She works in a bar, for goodness sake, promoting drunkenness and God knows what else.”

  Mary Jo’s sentiments didn’t surprise me one bit. Matter of fact, I too was surprised she’d allowed me in her home for the funeral dinner. After my parents left, I’d half expected to be approached by some servant and escorted from the premises – in secret, of course. Any public spectacle would’ve reflected poorly on Vernet and Company, and we all knew by now how they wished to avoid any spectacle where I was concerned – public or otherwise.

  “You know,” Bobby said, “I’m beginning to understand why she left the church. Seems she wasn’t wanted in that house either.”

  “Robert.” Mary Jo’s voice ratcheted up about ten octaves. “Robert, come back here.”

  A heavy gait clomped overhead. Bobby’s blue eyes blazed when he saw me standing in the foyer.

  “You ready?”

  “Bobby, I…”

  “Come on then,” he said, reaching into his pants pocket and jingling his keys. “I’m driving.”

  “But my car’s parked out front.”

  “Good. Maybe some of Mother’s friends will stop by and see it and assume the worst.” A wicked grin adorned Bobby’s face.

  There’s the guy I knew and loved. Liked. Was friends with. Oh, forget it.

  ***

  Bobby drove his BMW X-5 lik
e a man on a third-world mission field. He plowed through the suburbs of Dallas with a death grip on the steering wheel like a python with its last meal.

  “So,” I asked, clinging to the door arm, “how’s your mom?”

  Didn’t even get me a glance. “You heard her.”

  “All of Texas heard her.”

  A Texas-sized grunt.

  I continued. “Do you think she’ll have my car towed?”

  “And draw more attention to the fact it’s in front of their house? I doubt it.”

  “Gee, that makes me feel so much better.”

  Bobby made a lane change and slowed as the exit drew near. “I’m sorry about all that. I’ll never understand her unforgiving attitude toward you.”

  I patted his knee. “You’re her little lamb chop. ‘Course she’ll forgive you.”

  “I’m almost thirty,” he grumbled.

  “Age doesn’t stop the parental patrol.”

  “The way she’s acting, you’d think I hadn’t lived a day on my own. That I’d never been married.”

  The mention of marriage shut him up real fast. Red rimmed his eyes and the bob of his Adam’s apple reflected the dogged fight against tears. I left him in peace until we pulled up to the restaurant in the heart of the Historic West End – my usual haunts.

  “This is a different area for you,” I observed.

  Bobby sighed. “I just want to have a chance to talk without interruption. Without judgment.”

  “Amen to that, brother.”

  That earned me a quirk of a smile as we strolled across the parking lot. I was recognized the instant we entered the murky grill and bar.

  “A little early in the day for ya, ain’t it?” the old proprietor called.

  “Having lunch with a friend,” I responded.

  Thick eyebrows lifted before a toothy grin spread across the buzzard’s face. “What’ll it be then?”

  “Whatever’s on tap for me and a coke for him,” I said with a thumb in Bobby’s direction.

  After settling in a dim corner booth away from windows and the accompanying prying eyes, we ordered a couple of burgers and nursed our drinks. Bobby stirred the ice around and stared into his pop as if in a trance. After all the years apart, I hated seeing him in such a funk. It was time to call this meeting to order.

  “I went to see Zeke this morning.”

  Blue eyes rose from the swirling syrup in surprise. “Zeke Taylor?”

  “That’s the one,” I acknowledged.

  “I thought he’d moved to Austin,” Bobby said. “Wanted to become a Ranger, didn’t he?”

  “He did, and he did. Transferred to Company ‘B’ a few years ago to help his dad with the ranch after the accident. We went out a couple of times a few months ago, so I thought he might be a good place to start.”

  I know what you’re thinking. Couple of dates? Few months ago? Who cares about semantics at a time like this. No need to stir up any bad blood between these two where I was concerned.

  Long story.

  “And?” Bobby urged.

  “He asked me to go on a fishing expedition with you.”

  “Let me guess. He thinks Amy and I were putting on a good show for the public.”

  “Nailed it.”

  The moment the plates slid across the table, Bobby laid into the burger as if he’d forgotten to eat for days. Very possible, considering the turmoil over Amy’s death. After a couple of enormous bites and replenishment of our drinks, he slowed enough to voice his internal pondering.

  “Can’t blame Zeke for thinking that. I got pretty good at pretending for public consumption in my younger years.”

  “We learned from some of the best,” I said, clinking my beer against his glass and nearly sloshing both into his lap.

  Graceful I’m not – in far too many ways these days. When Bobby took another drink and grimaced, I suspected a little beer had clashed with his coke.

  “The thing is,” Bobby continued, “Amy and I were happier than I’d ever imagined possible after what I’d witnessed with my parents. We cleared the air early on in our relationship and that offered openness and trust in our marriage. We talked about everything. Shared everything. I was free to be completely myself. Accepted for who I was.”

  The awe and rawness in his admission choked me up almost as much as it did him. Talk about crying in your beer. But like the consummate professional I’d become when it came to emotions, I held those pesky tears at bay and offered up what I hoped was a sympathetic look. Knowing my luck, it probably looked more like someone had farted.

