“Hell, I don’t know,” Fred said. “But I’m ready to retire. This summer marks my thirtieth police academy reunion. Of the six guys still on active duty, four of them are retiring from the Englewood Police Department this year. You might want to think about applying. I’d put in a good word for you.”
“Appreciate it, Fred, but I’m going to stick with the military.” They could sit him behind a desk for now, but he was capable of more, and once he proved it he’d be back in action. “Besides,” he said, trying to keep his tone light, “I don’t think the Englewood P.D. is looking for a one-legged bowler with a sixty-nine handicap to round out their league.”
Bruce was just guessing at his handicap. But he’d bet he was pretty close.
“Maybe not,” Fred agreed. “But a decorated Marine…they might overlook your handicap.”
Of course, neither of them was talking about bowling.
A FEW FRAMES LATER Bruce’s newfound confidence turned into overconfidence. Mitzi strolled in with Estrada and a couple of his Army recruiter buddies. Feeling as if everyone’s eyes were on him, Bruce counted out his steps. Nothing less than a strike would do at this moment.
So he went for it.
Deep into the controlled slide his left foot slipped. He released the ball into the gutter and stopped himself from falling by shifting his weight to his right foot and catching himself with his right hand.
“Are you all right?” Mitzi called.
“I’m fine,” he said as he picked himself up from his awkward crouch.
“You sure?”
“I said I was,” he snapped. Too late he saw the hurt in her eyes. Before she shut him out.
“Help me get these boys their usual beers,” her father said.
BY THE TIME HAPPY HOUR rolled around the Broadway Bar & Bowl had a respectable crowd for a weeknight. Bruce sat at a table with Mitzi, Estrada, Army recruiters Mike and Ike—whose real name, or at least last name, was Ikelhoff—and Annie, an Air Force recruiter who posted the highest numbers of any recruiter in the district for good reason—the blonde was easy on the eyes and a real go-getter.
For his part, Bruce hung out in observation mode. The lack of an after-school crowd might have more to do with the steady stream of teachers and off-duty cops, he thought.
Still, there were enough twentysomethings from the music venue next door at the Gothic Theatre for him to watch his fellow recruiters in action.
“Let me get these out of your way,” Audrey said, setting down their drinks and loading up with empties.
“Thanks.” Bruce tossed enough bills to her tray to cover their tab. He’d switched from Diet Coke to club soda at the bar as the night progressed. It wasn’t anyone’s business what he was or wasn’t drinking. Club soda just made it easier for him to fit in with the crowd.
“Hate to do this to you, Dan,” Mike was saying, “but the girlfriend insisted we spend Thanksgiving back east with her folks. Maybe Ike here—” he nudged Ike “—or Bruce could help chaperone the ski trip.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Estrada said.
Bruce seemed to recall Keith being excited about some ski trip to Vail with the coach. Only seniors were invited and it was a big deal. Coed.
Judging by the way Estrada avoided looking at him, the other man didn’t want him to tag along. There could be only one reason for that. Bruce followed Estrada’s telltale gaze toward Mitzi.
Coed ski trip? Any male teacher with half a brain would make sure he had at least one female chaperone.
“Yeah, I’ll do it,” Bruce volunteered.
“Really, it’s not necessary,” Estrada said. “I’ll find someone—”
“You already found someone,” Bruce countered. “Can you ski?” Estrada asked, and the table went quiet.
“With a prosthesis, you mean?” Bruce said. Estrada wouldn’t even be asking about his abilities if Bruce hadn’t almost fallen right on his ass in front of him. That or Mitzi had mentioned something to him. It bothered him to think Mitzi still saw him as a helpless cripple. “Won’t know until I try,” he said. “But I was pretty good once.”
There was always the option of one-legged skiing.
Estrada nodded in acceptance. Or as Bruce liked to think of it, defeat.
