Anna tugged on my pants. “Can I have a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast?” The innocence shining from my daughter’s tiny face was picturesque. And I guarantee you she wouldn’t have asked her mother. That’s my girl.
I thought for a moment (and it was a short moment), weighing the pros of indulging my daughter against the cons of getting scolded by my wife. Finally, I shrugged. “Yeah, why not.” It was always much easier to ask forgiveness than permission.
So, as I dialed the phone to call my best friend, I, Jesse Dawson, samurai, demon slayer, and champion of lost souls, made two of the world’s best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
16
“Dude! I was just about to call you! It’s like ESPN!”
“ESP, you dork. And, creepy.”
“Like, totally.”
I had to chuckle around my mouthful of peanut butter sandwich. Will always made me laugh. Despite having grown up in rural Missouri like the rest of us, he still managed to sound like a born-and-bred Californian surfer. You’d never guess he was a bespectacled gaming nut, and like me, part of the long-haired club. The man was also a trained EMT and brilliant in his own right. “So, what did you want?”
“Dude . . . you called me.”
Sometimes, it’s like trying to talk to Ivan. “Yes . . . but you said you were going to call me, so what did you want?”
“Oh . . . um . . .” He whispered to someone in the background. “What did I want?”
Anna wandered off into the house with her sandwich, cheerfully dripping a trail of grape jelly behind her. I wet a rag down and started mopping the purple spots off the kitchen floor while I waited for Will’s brain to catch up with the rest of him.
“Oh! I remember!” Congratulations, Will. “Marty and I both got the day off, and we wanted to see if you wanted to hit the ball game today. Arizona’s in town. We could see Nelson Kidd pitch.”
My stomach roiled unhappily at the thought of watching Nelson Kidd pitch. “I don’t know. . . . I’m supposed to be shopping for my mom’s birthday, and Mira’s had Annabelle at the shop every day this week, and she’s not feeling real good.”
“Dude . . . come on. . . . It’s Nelson Kidd. You have those tickets just sitting around. You may as well use them.”
The hazard of having season tickets is that everyone knows you have them and wants to use them. Granted, they’re not the greatest seats. I don’t rate a skybox or anything, but seats are seats.
“Let me ask Mira, and I’ll call you back.” I heard a chorus of “whipped” in the background as I tossed the rag into the sink. I’d have to pummel Marty later. He was married, too. He of all people should appreciate the things it took to keep a household peaceful. “Shut up, asshole. I’ll call you back.” I hung up on Will’s laughter.
“Mommy, Daddy said a bad word!”
Aw crap. Never underestimate the range of hearing on the modern child. “Tattletale!” I followed Anna’s shrieking giggles to the bathroom, where Mira patiently scrubbed her breakfast off her face.
My wife raised one brow at me. “Peanut butter and jelly?”
“Pure protein. And I used the whole wheat bread!” I leaned against the doorjamb, watching them.
“Who was on the phone?”
“It was nothing important. Will and Marty wanted to know if I wanted to go to the ball game this afternoon.”
“You should go. Have a bit of fun.” She thought I didn’t see the slight grimace as she stood up straight.
“Mir . . .” She gave me a blank look. Apparently, I need to work on my chiding tone. “You need to rest. You can’t be chasing Anna again all day.”
She waved her hand dismissively. “I’m fine. You should go.” When I just continued to look at her, she sighed. “If it makes you feel better, you can take Anna all next week. I’m behind on inventory as it is, and that would give me a chance to catch up.”
“You’re sure?” I reached to brush her cheek with my fingers. Her skin was so incredibly soft.
She caught my hand, kissing my fingers. “I’m sure. Go.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you still have to go shopping for your mother.”
“I’m off tomorrow. Anna and I can spend all day finding a birthday present for Grandma.”
“If those storms move in as they’re predicting . . .”
“Then we’ll improvise.” I kissed her nose when she stood up. “Thanks.”
