by David Chill
“I doubt it. In my experience, as long as you don’t cheat on your spouse or drink to excess, your chances of a long-term marriage are pretty good. Partners can forgive a lot. Especially if your heart is in the right place.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know you had this much insight into the human condition.”
Harold shrugged. “I’m a student of human nature. And after all you’ve been through over the years, you deserve a great partner. I know all about your history. But life usually evens things up over time. Keep persevering, and good things will happen. I’ve seen it time and again. It’s the old line, quitters don’t win and winners don’t quit.”
I thanked Harold, and as I rode down the slow elevator, I let his words wash over me. They felt good. I hopped into my Pathfinder, and drove over to the West L.A. Division. I delivered Roberto DeSanto his Dodger tickets, for which I got a grateful nod in return. His eyes widened as he pulled out the tickets and saw they were in the 4th row, right behind the on-deck circle, along the 1st base line. Roberto confirmed that my lack of decorum outside of Chuck E. Cheese would not result in any criminal charges. He said he’d look into the part about impersonating a police officer, but he warned me not to do it again. The lieutenant winked and slipped the tickets into his desk drawer.
Later in the day, I picked up Marcus from school. We kicked a soccer ball around in the backyard, then at 4:00 pm, I went inside to watch the NFL draft. Marcus sat nearby, playing fetch with Chewy. He threw a tennis ball across the room, Chewy would fetch it, and then refuse to give it back right away. Marcus began to get upset, and I finally had to carefully pry the ball out of Chewy’s mouth and put it away. Kids.
The Cleveland Browns selected first, and they did not pick USC’s Patrick O’Malley, but rather a quarterback from Oklahoma State, who had a great senior year, but had previously not shown much. Patrick was drafted 2nd by the New York Giants, which would at least put him in a region where he could go snowboarding when the weather got cold. The Chargers picked 5th, and selected a left tackle.
As for Brady Starr, he fell to close to the end of the first round, selected by the Green Bay Packers, who already had a star quarterback. The TV analysts anticipated the Packers would try to groom and develop Brady for a couple of years, which was probably for the best, even if Brady would not be thrilled. Green Bay is hardly known for its nightlife. And as he was not among the first players selected, his contract would be far less lucrative. He was likely to get a $5 million signing bonus, along with a $1 million a year in salary. For most people, that would be equivalent to hitting the lottery. I imagined Cliff Roper would disagree. I did get a small check in the mail from him, a nominal payment for the small amount of work I performed, even though I was not really looking out for the Starr family. My guess was Cliff was paying something to keep his options open in the future, just in case he ever wanted to hire me again. I would need to decide if it was worth the effort to work with him again, and I knew that decision would mostly hinge on our family finances. Money makes strange bedfellows, too.
Gail came home from her campaign headquarters at around 6:00 pm. She had been busying herself the past few days calling and thanking supporters and volunteers for everything they did for her. Gail started to put dinner together, and as the draft was winding down, Marcus crawled up on the couch with me.
“Daddy, can I ask you something?”
“Of course. Anything.”
He looked at the TV for a long moment. “Why did you get into a fight the other day? When we were leaving Jake’s birthday party.”
I muted the TV and looked down at his innocent eyes. They sparkled with curiosity, and maybe a little concern. This was a conversation I hoped I wouldn’t have needed to have. It was my great wish that Marcus would forget that incident quickly. But of course, it had to have been traumatic for him, and talking about it was the best tonic. I just didn’t quite know what magic words to use, and even though I had rolled it around in my head the past few days, nothing came to mind. When all else fails, the truth is usually a good fallback plan.
“I lost my temper,” I said. “That other dad grabbed you too roughly when he tried to break things up. He made a mistake, but I made a bigger one. I should have just done what Mom tells you to do. Use words. Things wouldn’t have gotten out of hand. I’m sorry I did it. And I’m sorry that you saw it, and that you were too close.”
