“I know you really just want to see your kids play in a soccer game, not get in a fight and force me to call the cops. You’d be suspended by the league, not allowed to see your daughters play the rest of the season. Do you want that?”
The knuckleheads both shook their heads, arms at their sides like…five-year-old kids.
Who was the parent?
“Good. Please do as I asked, then I can get this game going.”
The two jerks separated and plodded back to their respective spouses, and a smattering of applause could be heard from the rest of the crowd as the ref jogged back to the middle of the field.
I spotted Eva in the crowd, and she shrugged her shoulders, probably happy she didn’t have to turn into Eva the cop. Then she would have missed Samantha’s game, and those two bozos would have drawn her wrath. That part would have been fun to watch.
The whistle blew, and chaos erupted. The Pink Ladies, including my Samantha, wore stylish earmuffs, stocking caps, and mittens as they chased a black and white ball like a cat chasing its tail. All the while, the Lil’ Devils did the same, wearing a red and black design. Parents yelled instructions, everyone talking over the one next to them. No way in hell any of the girls could hear a word of coaching. All of the insanity forced out a chuckle.
I noticed two girls, one from each team, at the far end of the field sitting on the ground. Bringing the camera to my eye, I found they were right in the middle of a moat of goopy mud, playing pat-a-cake. And yes, their hands were coated with mud, both girls giggling each time their hands smacked the other, slinging mud into the hair of their new friend. As I took five or six quick shots, the ball escaped the beehive of girls at the other end of the field and rolled right up to them. The Pink Lady reached over and pushed the ball away with her hand, as if it was interrupting their playtime, and then she and her Lil’ Devil friend returned to their pat-a-cake fun. Before I could get off another shot, I started laughing so hard I couldn’t keep steady, and most of the other parents joined in.
Seconds later, the swarming hive of soccer bees chased after the ball headed toward the goal at my end, a girl from each team just ahead of the pack. The race was on, parents cheering at the top of their lungs like they were watching the home stretch at the Kentucky Derby. Who would get there first?
The Pink Lady edged ahead, the swell of the cheers rising with each loping stride. But just as quickly, she lost track of the ball when she started waving to her adoring fans as if she could already envision herself accepting the gold medal for the United States women’s soccer team sixteen years later.
Seizing the opportunity of her young little life, the Lil’ Devil cut past her taller, distracted opponent and swung her leg back for a mighty kick—she wasn’t aware that she was about to kick the ball into her team’s net. But the accuracy of her follow-through didn’t match her intensity, and she rolled her foot on top of the ball, which sent her flopping to the turf. A cascade of “oohs” poured through the crowd. Then the girl started crying.
The Pink Lady had recovered, though, and attempted to leap over her opponent and kick the still ball in one fluid motion—a World Cup move if I’d ever seen one. Predictably, she failed on both attempts, her cleat crunching into the Lil’ Devil’s shin, causing another outburst of tears. The Pink Lady stumbled, falling face first into a patch of mud. Then she started crying.
All was not lost, however, as another player, my Samantha, dodged the scrum, tapped the ball with her left foot, and wound up for a huge right-footed kick.
“Ahhh!” we all yelled as the ball clanged off the shaking goal bar.
But just as the air let out of the crowd, the ball bounced off the left goal bar so hard it ricocheted off her teammate’s head—now on her back throwing a tantrum—and the ball rolled into the middle of the net.
“Yes!” I heard Eva yell above the chorus of cheers as my Samantha jumped up and down, pumping her fists in the air, her braided pigtails lifting off her back.
Suddenly, she noticed a mob of Pink Ladies coming right for her. She cut left, then high-tailed it toward the sideline, her teammates on a mission to get to Samantha, to celebrate the goal by pouncing on top of her. The crowd’s verbal response was now tied to the chase for my daughter. Chants of “go, go, go” spurred on those in pursuit, but my little girl refused to give in and executed a near perfect figure eight, forcing two of the girls to run into each other. Onlookers responded with a pained “ouch,” and the chase continued. Lifting her head, Samantha’s eyes locked onto mine, and she ran right for me, leaping into my arms, her infectious laughter filling the air.