She smiled and shook her head at me. “If I ever collect on all the things you owe me . . .”
“I looooove you,” I called down the hallway, heading to call the guys back.
“I love you, too, Jess. Goddess only knows why.”
Amidst making arrangements to meet Marty and Will, Mira and Anna slipped out the door and headed to the shop. I was a little hurt that they didn’t even tell me good-bye, but it kept me from having to distract Mira from my limping again.
Once I was sure they weren’t coming back for any forgotten items, I dialed the phone again, flopping onto the couch to get the weight off my sore leg.
“Dr. Smith’s office, how can I help you?”
“That you, Bridget?”
The doc sighed. “Yeah, Kim’s still out sick. That’s what happens when you have children in daycare, you know.”
“If you’re busy, I can call back.”
“Nah, you caught me before my first appointment. What’s up?”
“Well, what if . . . and this is hypothetical, mind you. . . . What if some guy slipped and fell on a wet floor, and then his leg hurt really bad? What might that be?”
I could picture the incredulous look on her face. “You slipped and fell? I just saw you yesterday!”
“No no! Just . . . hypothetically.” There was no way I was going to see her again, barring visible bone or spurting blood.
“Well . . . it could be a sprain. Is there swelling at the knee or ankle?”
I eyed my offending appendage thoughtfully. “No, no swelling. And it would be mostly the calf that hurt, not the joints.”
“Your right calf, Jess? You need to come in and let me have a look at it.”
“Hey, I didn’t say it was me. I said hypothetically.”
“Yes, and you’re a shitty liar.” There it was, that gritting-the-teeth voice. “It sounds as if it could be something as simple as a badly pulled muscle. Or you—no, no, your hypothetical klutz—could have torn a muscle, or a ligament, or something else that may require surgery. Only a doctor’s examination could tell for sure.”
“So what treatment do you recommend for a pulled calf muscle?”
“Well, rest of course. Occasional ice packs for the first forty-eight hours. Then you can start trying moist heat and gentle exercise. The key is to stop if it hurts.”
I made agreeing noises as if I were taking careful notes.
“Hey, Jess? Did you happen to send a new patient my way?” Papers shuffled in the background, the good doctor multitasking up a storm.
“Um . . . no?”
“I didn’t think so.” There was a definite grumble in her voice.
“Why, what’s up?” I eyed my offending leg, idly wondering if I should skip the ice packs and go straight to moist heat. I was a fast healer, usually. That should count for something, right?
“Had a guy in here yesterday afternoon. Said he was new in town and that you’d recommended me as a doc. He started off asking questions about the practice and all, but it turned into asking more questions about you. I finally got pissed and threw him out.”
She had my total attention, suddenly, leg be damned. “Let me guess. Young looking, suit and tie, clean-cut, slimy?”
“Yeah, that’s him. Did I do wrong?” She suddenly sounded uncertain.
“Oh hell no. He comes back, you call Cole and get his ass arrested for trespassing. He’s just . . . a jerk giving me some trouble.”
“Oh good. I didn’t think he seemed like the kinda guy you’d be friends with.”
“As usual,
your instincts are spot-on, Doc.” I managed a smile, hoping Bridget wouldn’t hear the barely contained anger in my voice. Verelli had officially stepped over the line. “Did you tell him anything? About me?”
She snorted into the phone. “What do you take me for, Jess, a rookie? Patient information is privileged.”
There was a small bit of relief there. I don’t know what Skippy the Chihuahua could have learned from her, but I didn’t want to chance it. He was being a bit too persistent.
“Jesse, you know I’m going to tell Mira about your leg, right?”
Aw crap. Distract and evade. “No, you’re not. Doctor-patient privilege, remember?”
“I hate you sometimes.”
“You love me; you know it.”
“Please come in and see me?”
I shook my head. “Nope. I’m not hurt.”
“Argh! You’re impossible.”