“Come on, let’s dance,” Annie said, dragging Mitzi away from the table and toward the dance-off platform of the “Dance Dance Revolution” arcade game.
Estrada was quick to follow. Ike and Mike grabbed their beers. “You gotta see this,” Mike said, encouraging Bruce to tag along.
So Bruce followed the crowd into the arcade. The women stripped down to their T-shirts and camouflage pants, then took up positions on the dance platform.
Mitzi rolled her shoulders as if she meant business, while Annie ignored the beginner settings and chose something more challenging.
Apparently they’d done this before.
Leaning against the back wall near the fire door, Bruce settled in for the show.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FROM THE FIRST BEAT of Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance” to the last, Mitzi was on her game. She and Annie had every pop, lock and drop of this song down. The screen flashed Perfect after Perfect as they matched their footwork to the lighted floor pad.
The trick wasn’t just to hit your mark.
But to make it look as if you were dancing.
Using the platform rail for support, “the cammie twins,” as they were known around the bowling alley, made every wave of their “DDR” dance look sexy. A couple of Twister-like moves as they fell back on their hands and popped back to their feet, and the gathering crowd went wild. The machine accelerated through song after song until a single misstep ended their streak.
Mitzi was dripping sweat coming off the platform. She caught Bruce’s eye and smiled. He raised his glass in a salute and her smile became strained. Gin or vodka?
She thought he’d given up drinking.
Dan said something and Mitzi turned her attention to him. “What was that?”
“How ’bout it? Think you could come down to my level long enough to show me how to do this?”
“Sure.” Mitzi picked a Black Eyed Peas song from the playlist and chose the “suck” setting.
Dan groaned. “I’m not that bad a dancer.”
“We’ll see,” she teased. She took her gaming very seriously. “Let’s Get It Started” began. He was right. He wasn’t that bad. But it took him a while to get the hang of it. He racked up a lot of misses as they laughed their way through the song.
By the time their turn ended Bruce had slipped out the back door. She hadn’t even seen him leave. Mitzi used helping my father as an excuse to stay long after her friends had left the bowling alley. She picked up a discarded drink from the runner along the back wall where Bruce had been standing, and sniffed.
All she could smell was the lemon zest.
She put the glass to her lips for a taste.
“Club soda,” her father said, catching her in the act.
“Umm.” Her taste buds agreed. Flat club soda. With lemon. She put the glass on the tray with the rest of the glasses she’d helped clear.
“A drunken binge after losing your leg and your girl doesn’t make a man an alcoholic, honey. As a cop, I’ve seen plenty of problem drinkers, not to mention working in a bar. Liquor’s not that boy’s problem.”
She set the tray down. “Do you think I am?”
“How could you be anyone’s problem?” He gave her a squeeze, then swept her into a hug. “That boy loves you.”
“Love was never our problem, Dad. And please don’t go there. I know you like Bruce.”
“I like the other fella, too.”
“I’m glad.” She gave her dad a nudge but didn’t move from his arms. “Because we’re both going to be seeing a lot more of him.”
Clearly Bruce had chosen the Corps over her, returning home only after he’d been ordered to. She couldn’t allow that to mean a step back for her. Which is why she’d had to retu
rn his ring today.
“Bruce led me to believe we’d be together if I took this assignment.”
“I wanted you back home as much as anyone. And I don’t see you blaming me.”
“That’s different,” she said. “I did everything I could so that Bruce and I could be together. And he did everything he could to keep us apart. He chose the Corps over me.”
“Did you ever ask him why?”
“I don’t know why he seems so hell-bent on returning to the fight. Haven’t we all lost enough already? He never even shed a tear for Freddie. Like that makes him a tough guy or something.”
Her dad held her even tighter. “Honey, that only means he never let you see him cry.”
TAKING HIS USUAL ROUTE home from the gym, Bruce cut through the alley. Tonight he’d worked out in shorts because of the unseasonably warm—or rather changeable—Colorado weather.
