by Joseph Flynn
Zeke saw Paulette, Dexter and the crowd from the neighbor’s place coming their way.
Everybody seemed happy and looking forward to a good time.
“Yeah, me too,” Zeke told George, “but before we go all badass on him let’s see if we can get the bastard to hang himself first.”
Zeke surprised himself with that idea.
It was like expecting an opposing ball-carrier to trip over his own feet.
Making a bone-crushing tackle unnecessary.
Where was the fun in that?
Chapter 4
Paulette Mallory spent the night at Zeke and George’s house, in a guest bedroom by herself, as far as Zeke knew. The little get-together with the band and the neighbors had quickly evolved into a social event of grand proportions. The kids from next door had sought and received permission from Zeke and George to invite some of their friends over to listen to the band.
Then the mom and dad from next door, Helen and Brad Kinsey, asked if they might have a few of their friends over, too. Thinking an adult presence might constrain youthful exuberance, that request was granted, too. Soon, the gathering became an impromptu block party.
Forcing Zeke and George to lay down the law: no booze, drugs or brawling. Anybody who thought to violate the house rules would be used as a tackling dummy. Zeke said as much with a smile on his face, but nobody chose to test him. At its height, the gathering numbered close to 200 people by George’s count.
The cops came, of course, but no arrests were made. There was no cause for that. The gathering was just a large group of well-behaved people having a good time: listening to music, dancing, starting new romances, renewing old ones. Zeke invited the cop in charge, Sergeant Charles Manley, into the mansion’s kitchen and gave him a bottle of Coke.
“It just sort of happened” Zeke explained. “We invited the neighbors and their kids over to listen to the band, and they asked if some of their friends could come over. It got out on social media and the crowd grew. But everyone’s behaving.”
“You have to keep anyone from joining the party?” Manley asked.
“We did, George and me and some of the bigger guys who’re working on the house.”
The sergeant smiled. “I bet nobody gave you a hard time about being turned away.”
“Nobody did.”
“And you just happened to have a band here because?”
“They’re guys who are working on the house during the day.”
Manley could hear the music through an open window. “They’re damn good.”
“Yeah. So are we okay?”
Sergeant Manley nodded. “You all right with wrapping things up by midnight?”
“Sure. We’ve all got to work in the morning.”
“You do? You gonna play again?”
Zeke should his head, gave Manley one of his business cards.
The cop looked at it and then at Zeke. “A private investigator? Really?”
“Gotta do something.”
Manley handed Zeke his card. “You ever need some official help or just have a question, give me a call. I’ve got family on the CPD. They’ll be glad to help, too.”
Manley left two cops in a car parked out on Sheridan Road as a precaution.
Zeke brought them soft drinks, too.
The party broke up at midnight, as promised. Everybody went home happy, thanking Zeke and George for a great time. More than a few of the ladies, young and otherwise, kissed the cheeks of their hosts. Dexter and his bandmates drew the attention of an intellectual property rights lawyer who was present. He had music industry connections and asked for a meeting.
George told the band they couldn’t go off and get rich and famous until the work on the house was done.
Paulette was invited to stay the night.
Zeke took an iPhone picture of her, smiling blissfully, before saying goodnight.
Teddy’s Diner did its breakfast and lunch business on Columbus Drive, catching locals on their way to work on Michigan Avenue and tourists on their way to the lakefront to jog and swim, cycle and sunbathe. Here and there among the upright citizens, assorted white-collar malefactors did their best to blend in and eat in peace. Their hope was anybody who might wish them ill would be reluctant to open fire in a roomful of witnesses.
Most of whom would also video anything newsworthy on their phones.
Like most of the honest patrons, many of the miscreants conversed over their meals. Sometimes with their accomplices, other times with their lawyers. They hid the content of their exchanges with whispers, jargon and foreign languages. Competing conversations, the clang and clatter of knives and forks being wielded and tables being cleared also provided cover for criminal conspiracies.
The diner was Jonas Dawson’s favorite place to start the day. He liked Teddy’s eggs and ham and he billed his clients for the time they spent with him there. Made them pick up the breakfast tab, too. Dawson had his fifteen minutes of fame back when he beat the rap on the armed robbery and drug dealing charges. His photo had made the front pages of the Trib and the Sun-Times. People at Teddy’s had stolen glances at him.
Now, if anybody remembered him at all, it was just as another hairball the city’s culture of corruption had coughed up. Nobody bothered to give him a second look. He liked it that way.
The guy everybody was looking at that morning was Zeke Edison.
He arrived at the diner after the line to secure a table had formed.
The guy taking names for the waiting list, Teddy’s nephew Nikos, knew who Zeke was immediately, despite the fact that Zeke had let his hair grow out several inches since his playing days and was wearing sunglasses.
Nikos grinned and wrote down Zeke’s name without being asked. “Ten minutes, okay, buddy?” Then he winked and said, “Maybe sooner.”
Zeke shook his head. “I’ll wait my turn.”
That conversation, and Zeke’s good manners, were noticed by everyone close to him in line and people at nearby tables. The message quickly spread throughout the room: Look who’s here. Nodding heads and hand gestures informed everyone where to look.