“No, I’m incredible.” I grinned as I hung up the phone. Bridget was so going to make me suffer at my next appointment. The smile faded, though, as I pondered the latest developments.
Verelli had to have followed me. I wondered briefly if he was the culprit in the blue Escort, but I dismissed that quickly. Men like Verelli didn’t drive Escorts, and even if he was going to kill me, he’d hire someone professional to do it. I’d worked with professionals, and the guy in the car wasn’t one.
Dear God and Buddha, how many people did I have tailing me? I was going to need a parade permit if this kept up.
And if Verelli had followed me to my doctor’s appointment, had he also followed me to Seventh Sense? I toyed with the phone, debating whether or not to call Mira and warn her. I finally decided against it. Mira was a she-wolf in a den, fierce when provoked, and Dee . . . Well, rumor had it that Dee had played middle linebacker on her high school football team. I don’t know if it was true, but I believe she could have if she wanted. The ladies could take care of themselves. If I hadn’t been so pissed, I might have even felt sorry for Verelli.
In fact, I had gone past mildly annoyed and straight into freaking livid. It was one thing to be a pain in my ass, but it was entirely another to start accosting my friends and associates—especially those who had no idea what I did in my secret life. Mr. Verelli and I were going to have a long and intimate conversation about boundaries and personal space.
The only outlet for my anger at the moment was exercise, and I headed out to the backyard for my usual morning workout. I wasn’t sure if my katas counted as “gentle exercise,” and you will notice that I didn’t ask the good doctor. Ignorance is bliss. I went through them as best I could while favoring my right leg, and I convinced myself it did feel a bit better. I just needed to limber up some. That was it.
I attempted to meditate afterward, but my mind kept wandering in other directions. I lingered under the nagging suspicion that I was in the doghouse with Mira, and even if I wasn’t, I probably ought to be. She should be home resting, not chasing Anna around the store. Not for the first time, I wondered if I should so easily take her at her word.
Maybe I’d get her something, too, while I was out shopping tomorrow. I had no idea what, though, and asking her seemed counter to my purpose. The puzzle of that, on top of my sheer pissed-off-edness at Verelli, kept me from concentrating, and in the end I gave up, frustrated.
Thankfully, Axel was a no-show for our usual morning discussion. I didn’t think I could stand his smug jibes, and I’d probably end up doing or saying something rash. I wasn’t sure if I was more pissed at him for . . . well, for being himself . . . or at myself, for being surprised by it.
I burned off the last of my anger in a rather enthusiastic mopping of the kitchen floor, erasing the last traces of grape jelly, and I even hummed a little as I made my way toward Marty’s house to meet the guys at the agreed-upon hour.
As much as I love my truck, she’s only a two-seater, and until I could get the rear-end damage assessed, I didn’t want to drive her too much, anyway. So we piled into Will’s brand-new cherry red PT Cruiser for the ride to the ball game. Being the shortest, Marty got stuffed into the back and didn’t even complain.
The highway was jammed with carloads of fans, and I had to wonder that none of those people had to be at work on a weekday afternoon. Somewhere, there were a lot of businesses with employees playing hooky. But that was the great thing about summer; the great thing about baseball. Everyone was a kid again, and it was okay.
The parking lot shimmered with reflected heat, and the truly hot days wouldn’t even hit for months yet. The smell of baked asphalt mingled with the aroma of grease from the deep fryers, and I inhaled deeply, grinning ear to ear despite myself.
A few years ago, someone had come up with the brilliant idea of making ballpark food healthier. They tried offering veggie burgers, salads, and fresh fruit. It was a spectacular failure. People came to ball games for the hot dogs, the cotton candy, the popcorn, grease-coated French fries and nachos with reconstituted cheese, huge cups of lukewarm beer—sweet bliss. I was a firm believer that all food consumed inside a stadium was automatically absolved of all caloric sin.