“Save me, Daddy,” she said through cute giggles and a missing tooth.
Holding her tight against my chest, I said, “I’ve got you, Mittens. I’ve got you.” Mittens was my nickname for Samantha, one I’d given her when she was a baby, her hands so chubby it was difficult to detect where one finger ended and the next began.
Leaning her head back, she grabbed my scruffy face, then put a finger to her mouth.
“Shhh, Daddy.” Her brown eyes shifted both directions, her voice in a loud whisper. “No one knows about my nickname. Let’s keep it between us, okay? Our secret.”
“Our secret.” I set her on the ground, and she walked to her teammates and gave each one a high five, including the girl who’d been playing in the mud.
A few other dads approached me, shaking my hand, thumping the side of my arm, as if I’d performed some amazing feat. I found the response strange, as if I had anything to do with Samantha’s goal, as lucky as it was.
By the time the game ended, every Pink Lady and Lil’ Devil had incurred at least one mud spill. We’d watched disinterest turn into goals for the other team, including one Pink Lady who was working on her dance moves in front of her own goal. With music apparently playing in her own head, she performed some type of leaping pirouette to escape a herd of rushing soccer players chasing after the ball. Goal for the Li’l Devils.
Fittingly, the game ended in a tie, 3-3, and no one seemed to care about not winning.
The parents arched arms overhead, creating a tunnel for the kids to run under, and if there were any hurt knees or feelings, they were quickly erased from memory.
“You know I can’t tell you anything about the Yates murder case that I don’t tell the media, right?”
Tom had just sidled up to me as I clicked through about fifty images of the game. Turning to face the height-challenged sergeant, I first noticed he’d allowed his neck to protrude from his green shell. I realized he was playing offense, as opposed to waiting for my questions. Not a bad strategy.
“I guess that can work both ways, right?” I emphasized the last word.
His forehead crinkled, and a confused look turned into a pouty one. I was beginning to see the real Thom Bradford, and I wondered what Eva saw in him.
“Work what both ways?”
Despite earning those sergeant stripes, Thom had yet to display his mastery of the English language, or an ability to add two plus two.
“Information. You catching my drift?”
He glanced away, smacking his lips. More confusion.
I had to dummy down my thought process. I attempted a fifth-grade level. “You’re hesitant to share information about the Albert Yates murder case with me because I’m not an employee of the DPD.”
He nodded, then quickly held up a nubby finger. “I didn’t say hesitant. I said I can’t. Won’t.”
It appeared he enjoyed his newly appointed throne, although it was made from government-issued bullshit.
Ignoring his self-defiance, I tried to complete the if-then statement. “Without receiving any help from your department, I’m going to be ‘hesitant’ to share any information I might stumble across. Are you following my line of thinking now?”
Out of the corner of my vision, I noticed Eva looking our way while she tended to Samantha and half-listened to a mother discussing motherly things, I assumed. Eva could listen in if she desired,
but I wanted to keep Samantha out of any adult conversation.
“Are you suggesting that you’d withhold information from a police investigation?”
Once again, he attempted an offensive play.
“If you or anyone else in blue asks me a specific question, I’ll answer it to the best of my ability. But I’ve been hired by Darla Yates to try to figure out who murdered her husband. If I had no need to engage your team, then don’t expect me to voluntarily run into Northwest Division spilling my guts with all of the research we’ve completed.”
“We?”
The question had a mocking tone to it.
“Yes. Booker & Associates means more than one…where the alligator mouth opens this way.” I held up my wedged hand.
Thom rolled his eyes. “No offense, but I thought your work consisted of, essentially, placating your so-called clients, using your experience as a former DPD officer to make them think you were in the middle of the official investigation.”