He’d left the bowling alley shortly after Estrada stepped onto the dance platform. Bruce’s C-Leg had limitations, and jumping around to Lady Gaga and The Black Eyed Peas was one of them.
A dog barked at him as he passed a backyard fence. Up ahead a trash can thundered to the ground, then rolled toward the drainage ditch. He heard the trio before he saw them. They were loud enough. Boys in their late teens, early twenties, looking for trouble.
“Where you hiding it, old man?” the first young thug demanded, sitting in the old man’s wheelchair while Henry lay sprawled on the ground.
A second young guy, digging through Henry’s pack, tossed the old wheelie’s leg and other belongings to the ground. “Found it,” he said, pulling out a prescription bottle and shaking it. “Sounds freakin’ empty.”
“Come on, leave him alone,” a third boy said, standing apart from the other two as if he wanted to bolt but didn’t have the guts to make up his mind.
“There’s gotta be more than that,” Thug One said from his wheeled throne with a glance over his shoulder. “Amps always get the good stuff. Now tell me where it is, old man.”
Henry spat on the kid’s shoes. Thug One lifted himself from the wheelchair just far enough to kick Henry in the face.
“Hey!” Bruce shouted from his end of the alley. He’d been hoping to move in closer before making his presence known.
The boys were startled into looking up. Thug One was the first to recover. He got out of Henry’s chair to strut over to Bruce. “What do we have here? Looks like another amp to me.”
“Just give him back his meds and go,” Bruce said.
“How’d you lose your leg?” The second little shit moved in closer. The big shit tried to circle around to Bruce’s flank. But he was the one Bruce was keeping his eye on even though his follower held the bottle. The third stayed where he was.
“Iraq.”
“A wreck?” Thug One taunted.
“That’s right,” Bruce said, refusing to fan the flame. “A wreck.”
Thug One flipped out a switchblade. “What do you say I finish the job and cut you into pieces, amp?”
“Just when I thought we weren’t going to have any fun.” Controlling the adrenaline rushing through his veins, Bruce very slowly and deliberately set down his gym bag as he gauged the distance to each of the three.
Only one had a knife. The effective range of a knife was punching distance. And he was too stupid to realize Bruce had a longer reach and was trained to punch back. Before he was up out of his crouch the kid made his move.
Jumping back from the straight thrust, Bruce used an X block and a well-timed kick. The instant their forearms connected, Bruce had twisted his attacker’s wrist.
The knife hit the ground with a clang.
The shit followed, kissing concrete. “You broke my freakin’ arm, amp!” He screamed like a little girl as Bruce pinned him with his good knee and held him in an arm bar.
“Guess you didn’t see Con Air. Otherwise you’d know better than to mess with a Marine in a back alley, kid. You’re not going to get out of this, so quit struggling.”
“The Marine in that movie went to prison,” Henry pointed out, climbing back into his wheelchair.
“I haven’t killed him—yet.” Bruce put pressure on the tough guy’s arm for emphasis. “Cell phone’s in my bag,” he said to Henry. “Call 911.” A quick look around told him the other tough had fled the scene with the drugs. The last not-so-tough guy hesitated. “Go on, get the hell out of here,” Bruce ordered. “Your friend’s in enough trouble for the three of you.”
Since they were within shouting distance of Englewood’s police department, they didn’t have long to wait before they heard the screech of sirens. A few minutes later the first black-and-white pulled up with lights flashing.
“He tried to kill me,” his attacker accused as he was being hauled off in handcuffs.
Bruce gave the police his statement and a vague description of the other two. “Late teens, early twenties. Hispanic. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark clothes. They took his prescription meds. Narcotics,” Bruce repeated for the DEA agent called to the scene.
“About a month’s supply of OxyContin,” Henry added.
Henry refused to let the ambulance take him to the hospital to be checked out. But he accepted an officer’s ride to a local shelter for the night. Which meant the old goat was a lot more rattled than he seemed. The old goat was too old to be living on the streets.
