Justice Edge (Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Book 10)

by Rex Bolt

  “Do you have any tequila, or no?” Marlene said, and before Chris could take a look she said, “That’s okay. Where I was going with it -- I was in Cabo once, and there’s so many varieties, you can get in big trouble just taste-testing.”

  Chris had heard this somewhere as well, and meanwhile had a little something going in the blender, not really knowing what he was doing, but suspecting it wasn’t all that important, given that Marlene seemed funky tonight and likely wouldn’t notice the difference.

  Chris dolloped out the final product, was going to have to fake-drink his, wasn’t up for it right now, and said, “So . . . your day. How’d that go?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean,” Marlene said.

  And oh boy. And Chris didn’t press it, and Marlene sat back, and after a while said, “Well, okay, something good.”

  “Really?” Chris said.

  “Yes. Well I walked into town, as you know I like to do most days.”

  And that was a first, he didn’t know that, and he’d sure never bumped into her doing it, and in fact when he’d suggested it once, a while back, go down and check out a skim board contest they had going on, a Saturday morning, she’d looked at him funny and said it was way too far.

  Chris said, “So it was a positive, then? Your effort?”

  “There was a little boy,” she said, “and a puppy. You know Connie’s Closet? That place?”

  “I think I know where you mean,” Chris said, “a couple doors down from the bikini shop, right? The corner of Highland.”

  The bikini shop of course being one of those unique-to-a-beach-town operations. The deal was, you had people already walking around in bikinis, going in there to check out other bikinis.

  You were somewhat used to the atmosphere by now, the nonchalance of the locals toward the amounts of skin (male and female both) on display as a no-big-deal lifestyle -- but dang, some couple coming out here for a little R & R in the middle of winter, from say Rochester, Minnesota, would see it a little different.

  Anyhow Marlene didn’t acknowledge the place and continued. “They were eating ice creams, the boy and the parents and the sister. Hers started to topple off the cone and the mom and dad come to the rescue . . . but they lose focus on the puppy that the boy is holding at the moment . . . and I’m afraid the dog ran into the street.”

  “Are you torturing me here? Or did you save the day?”

  “I did. I acted quickly. The puppy appeared to be on a mission, like on a scent, and he was moving every which way in the middle of the block -- and I say puppy, he was close to full-grown but young obviously, one of those labradoodles.”

  “No cars yet?” Chris said, needing a bottom line here pretty quick, Jeez.

  “There was one double parked, coming up the hill, and he was letting people out, but there was a person behind him, who looked anxious, and the double parker appeared to be blocking the view of that person -- and I was afraid that person any moment would rev the engine and come around right into the poor dog.”

  “Come on.”

  “So . . . I screamed at the top of my lungs: ‘Watch Out!’ . . . and the car in back didn’t seem to hear me honestly, I think he had music playing loud . . . but the dad did, and he pulled himself out of the ice cream business really fast and raced out there and scooped up the dog.”

  Hmm. Chris thought he might have handled it differently, step out into the street right away yourself and just raise a hand to the back car like a traffic cop, until someone scoops up the dog -- or even just tell the dad right away, don’t watch it unfold first . . . but every circumstance was different he supposed.

  “The main thing then,” he said, “and good for you, well done, everybody lives happily ever after.”

  “They do,” Marlene said. “The bad part of my day, I found out I have to work tomorrow.”

  Again, hmm.

  “Work?” Chris said. “As in . . . what kind?”

  Marlene looked at him like he was an idiot. “What else I have I done, in your experience?”

  “You mean, like teach again? I thought they cut you loose.”

  “This is something different,” she said. “I received a call from a vice-principal in Fullerton. They need someone to teach 7th and 8th grade Art and Health.”

  “Like a sub then,” Chris said.

  “No, the real thing. They’re hiring me for next fall, but they need me to start tomorrow, and finish off this semester as well.”

  “Art and Health -- is that like its own subject rolled into one these days?”