“You’re using the term official to equate exclusive. And you know, as a licensed private investigator by the state of Texas, I’m allowed to conduct my own investigation, within the confines of the law.”
He nodded slowly.
“One more thing. I’m no babysitter. I don’t placate. I don’t bullshit. I put every ounce of energy into finding the truth, regardless of where it takes me or what I have to do to get it. No offense.”
Eva and Samantha waltzed up hand in hand, my little girl grasping a package of Twizzlers, saving Thom from further embarrassment. I was willing to classify our conversation as a tie. He’d stuck his stubborn foot in the ground, then I painstakingly walked him through the ramifications if he intended on maintaining the same stance. Getting a key piece of information on the Yates case from him mattered very little at this point. As a new leader in the department, one whose path I’d likely cross going forward, he needed to understand the give-and-take relationship that would allow both entities to succeed. If he wasn’t going to give anything on his end, I sure as hell wouldn’t be offering anything on my end.
I pulled out a buzzing phone and found a text from Alisa.
“Check out the pictures.” I handed my camera to Eva, while I read Alisa’s text.
Dropin off chloe at vet, then headed to jewel
Good timing, I thought, then I sent a quick response.
1st one to jewel needs to tie Justin to bar. Later
“You might think you could be a photo journalist, but you didn’t get this picture.”
Eva handed me her phone. The image, or my emotions, almost made me choke. She’d clicked the picture just as Samantha leaped into my arms, her face flush with wide-eyed jubilation, dimples in her cheeks.
“Wow,” is all I could muster. “Do you mind sending this to me? This one’s going on the wall.”
“Sure,” Eva said, taking me aside. “Everything okay between you and Thom?”
Uncertain what she thought she saw or how Thom might influence her opinion of my business practices, I kept it neutral.
“Nothing major. Just an adult conversation about case management,” I said with a wink.
Leaning down, I gave Samantha a kiss on the head and we exchanged a fist bump, then I hoofed it toward my vehicle, the Silver Streak.
Ten minutes later, I sat in the lounge area of The Jewel, trying to figure out a way to hogtie the man who was vying for Entrepreneur of the Year.
“Any idea when your assistant is going to get her sweet ass into work so I can go help Dax prepare today’s food?”
Justin blew by me at supersonic speed, carrying a tray of empties. Early on a Saturday afternoon, an early season baseball game on the big screens, The Jewel was at about twenty percent capacity. Pretty normal. Justin had always been able to run the show on his own, but now it seemed like he’d shed his personal investment in the old bar—not monetarily, but in his level of commitment.
“She was your waitress before she was my assistant, or I guess, partner…whatever she is.” Alisa and I had never formalized her formal title, other than she did anything I asked for a modest hourly wage. She was damn good at everything I threw at her, so part of me wondered how she’d handle working away from the bar/office as more of a field investigator.
Lines formed at the edges of Justin’s narrowed eyes, his lips moving but no sound. He’d completely zoned me out.
“Earth to Justin.”
Momentarily paused behind the bar, Justin was either saying his prayers or reciting his lines from an upcoming production. I tried to read his lips, but as skinny as they were, it was impossible.
Clearing my throat, I said, “Earth to One Nut, do you read me?”
Shaking his head out of his trance, Justin immediately returned to task mode, clinking four glass mugs while racking them in the bar. His mind was in another universe.
“Are you on acid or something?”
“Huh? Sorry. Working through some numbers in my head.”
“Care to share?”
Justin flipped a towel over his shoulder, resting both hands on the bar in front in him. “Ah, Booker.”
He glanced at me, then surveyed the room, appearing to look at the faded brown brick, the eclectic assortment of pictures on the far wall, wooden beams running across the ceiling.
I let Justin sort through whatever was going on in his head, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts.
“I don’t know, man.” A heavy sigh.
Twisting my head, I think he knew he couldn’t bullshit his best friend since the eighth grade.
“I’m just not sure I’m cut out to be in the bar business.”