Within seconds Zeke was the center of attention. As a player, he’d dealt with public attention by being polite but distant. That morning at Teddy’s, he allowed himself to be curious. What was it people found so fascinating about public figures? The way he saw it, most of the people who lived in the public eye had gotten there only by being lucky in one way or another.
Physically attractive or gifted, exceptionally smart or glib, they’d all lucked out. They’d had the right parents or teachers and the opportunity to make the most of whatever talent they had. But nobody walked on water. They all had their flaws and weaknesses. Many of them you’d never even want as neighbors.
Although he and George had done pretty well at being neighborly last night.
Two boys about ten years old, wearing Bears jerseys, one with Zeke’s name and number, were the first to ask for his autograph — on the palms of their hands. Zeke didn’t have a pen, but Nikos provided one. He obliged the kids and everyone else who asked.
He had a forty-two autograph wait for his table, a two-top with a street view.
A pretty young waitress came and took his order. She smiled at him, leaned in close and said softly, “Teddy is very happy you were so nice to everyone. He told the wait staff to ask everyone not to bother you while you eat, and he says your meal is compliments of the diner.”
Zeke nodded. “Give Teddy my thanks, but let me see the check anyway. What I don’t have to give him, I’ll give you.”
The waitress beamed. “Thank you.” She took his order and said, “I’ll be right back with your breakfast.”
As she left, Zeke took the opportunity to look around. Just about everyone was looking his way. When he looked back, they all turned away, with varying reaction times. Jonas Dawson was the last to look away. As if he was trying to make Zeke blink first. Not that he could tell if Zeke might blink behind his sunglasses. But Daws
on was the guy to turn his head first.
Zeke took his phone out and laid it on the table.
When the waitress brought his order, she took a peek at his phone’s retina display.
It featured the photo of Paulette Mallory he’d taken the night before.
“Very pretty,” she said, loud enough to be heard three tables away.
Necks began to crane, people trying to get a peek without being too obvious. Zeke gave the waitress her tip up front, flashing a big roll of cash and making the gratuity far more extravagant than he’d first said. The young woman, overcome by emotion, clasped her hands around Zeke’s and said, “Thank you so much.”
Zeke just nodded. He ate his breakfast at a leisurely pace. Everyone who departed before he did and had reason to pass by his table, and those who made a detour, looked at the image on his phone. Everyone smiled at the least. The more expressive offered a “Woo-woo” or two.
But Jonas Dawson was the only one who looked at Paulette’s photo and did a double-take. Then he turned to Zeke and gave him the evil eye. His effort to convey menace only made Zeke smile.
Zeke didn’t say a word, but he gathered himself as if he might stand up and tell Dawson that staring wasn’t polite. The former cop turned lawyer got the message before Zeke got to his feet. Maybe he’d seen Zeke play for the Bears. In any case, he moved on, and Zeke remained seated. He put his phone in his pocket. A moment later, Teddy came over to Zeke’s table.
“Pardon me, sir. Was that man bothering you?”
“He was a bit rude, but I think he mistook me for someone else.”
“He will not do that again, not in my diner. You, sir, are always welcome.”
“Thanks. You serve a great breakfast.”
Teddy smiled, looking even happier than his waitress had been.
Zeke finished his meal and left. He’d wanted to see if Dawson even knew what Paulette Mallory looked like. There was no doubt he did, and seeing her again wasn’t a pleasant experience. Maybe Dawson did have a problem with Paulette or, who knew, her Aunt Pamela. Either way, Zeke felt his client’s fear was more credible now.
Making Dawson back down had to tick him off. When he learned he was no longer welcome at Teddy’s, an unexpected bonus, his anger would be cranked up even higher. If Zeke was lucky, Dawson would shift his hostility to him.
Being new to his job, though, what Zeke had missed completely was Roberta Lane, the reporter for the Trib, sitting not far from the table he’d occupied and now hurriedly writing notes on everything she’d just seen.
When Zeke got back to the city parking structure where he’d left his car he stopped to consider the wisdom of having a fancy ride with a license plate that so clearly identified its owner. Sure, most people in town knew better than to screw with his Porsche, but if somebody like Dawson wanted to go after him, he probably could find somebody to rig a bomb to the car.
For that matter, a bomb might be overkill. A guy with a gun could do the job. Probably not someone who’d get in close and risk a tussle. A guy who knew his car, though, could target him with a rifle or an automatic weapon.
Zeke stopped to wonder if he was being melodramatic.
But, hey, Paulette Mallory was certain Dawson had already killed her once. Crazy as that sounded, it was looking more plausible to him that Dawson was some kind of threat. He’d have to ask Aaron if Dawson had ever shot anyone when he was a cop.
Zeke pulled out of the parking structure, looking around carefully for anyone who might be lying in wait for him. He thought it was unlikely Dawson had the time to set up a confrontation already. But Zeke had been more than just a physically gifted player. He’d had the ability to sniff out trick plays. Ignore misdirection and meet a runner or a receiver with a jarring hit when they were hoping he’d be somewhere else.
That was what had happened on a field with rules and officials enforcing fair play.