“Okay,” Marcus said, as Gail quietly slipped into the room, and sat down next to us.
“I know when that kid tripped you, that got you angry. It would have gotten anyone angry. But remember, he was a bigger kid than you, and sometimes there might not be a grownup around to break things up if a fight breaks out.”
“You mean like the adults who tried to break up your fight?” he asked.
I took a breath. “That can happen when fights break out. You can lose control of understanding what’s happening. I reacted. It’s better to act then to react.”
“Oh,” he said, trying to process this. I wasn’t sure he was able to do this. I wasn’t entirely sure I was able to do this.
“We were actually lucky there was a police detective nearby who stepped in and was calm. That’s what I should have done,” I said, thinking this was especially important to do when there were a bunch of five-year-olds around.
“But Daddy,” Marcus said, “you once told me that if someone pushes you, you should push them back.”
I took a breath and took a sideways glance at Gail. She seemed curious at how I’d answer, too. “What I meant, Marcus, was you shouldn’t let someone take advantage of you. Sometimes you can get the message across just by telling them to stop it.”
“What if they won’t stop?” he asked.
I thought back to something a coach in high school once told me. That there are times in life to walk away from a fight, and there are times you have to plant your feet, make a stand, and kick some ass. I just didn’t know a good way to communicate the nuances of that to a five year old, so I elected to save that lesson for a later date.
“Do the best you can with your words,” I said slowly, searching hard for the right words. I knew there were some people who would only respect you if you hit back, but this was not a lesson I would give today. “Talk louder if you have to.”
“You know, Marcus,” Gail said. “If this happens in school, you can always go get a teacher. And if it happens outside of school, there’s usually an adult around somewhere. And also try and be around your friends a lot. There’s safety in numbers.”
“Okay.”
“But you shouldn’t feel scared,” I said, trying to make myself believe this, too. “Most things in life aren’t that scary.”
Gail spoke again. “And Marcus, look at me. I lost an election the other day. It’s kind of like a fight, but no real punches are thrown. And I’m still doing okay. Maybe better than okay.”
I looked at Gail and then back to Marcus. “Sounds like something good happened to Mom.”
“It did,” Gail said. “I got a surprise call from Rex Palmer, of all people. He said he and his partners have been very impressed with me. Not just with the campaign, but a few of them have seen me in court. Rex wants me to consider joining his law firm. In fact, he wants me to come in as a partner.”
“Wow,” I smiled. “That is quite a surprise. And quite a nice surprise. Talk about landing on your feet.”
“It’s a lot of work,” she sighed. “It’s a big commitment.”
“And I’ll bet it comes with a big paycheck.”
“That it does.”
“Are you going to take it?” I asked.
Gail smiled the smile I loved to see. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I’ll surprise you.”
The End
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Hard Count is the 11th book in the Burnside Mystery series. My other Burnside novels, Post Pattern, Fade Route, Bubble Screen, Safety Valve, Corner Blitz, Nickel Package, Double Pass, Tampa Two, Flea Flicker, and Swim Move are also available on Amazon.com.
Additionally, I have written one non-Burnside book, a political suspense novel called Curse Of The Afflicted, which details the journey of a political operative, who, having reached the pinnacle of his career, is drawn into an assassination plot at the same time he is diagnosed with a deadly disease.
If you'd like to read an excerpt of Curse Of The Afflicted, I've attached the first two chapters here. Read on!
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David
Curse of the Afflicted
Chapter 1
The Assassin entered the glass office tower at precisely four o'clock. He strode quickly through the lobby, absently flashing an I.D. badge at the sleepy security guards. They would not look twice at someone who knew where he was going. He did catch the attention of a pair of serious men in cheap suits, their earpieces identifying them as Secret Service. They directed him through a hastily set up metal detector, and then gave a quick once-over with the magnetometer wand before waving him through. He knew they would. The Assassin looked like any other office worker, nondescript and unremarkable. White shirt, bland tie, jacket slung over a shoulder. He pretended he was distracted, another sure-fire sign of an everyday Joe. The Assassin was pleased with his persona, and was convinced he embodied his role very well. But this was Los Angeles. Everyone was an actor.