  Then another unexpected emotion almost bitch-slapped me before I was even aware of it. The little green monster of envy jumped on my spine and held on like a cowboy riding a bronco. Could I ever be so open with someone like that? Could I ever let someone know me so completely? How could I when I didn’t even know myself? For a moment, I longed for what Bobby had discovered with Amy.

  Danger! Danger! Approaching enemy territory. I wasn’t ready to delve too deep into my own psyche – at least not yet.

  I tackled Bobby’s claim instead. “I posed a couple of questions to Zeke that intrigued him enough to look into the case.”

  “Really?” Bobby’s tear-filled eyes held so much hope and faith in me, I almost stopped myself right then from pursuing things any further. “What were they?”

  But if I was gonna continue to ride this wagon train, I had to broach the questions I’d posed to Zeke. The first was obviously off the table after Bobby’s description of marital bliss, so I started in with question two. “Why was none of Amy’s family at the funeral?”

  Bobby pushed fries around his plate, chose one then swirled it in a mound of ketchup. “Amy’s mom died from a drug overdose a couple of years ago. It’s what brought us back from serving in Central America.”

  That one stopped me. “Drugs?”

  “Yeah,” Bobby admitted. “Her mom was a lifetime user, though she was high functioning for years. I’d never have known it at our wedding if Amy hadn’t warned me beforehand.”

  Drug use – that brought on a whole slew of possibilities for what happened to Amy. But it still didn’t explain the rest of her family’s absence at the funeral.

  “What about her dad?”

  “Amy never knew her father.”

  Now this was getting interesting. Talk about your church ladies gone wild. If the tongue waggers at the church got ahold of this dishy bite, they’d be busy for months gnawing on that bone. As open as Amy was, I doubt she would’ve shared this tainted tidbit anytime soon – even with me, regardless of the cosmic connection she’d felt between us.

  “Did your mom and dad know Amy’s secrets?” I asked.

  “See that’s the thing,” Bobby returned. “Amy never thought of them as secrets. They were simply a part of her life’s journey. Challenges that steered her toward a better life, though she’d have done anything to rescue her mom from drugs. And she tried.” Bobby’s face clouded with anger. “But my parents were insistent Amy keep her dirty laundry out of the church.”

  “Her dirty laundry? Not like it was Amy’s fault her mom chose to get mixed up in drugs.”

  “Didn’t stop my mom from thinking of her as the devil’s spawn.”

  The burger slid sideways down my throat. I coughed so hard the stuck steer splashed right into my beer. “Did she really call Amy that?” I asked as I fished around in my drink.

  “Might as well. The phrase Mexican trash spewed out of her mouth only an hour ago.”

  “But Amy was your wife,” I replied in horror.

  Bobby shrugged and sighed, dropping the ketchup-drenched fry as if he’d lost his appetite. “Nothing’s changed in the years since I left. Seems all Mother cares about is appearances. And Amy didn’t measure up in her mind.”

  “When it comes to your mom, no woman ever could.”

  And I knew that firsthand. I wanted to march right over to th
e Vernet mansion and hose down Mary Jo with warm beer. Host a cow chip throwing contest on their front lawn. No, wet t-shirt night. That’d get the neighbors talking. But we’d never get everyone past security. Hell, I probably would never get past security again after today. I only hoped my day pass didn’t expire before retrieving my car.

  “Now do you understand why I had to get away all those years ago?” Bobby asked.

  “I’m beginning to.”

  “They make it almost impossible to practice the command to honor thy father and mother if I’m anywhere within a five-hundred mile radius. If there was any chance to find a real relationship with the Lord, a real relationship with a woman, I had to escape the family trappings.” He pushed his plate aside and looked me square in the eyes. “Does that make sense?”

  More than you know, Bobby Boy. More than you know.

  ***

  Does sharing two different meals with two different guys in one day make me a certified hussy?

  Don’t answer that.

  After a lifetime of dining in the most expensive and glamorous five-star restaurants around the world, I’d come to discover that expensive didn’t necessarily mean tasty. Most of the time it translated into exotic, strange, and just downright unappetizing – at least to this youngster. What kid wants to roll a dollop of slimy snail around in her mouth, regardless of the wasted fifty bucks? Ugh!

  When the status of my pocketbook changed after my flight to freedom, Zeke had introduced me to some of the best food Dallas had to offer. Though the dive appearances had originally given me pause, what they lacked in ambience and aesthetics they more than made up for in mouthwatering deliciousness – at reasonable prices to boot. Even so, our favorite Italian dive, La Buona Cibo Vino, tipped the top of my current wallet’s scale.

  Financial concerns melted away with my first bite of shrimp manicotti. “Mmm. It’s been too long.”

  Zeke cocked an eyebrow. “Stopped coming to our place after you stormed away?”

  I wouldn’t dignify Zeke’s attempt to goad me. “More like out of financial considerations.”

  “Things that bad?”

  “Just restocking the coffers. The Vette needed some heavy-duty maintenance this year and set me back a pretty penny.”