On the street, making sure nobody put one over on him might be a matter of life or death.
Just thinking about that as he pulled into traffic gave him a thrill.
“Who’s that?” Paulette Mallory asked. “She looks mean.”
George glanced at the closed circuit television image. The security system at the big lakeshore house in Evanston was up and running. “She is.”
“But she won’t be any trouble for you.” Paulette’s tone wavered between making a statement and asking a question. “I mean, you are much bigger.”
“Yeah, but the temper on that woman … and she’s had some serious training.”
The person on the TV screen pointed at her eyes and then at the camera.
I know you’re there; I can see you.
“Who is she?” Paulette asked. “Will she go away if —”
“She’s Zeke’s girlfriend, sort of. And she isn’t leaving without getting what she wants.”
Letting a small shudder pass through his body, George went to answer a second ring of the doorbell. Paulette followed a timorous half-dozen steps behind. Doing her best to hide in the long shadow George cast.
He opened the door and said, “Long time, Reggie.”
“But not long enough, Georgie? Who’s that hiding behind you?”
“Zeke’s first client.”
“And, what, you’re babysitting her?”
George said, “Keeping an eye on her, yeah.”
“Tell her she can come out. I won’t bite.”
George turned sideways, allowing the two women to see each other.
He introduced them. “Paulette Mallory, Regina Green.”
Mustering all the courage she could find, Paulette asked, “Do you really bite people?”
“Only as a last resort … or if they’re especially tasty.”
“Well, if nobody else is interested, I’m available for sampling.”
Zeke had just returned home.
Pleased that he’d been able to sneak up on Reggie.
Chapter 5
Zeke held out a towel for Reggie as she emerged from a fifteen minute swim in Lake Michigan. The air temperature was a San Diego-like seventy-two. The water temperature was fifty-nine. Reggie’s body-length goosebumps had a bluish hue. In a bow to social convention she’d worn her desert camouflage pattern undergarments as a bathing suit.
Using the outstretched towel as a modesty shield, she shucked her scraps of clothing.
She looked at Zeke and gave him a wink. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
“That scar along your ribs on the right side is new. To me anyway.”
He was familiar with the one where the tip of her left kneecap used to be.
“You know what Churchill said?” Reggie asked.
“A lot of things.”
“He said, ‘Nothing in life is so exhilarating as being shot at without result.’ Well, if you even get nicked like I did, it just pisses you off.”
Reggie sat on the sand of Zeke’s private beach, looking out at the water.
Zeke sat next to her.
“Take your shirt off and put your arm around me,” she said. “Warm me up.”
He did as he was told. She snuggled into his embrace.
“Damn, you’re warm. That’s what I like about you, you know. Your body heat.”
“It’s pretty much that way with everyone. I’d bring a guy down in a game, he’d say, ‘My neck’s a little tight. Put a hand on it, will you?’”
Reggie laughed. “Okay, you’ve got a sense of humor, too.”
She leaned in and kissed him.
“So what happened to the guy who shot you?” Zeke asked. “Something bad, I hope.”
“I sent him to paradise with nothing but regrets. All those virgins and he gets his wienie shot off.”
Zeke looked at her, trying to see if she was joking.
“All true,” Reggie told him. “Well, maybe my shot wouldn’t have been fatal, even if it did hit him in the crotch, but the special ops guys with me took care of the rest.”
Zeke shifted his position
, sat behind Reggie with a leg on either side of her, wrapped her up in both arms.
“Much better,” she said. “You know what I thought of when I was evacked out of there?”
“What?”
“How pissed I’d be if I didn’t get to see you again.”
“That new scar looks like it came from more than a nick.”
“It did.”
“I’d have been pissed, too, if I didn’t get to see you again.”
“No doubt about it, we were made for each other,” Reggie said. “Put a hand on my neck, will you?”
“I want to kill bad guys,” Reggie told the army recruiting officer who’d come to the Northwestern campus. When the guy gave her a dubious look, she added “What?”
They sat facing each other across a small table in a school ROTC facility.
“I’ve never heard that from a woman before,” he said.
“You know the female of the species is always deadlier, right?”
“Not so much in the U.S. military.”
“Then you’re not making the most of your human resources.”
The recruiter looked over to the big guy sitting near the door.
Without turning away from the recruiter, Reggie said, “He’s my boyfriend. He’s got two more years of college to go. I like ‘em young.”
The big guy told the recruiter, “Get her signed up and ship her out of the country so she doesn’t do any damage over here.”
Reggie said, “He’s kidding, but I do need my outlets and I’m patriotic, and we’re always fighting a war somewhere, aren’t we?”
“You want to be a combat soldier, do I have that right?”
“Special forces,” Reggie told him.
“There are no women in special forces.”
“Not yet, but the army is letting women train as Rangers. That’s special forces.”
“Female personnel only train as Rangers; they don’t serve in that capacity.”
“Yet,” Reggie said, “but it’s a slippery slope, right? And with Patti Grant in the White House we have a female commander-in-chief. She says do it, who’s going to tell her no?”
“No one,” the recruiter admitted. “So you’re betting on the come?”