After all the excitement died down, Bruce picked up his gym bag and headed home. He didn’t know what made him turn two blocks early, but the darkened duplex made him wish he hadn’t.
Mitzi’s car wasn’t in the drive.
Bruce illuminated his wristwatch—a quarter after eleven. He realized it was Freddie’s watch and swallowed the lump in his throat for about the hundredth time that day.
“Damn it,” he said to no one in particular and kept on walking. What he really wanted was to sit his ass down on her front stoop and wait. And if Mitzi didn’t come home?
He didn’t have the balls to find out.
MITZI STIFLED A YAWN, which earned her another frown.
“Late night?” Calhoun asked from across the demilitarized zone, with just enough sarcasm to be annoying. He was in a foul mood this Friday morning. Ever since she’d strolled in late with a cup of coffee in her hand.
“What happened to you last night?” she asked, turning it around on him. “One minute you were there and the next you were gone.”
“Early to bed, early to rise…and all that jazz.”
“Since when?”
“Since the new me,” he said. “Besides, I don’t think you missed me all that much.”
Was he jealous?
“You might want to clue the new boyfriend in on your curfew. Isn’t it midnight? What do they call that in the Navy, Cinderella Liberty?”
“I’m not a sailor on shore leave. And if you’re referring to Dan, he left shortly after you did.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation, Chief.”
“Then quit acting like you need one,” she said, prying open her coffee lid as he walked over with the pot to top her off. “If you really want to know why I was up all night…” She paused while he filled. “Thank you.” She smashed the lid back on. “Ask the guy in our neighborhood shooting hoops all night. Very annoying. I’m surprised no one called the cops.”
After helping her father close up, she hadn’t gotten home until after two in the morning. From two blocks away she could hear the lonely echo of a basketball pounding concrete and slamming against the backboard over and over again.
“You know, if you’re having trouble sleeping—”
“Don’t even say it.” He set the coffeepot back on the burner.
“PTSD.” She spelled it out. Post-traumatic stress disorder. After all he’d been through? She wouldn’t be surprised. “It’s nothing to be ashamed—”
“I’ve had enough counseling,” he said tersely.
“Okay.”
She was one to talk. She hadn’t slept since his return and i
t had nothing to do with the trauma of losing her brother. Being near her father all these months, though, had helped.
Would it be such a terrible thing if she decided to stay in Colorado? Get out of the Navy even? She liked hanging out at the bowling alley. And loved helping her father.
She’d been leaning more toward reenlistment. She had eight years in the Navy. Another hitch would put her at twelve. Then she’d be on the downhill side of a twenty-year retirement.
Right now recruiting gave her the best of both worlds—being home while being in the Navy. Not that she didn’t miss her old life as a rescue swimmer. She could reenlist and request a reassignment back to Search and Rescue.
It wasn’t something she had to decide right this minute. As long as she kept up her recruiting numbers.
“Morning.” Mitzi greeted the mail carrier with a smile as he stepped in and handed the mail to Bruce, who was closer to the door. Friday’s mail was one of the perks of recruiting.
Bruce stood over her desk sorting it by branch of service. Mitzi tore into the express envelope from the recruiting district first.
She fanned the hockey, basketball and movie tickets the district provided for recruiting purposes. Being visible in the community while in uniform was an important part of the job. “Want to divvy them up?”
Bruce took them in exchange for another envelope from the downtown office addressed to her personally.
She opened it with less enthusiasm. As she read the letter a frown creased her brow.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She shook her head. “They bumped my October-through-December recruit quota. And they’re just now getting around to telling me. Last quarter it was more Navy SEALs they wanted. This time around it’s hospital corpsmen.”
She folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. Sometimes even the best-laid plans were put to the test. She’d just have to work a little harder if she wanted to keep her current job.
Mitzi's Marine Page 7