He rode the elevator up to the thirty-fourth floor, stroking his black beard to make sure it remained in place. Removing his black-framed glasses, ones that had clear lenses, he folded them and put them inside his jacket. Once the doors opened, he moved briskly off the elevator and past the gilded logo of a law firm with an elongated name listing half a dozen partners. Walking straight into the men's room, he checked the stalls to make sure he was alone before removing the ceiling tiles. He pulled down the nylon gym bag he had stored there last week and smiled. For the moment, everything was going exactly as planned.
Replacing the tiles perfectly, the Assassin strode down the hallway and entered the quiet stairwell. The gym bag was heavier than he had remembered. Suddenly, an unsteady feeling came over him and he became light-headed. He knew he needed to slow down. So unlike him. He grabbed the banister to maintain his equilibrium, silently cursing to himself. It took a few seconds, but the wobbly feeling finally went away. He descended carefully down the single flight of stairs, taking extra measures to not make any noise. When he reached the next landing, he swiveled his body and used his hips to push against the horizontal security bar, opening the emergency exit door. He had arrived. This was where he would take care of business.
The renovation of the thirty-third floor was almost complete. The drywall was up, and the contractors only needed to install carpet and overhead lighting. The Assassin entered what would soon be someone's corner office and he closed the door. Placing a number of cement blocks against the door would prevent a nosy security guard from gaining access. If they even bothered to patrol here. Most likely, he would be alone for the next six hours. He wished he had the peace of mind that came with carrying that little handgun he normally kept in his pocket. The Ruger thirty-eight special was always a source of comfort to him. He regretted not packing it in the gym bag, but what was done was done.
Noticing the soft glow of a single naked light bulb hanging down from the ceiling, he reached into his pocket and put on a pair of latex gloves. Picking up a long iron rod that was amidst the debris strewn on the concrete floor, the Assassin gave a quick upward swing and smashed the bulb to pieces, then carefully placed the rod silently back down on the ground. No one should be able to see him here. The white-hot glare of the media would be shining on this spot soon enough. Darkness would be his friend tonight.
*
My back was killing me, and the pain was coming at just the wrong time.
Driving down the shady streets of Brentwood, I steered around potholes and fiddled with the lumbar support switch on my driver's seat. It wasn't helping. My doctor appointment would be at noon, a lunchtime accommodation from an old college friend. I'd just need to suffer through the agony of a painful client meeting. Next time I'd remember to bring along some Advil.
June gloom was in full swing. The morning air was cool and damp, and the marine layer trapped a canopy of gray clouds hanging over the region. But June also meant the Jacaranda trees were blooming, an annual emergence of gorgeous flowers falling gracefully from long branches, dusting the lawns with lavender petals. In Los Angeles, this is the closest we get to snow; the accumulation not of frosty white flakes, but of soft purple blossoms.
Blair had arrived early to the meeting, as good salespeople are taught to do. I sat down next to him, feeling small inside the soaring atrium of the Garter Vitamin Company's lobby. There was an odd plaque near the entrance, a sign boasting that Garter was now a wholly owned subsidiary of another wholly owned subsidiary. At the bottom of the plaque, it was noted their corporate headquarters were now in Ireland. What was not revealed was that Irish tax rates were far more attractive to wealthy companies.
The lobby walls featured colorful photos of capsules and drinks, popular Garter products from around the globe. Many had names I couldn't pronounce, much less understand. But that was why we were here. Garter had an exciting new supplement and they needed an outside research company to help them. They needed to formulate a better marketing plan to launch the product. We were hired because we had been successful as pollsters, and corporations often sought out consultants who were successful in other fields, hoping that whatever magic we created for politicians would somehow rub off on them. Promoting political candidates was not unlike promoting any other consumer product. We did this type of corporate work to generate revenue between political campaigns. But Blair was in the midst of crafting something far bigger for us, a venture that would be much more lucrative, and could propel us into the upper echelon of our narrow world.