I’d seen signs, but hearing him utter those words still sounded anti-Justin. “Not cut out. Really? I thought you were just hitting your stride, building a loyal base. You’ve forgotten more about the bar business than I’ll ever know.”
“Eh.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Is it that blond temptress? She’s luring you into her lair?”
A puzzled look morphed into a comical smirk. “I wish. You got someone in mind?”
“No, dude. It was a figure of speech. The blond temptress is that sexy, trendy new truck food business. Fajita Rita’s. It just rolls off your tongue.”
“I know, right?”
Chuckling, I ambled to the bar, leaned an elbow against it. “You’re cracking me up. I think you’re going through a midlife crisis. Or at least a midlife small business owner crisis.”
“Damn straight he is.”
Turning our heads toward the front door, Alisa flipped off purple sunglasses, twisting her hourglass hips around random chairs in her path toward Justin and me.
“Don’t hold anything back now, Alisa. Sheesh.” Justin flung off his towel, popping it off the brass railing.
“You know I’m just yanking your chain.”
Justin peered up at Alisa, then over at me, his mouth turning up at the corners. “My chain hasn’t been yanked in six months,” he said, releasing a full-blown laugh, spinning himself around.
Not unaccustomed to teenage humor, Alisa rolled her eyes but still managed to smile. “By the look on your face, it looks like your dog died. If you had one.”
Justin gazed at Alisa, then smacked the counter with his towel.
“Are you thinking about selling this place?”
I heard concern in Alisa’s tone. I knew she relied on her tips at The Jewel to pay her bills. The amount of money she earned from the PI business wouldn’t be enough to keep her afloat, unless I could use her in the field, at least part-time. That would give us more billable hours, increasing her paycheck while weaning her off the Justin teet.
“This food truck business is fascinating. Having a mobile restaurant takes the whole issue of waiting for people to come to you right out of the equation. Sure, we have Fajita Rita’s, but we could run three more just like it, emphasizing a different type of food. The possibilities are limitless.”
“I see,” Alisa said, slipping her glasses inside
their cover and back into her bottomless pit of a purse.
Her eyelid twitched ever so slightly, and I could tell her mental wheels were spinning.
“Hey, Justin, you haven’t made a final decision on selling The Jewel, have you?”
“What? No. I just think I feel a little boxed in here, in more ways than one,” he said.
I couldn’t discount Justin’s feelings, and his vision for the food truck business made sense. Hell, I was happy he and David were making a killing. That allowed David to pay back the so-called investment money he’d stolen from a host of widows—including Justin’s sister, Jenna.
Besides the fact I’d been able to barter my office space just above Justin’s bar in exchange for running security on nights when he featured a popular local band or former local rap legend, a.k.a. Vanilla Ice, The Jewel had grown to be a bit of a home away from my condo. A respite from my obnoxious macaw, Big Al.
“If I make a decision, you guys will be the first to know. But I also don’t want to leave you hanging, either one of you.” He waved a hand toward each of us.
A phone rang. Justin held up a finger and turned to speak into his cell.
I said, “Nothing to worry about. I hope you know that, Alisa.”
She curled her bottom lip under a tooth in a cute kind of way. “Easy for you to say,” she said, not looking my way.
I touched her shoulder, and she turned her amber eyes in my direction. Disappointed eyes.
“I don’t want you to worry. We’ll work something out, even if Justin kicks us both out. Trust me.”
She leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek, catching me off guard. “Thank you Booker.”
“Alisa, hey, is that you?”
My blond assistant/partner gave me a wink and flipped around, apparently not surprised to see Cindy Valentino strutting toward her. Cindy gave Alisa a double air kiss, her lips smacking chewing gum.
“Booker, how’s it going?”
The one-act circus show known as Cindy had distracted me, and I hadn’t seen Henry shuffling in behind her.
I reached out, shook his hand. “Man, it’s been a while.”
Shifting his eyes toward Cindy, he grinned. “I’ve been busy. What can I say?”
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 55