  “No. That’s the other thing, how am I supposed to teach art, I can’t even draw a cartoon face. And health, I don’t have a clue what that entails.”

  She was actually crying a little bit, and wow, this sure wasn’t how you scripted it.

  “Okay look,” Chris said. “Art, you figure out right away who the most talented kid is -- and you have him or her do all the demos, they love that . . . and Health -- whatever it actually is -- that’s a piece of cake, you stay a few pages ahead of the class in the textbook, and you got it covered.”

  Marlene had some Kleenex going, but seemed to be processing it. “That simple, huh?”

  “And let me see that smile,” Chris said, and he got right in her face, and gave her the dead pan stare until she broke into one.

  “Not the end of the world,” he said. “Couple days under your belt, it’ll be like you didn’t miss a beat . . . The person who called you, they say anything else?”

  “No. Just that she got a nice referral from my old district. Which is kind of shocking, since that guy was a true asshole, my principal. I apologize for putting it like that.”

  “Well,” Chris said, “something I’m learning myself, people have more redeeming qualities than you might give them credit for on the surface.”

  “Not this guy,” Marlene said.

  “Anyhow,” Chris said, “no point over-thinking it. What time do you start?”

  “That’s one more thing, they’re on the early schedule out there. 7:40.”

  Chris moved closer to her on the couch, patted her knee, and said he was proud of her, that if you go with the flow -- which she did -- you tend to bob back to the surface just fine.

  He was in the mood for a little more now, was hoping he could butter her up, but the compliments and knee business didn’t work at all, and she announced she had to be going, that she had so much to do to prepare, and Chris noticed her wobbling slightly going out the door and he told her to take it easy on the stairs.

  ***

  The night was still young, that was for sure, and Chris felt slightly discombobulated. That’s what you get for trying to do what you assume -- without anticipating what the other person might assume -- is the right thing.

  What else could you do, except head down to the Crow’s Nest. Okay fine. If he was out of here himself tomorrow, which it was looking like was going to happen, he had some preparing to do too -- just like Marlene -- but forget her for now.

  Ned must have been in between back-table consultations, because he was standing at the bar smiling about something with Cindy, someone else pointing to the TV and all three of them looking, so Chris did too and it was a ballgame, the Dodgers had traded another outfielder during the off-season and here he was tonight, first game returning to Chavez Ravine, and in his first at-bat he homers off Clayton Kershaw.

  “Mixed emotions,” Chris said. “The fans?”

  “Hey Bud,” Ned said, “good you dropped in.”

  “What,” Chris said, “they cheered him when got in the batter’s box, for old time’s sake? But they booed him when he rounded the bases?”

  “He’s better off,” Ned said, “and so are the Dodgers. Guy was always losing his temper.”

  “Ah. Bad for team chemistry then.”

  “Exactly, you can’t have that, even if the guy is talented up the wazoo. You hear the one about the water?”

  “No.”

  “He’s out at third on a tag p
lay. He comes back in, heads down to the clubhouse, is still mad about it . . . smashes his helmet against the wall, and accidentally sets off the sprinkler alarm. The inning ends right then, and he goes back to left field soaking wet.”

  “That’s pretty funny.”

  “When they change sides again, the fire department is there, and he gulps and tells another guy to call his wife, figuring he’s getting arrested . . . Course he’s Dominican, you can see him thinking American laws are worse than they are.”

  “Yeah,” Chris said, “you’d need more to really arrest someone . . . Speaking of which.”

  “Jeannie,” Ned was saying, his hand on someone’s waist now, who apparently just showed up. “Meet my friend Chrissie. Have a drink. It’s all on me . . . Chris has some colorful stories. Ask him about when he tried to sell a piece of fake art on CraigsList.”

  Chris was going to give Ned the look, but you didn’t bother at this point, and how could you fault the guy really, he did make this introduction, and Jeannie was young and certainly attractive enough, and she wasn’t saying no yet, to having a drink.