"The vice president is supposed to call any day now," he said. "Sudeau needs a different approach if he's going to convince the public that he's really presidential material. The Phelan crew is out; they just couldn't figure out how to do polling for a national campaign. I just know we're in line for this gig, and it's going to be a massive payday. This is the Super Bowl. If Sudeau picks us and we get him the nomination, we can both retire. Become talking heads on CNN every other day. Work if we want, play golf if we don't."
"What are our odds?" I asked.
"Good," he responded. "Real good. After we unseated Governor Palmer last year, I thought we'd be in for sure. I can't believe Sudeau hasn't tapped us yet. Ned, I've been sucking up to the vice president's staff for months now. I swear if Randy Greece's ass ever snaps shut, it's going to break my nose."
I looked across the room at a small statue, a bronze work of art depicting an asklepian. This was the snake-hugging rod named after Asclepius, the Greek god associated with medicine and healing. It reminded me of our partnership, a study in contrasts. Blair was tall, olive-complexioned, and strikingly handsome, in a way that could make some women swoon. I actually heard one of our clients refer to Blair's good looks as knee-buckling. I was none of those things; rather, my appearance could best be summed up as short, stocky and mildly blemished. Fortunately, I didn't need to get by on looks. B
lair liked to refer to himself as Mr. Outside, the rainmaker who was a magnet for clients and to me as Mr. Inside, the nerdy grunt who manufactured the actual work. But the reality is rarely that clear cut.
Blair Lipschitz was a master talker, a man who could ingratiate himself with complete strangers, allowing them to feel as if they were old friends within minutes. He was well spoken, but he also spoke very frequently. I used to view his act with no small amount of disdain, as phony and transparent as a huckster's money-back guarantee. But there was one fact, undeniable, which was simply that he attracted paying clients. And no matter how good my work was, and it was generally very good, without clients there would be no partnership, no money, no business. We were a matched pair, I thought, as I continued to gaze at the bronze statue across the room. The steady rod wrapped with an entwined serpent.
"Gentlemen," boomed a voice from across the lobby. It was John Quinn, a portly man wearing a gray suit, finely tailored to hide much of his girth. He ambled over to us, a big man with a big smile. "Sorry to have kept you waiting."
"Never a problem, Johnny-Boy," laughed Blair, as we followed him onto a silver elevator. "We're here to make your life easier."
What we were really here to do was earn a good living. Garter was about to unveil a supplement designed to enhance and extend female pleasure, a type of Viagra-for-women. They were certain it would be a boon to company earnings, and more importantly, to the executives' own personal wealth. I had nothing against people earning more money or getting more pleasure out of life. I did, however, hold serious qualms about how Garter would spread the word about their life-altering new product.
It was over ten years ago when my daughter, Angelina, just six years old and exceedingly precocious, wandered into our kitchen one bright Sunday morning to inquire as to the meaning of erectile dysfunction. My mouthful of Cuban roast coffee nearly spewed back into the mug. When my wife, Leslie, asked where she had come upon such an interesting malady, Angelina said it was while watching a cartoon on a heretofore safe kids' TV channel. She then asked us what bankruptcy meant. I deflected both topics by offering her a slice of cherry Danish, a ruse that temporarily focused her attention on something less disturbing. In addition to not wanting to educate a small child about subjects beyond her comprehension, I also didn't want her to know the ugly truth surrounding some of these kids’ networks. That these channels, ostensibly aimed at providing wholesome entertainment for young children, had audiences comprised of a remarkably high percentage of under-educated, under-employed, middle-aged men. The ads, an eclectic mishmash of products, promoted toys and candy for children, in between more mature commercials geared toward a wildly different demographic.