  “Well,” Chris said, “I guess I could dredge that one up. We’d have to sit down though.” And that was no problem either, though Jeannie said she wouldn’t mind the chair against the wall, so she could keep an eye on the game.

  “You ever play then?” Chris said. “Or your dad made you a fan, since he didn’t have a son.”

  “Are you guessing?” she said.

  “My cousin,” he said, “she’s like 45 now, my uncle’s dead and gone, but she’s still pleasing him anyway. Season tickets like 20 years in a row to the Miami Marlins.”

  “They’re looking to move apparently. Attendance is terrible.”

  “Gee. You do know your stuff . . . Is the ball juiced this year? I’m seeing more right handers hitting it out the opposite way, it sure looks.”

  She nodded. “Tighter seams,” and that made sense actually, though you didn’t need to get into a further breakdown of the manufacturing process.

  “So,” Chris said. “What do you?”

  “For real?”

  “Sure. That, and for kicks too.” Chris was surprised it just hit him, but Jeannie could certainly be out of Ned’s stable -- meaning a porno actress participating in his ongoing activities at the Strand house.

  “I’m a paralegal,” she said. “I like to ride dirt bikes on the weekend. How about you?”

  So maybe not . . . though you could juggle being a paralegal with 20-minute interactions, couldn’t you? Chris said, “Do you know Ken? Chamberlain?”

  “Oh I do,” she said, no hesitation. “He’s a sweet boy.” Boy. The guy had to be 26 now, and Ken admittedly had a baby face, but she had to be that age herself, maybe even younger.

  Chris said, “Well if you don’t mind my asking, where is he? Currently.”

  “He was over there earlier,” Jeannie said, pointing at the side wall that had the framed movie posters, but really pointing, you had to assume, in the direction of the house in question, a half mile down the Strand toward Hermosa.

  “Oh,” Chris said.

  She said, “You didn’t tell me what you do,” Chris realizing she had asked, and always hated this, and he said, “I’m retired.” Figuring slam the door on it clean.

  “Now that’s interesting,” Jeannie said. “I started a 401k, I’m trying to set myself up as well -- 20-plus years away obviously -- but when my accountant projects it out, there’ll be no way.”

  Chris had to agree with her, the normal routes probably weren’t going to cut it these days. “So start your own business,” he said.

  “I’d love to,” she said. “Except what would it be?”

  “Something I’m on the lookout for myself. I mean, online stuff. Where ideally you don’t have to go anywhere.”

  “You are preaching to the converted. But everything seems so saturated.”

  “Well,” Chris said, “do you have any unique life experiences? That you could coach someone else on?”

  “I never thought of coaching per se,” Jeannie said. “That seems foreign to me.”

  “It does, until you start raking in the bucks. With Skype and so forth, you got a world wide victim pool out there . . . I see people giving music lessons that way, Skype yoga, the works. Of course I’m guessing the bigger money’s in the direct coaching.”

  “You know you’re right,” she said. “People are willing to pay top dollar for self improvement.”

  “And like you say, yes, the life coaching stuff is saturated. Everyone and his brother can call himself one of those. No training required . . . But if you have something unique . . . that you’re coaching them in . . . then the field’s wide open.”

  Jeannie was nodding absent-mindedly and you could see she was chewing on the concept. Without bringing it up, Chris of course was framing it in terms of the porno business -- that there’d be more than enough clients out there to sustain a one-on-one Skype business, where your coaching consisted of answering their questions about the industry, telling a few stories, the sky sort of being the limit in terms of imagination.

  Jeannie said, “This may be the jump-start I need, honestly. My routine, it’s become a bit stale.”

  “Well,” Chris said, the gin and tonic he shouldn’t have ordered kicking in, “my door’s always open, you want to brainstorm. I’ll warn you, I’m not great on the internet, the subtleties.”

  “But you’re a thinking man, that’s more important,” she said, and she took out her phone and asked Chris for his information and he dutifully dictated it.

  “Well then,” a fairly substantial male voice bellowed, “what do we got, old reunion nite, it looks to be.”

  “Oh hi Austin,” Jeannie said, and she angled her mouth just right and Austin planted a legitimate looking lingering wet kiss on her lips. “This is . . . I’m sorry.”

  “Chris,” Chris said. “Didn’t you just type it in though?” Once again he was sticking in the needle for no reason, other than to see what might happen . . . and wouldn’t Dr. Moore call that destructive behavior? He made a mental note to ask her next time.

  “Would appreciate,” Austin said, sitting down with them, “you addressing the lady, with less of an edge. We good?” And Austin laid a tough guy stare on him, and part of Chris was tempted to go in back and get a baseball bat or something . . . there had in fact been one leaning up in there when he and Ned had their little meeting that time.

  Of course this would be way out of character for Chris -- you didn’t let personal insults set you off -- except it felt like enough was enough lately . . . or maybe it was just the booze.

  But he kept his cool and asked Austin how his day was, and the guy lightened up a fraction . . . and something happened in the Dodger game, and they all three commented on it . . . and Jeannie re-told Austin Chris’s story about the player who got traded, and how last season he set the sprinkler system off on himself.

  “That’s a good one,” Austin said. “Where’d you hear that at?”

  “The LA Times had a big spread on the guy over over the weekend. Reporter did his homework, interviewed a dozen people, easy.”

  Austin nodded and said, “I love true sports books. There’s less of ‘em now though.”

  “There are,” Chris said. “I’m guessing on account of the players all being millionaires. They don’t need the income.”

  “They don’t need to be spilling locker room secrets anymore, either. No upside to that.”

  This was true, and this Austin guy wasn’t bad, he was on the ball. Chris said, “This is gonna date me, but have you ever read Ball Four?”

  “I have not, and it’s been on my bucket list. I keep putting it off, because it’s all so far back.”

  Chris said, “Different era on the surface, yeah. Guys had to sell insurance during the off-season to make ends meet . . . But the concepts are the same. The guy sits in the bullpen all season, doesn’t get into many games, but keeps this amazing diary. Plenty
of provocative insights.”

  “What team?”

  “The Seattle Pilots. Brand new expansion team, their first year. That added an interesting dynamic as well, everyone trying to figure stuff out for the first time. Of course that’s not the current Mariners, the Pilots moved, didn’t last too long in Seattle.”

  “Where to?”

  “Jeez . . . you got me there,” Chris said, and Austin asked Jeannie to look it up, and she announced, “Milwaukee Brewers, it says.”

  “No way I would have come up with that, if it was like a Final Jeopardy question,” Chris said, “though it makes sense I guess, the Braves in Atlanta by then.”

  “Okay, well you got me roped in, on the book,” Austin said. “What do you do, if I might ask? Something in sports?”

  Jeannie spoke up. “Babe we’ve been all through this, before you came. I’ll fill you in. Let’s don’t go over it twice.”

  Austin gave her a look now. “J,” he said, “how ‘bout letting my man answer, does he mind going over it twice . . .”

  “He’s such an asshole,” Jeannie was saying directly to Chris now.

  “You see what I have to put up with?” Austin said, also directing it at Chris.

  “So, you want to play games, is that it?” Jeannie said to Austin. “Where were you at 7? When you said you were picking me up?”

  “Never said that Babe . . . I said I’d make an effort.” Austin was starting to talk through clenched teeth.

  “That’s not what Sue told me,” she said. “Not even close.”

  “Sue,” Austin said, getting more exasperated, “has no idea what I’m up against . . . She should try it some time. So should you.” And he gave Chris another look, like you believe this shit?

  Chris said he’d be right back and he picked up his drink and pointed to the game, that Justin Turner just cleared the bases with a triple, and the Dodgers re-took the lead.

  He headed over to Ned’s corner table and took a look back, and Austin and Jeannie’s eyes were big all around, and they were both using their hands as they spoke, and Chris trying to divert them to the TV game didn’t work at all.