My buddies and I made an interesting trio: short, stocky Marty with his shaved head and ragged jean shorts (no kilt today) and the white tank top that displayed his fully tattooed arms; lanky me in my cargo shorts and a T-shirt (witty saying of the day: IF YOU WERE ME, YOU’D BE THIS COOL, TOO), ponytail hanging out from under my ball cap; Will, whose brown hair was as thick and curly as Mira’s and twice as long, slightly overweight and squinting at the world behind his glasses.
If we looked strange, no one noticed. We walked into the stadium next to men and women in business suits who had obviously come straight from their nine-to-five office jobs. There were families with kids, couples on dates, and elderly men with a Little Leaguer in their hearts. Variety was the spice of life, and the game was the great unifier.
It didn’t matter that none of us knew any of the others. It wasn’t important that our hometown boys had a really poor showing last year. We were here to cheer them on regardless. That’s baseball.
Although it was early, and a weekday, the stadium filled up nicely. I waved and grinned to a few people I knew in our section, fellow season-ticket holders. After a while, you got to know the people in your section, like neighbors from down the block. You may not know their names, but their faces were familiar and welcome sights, friendships renewed each spring and missed come fall.
I flopped into my seat and propped my sore leg up on the one in front of me. If someone came to sit there, I’d take it down, of course, but until then it felt better up. If the guys noticed I’d been limping my way up the concourse, they hadn’t said anything. That meant they either hadn’t noticed at all, or they had, and they were worried. I wasn’t sure which I preferred.
Kansas City was just heading back to the dugout after their warm-up, and the buzz in the crowd escalated when Arizona took the field. I could see people craning their necks to see if Nelson Kidd was in the bull pen. He would be, of course. Any coach would be insane not to play him when he was so hot.
It was almost physically painful to watch the excited faces around me. If they only knew what their hero had done. Ah well, it wasn’t their fault, and even if anyone would have believed me, I wouldn’t have told them. Sometimes, people just need heroes.
“Dude, you okay?” Will nudged my arm, frowning. “You look constipated.”
“Shut up, asshole.” I swatted him and did my best to drag my brain out of work thoughts. “Get me a beer.”
“On it.” Yeah, they’d noticed my leg. There was no way Will would have agreed to fetch if they thought I was fully functional. For a few brief moments, I debated going to get my own beer, just for pride’s sake, but good sense won out for a change.
We settled with beers and some nachos of dubious quality right as the game started. I managed not to grimace when I stood up for the national anthem. As the innings started ticking by, I completely forgot my sore leg, and de
mon contracts, and soulless pitchers.
By some miracle, we were winning in the fifth inning (3-2) with runners on first and second when the hot dog vendor wandered through the section, giving the usual “Hot dogs, getchyer hot dogs here!” chant. I’m not sure what made me look over, seeing as how I didn’t want a hot dog. But look I did, and the vendor met my eyes.
He looked to be fiftyish, potbellied, with dark hair and a spindly mustache. The deep tan of his skin spoke of something exotic in his heritage, be it Hispanic or something else. He grinned at me, flashing a gold front tooth, and his eyes gleamed red for a split second.
My stomach dropped to somewhere around my feet. “Oh hell.”
17
The hot dog vendor ambled up the stairs, carefree as all get out, still hawking his wares. I scrambled over Marty to follow him, committing alcohol abuse in the process.
“Dude, my beer!” Marty gave me a dripping wet glare, but I hardly noticed.
I made up something about using the john and buying a new beer and hurried up the cement stairs as fast as my leg would allow. The vendor got to the top of the stairs without pausing to make a single sale, then made a left toward the next aisle.
“Hey, watch it, buddy!” A businesswoman in a pin-striped suit gave me a glare when I lurched into her, my leg betraying me with every step. She muttered curses after me as I mumbled an apology and kept climbing. I didn’t remember our seats’ being so far down the section before, but the top seemed impossibly far away.
When I reached the peak, the man-demon was gone. I turned in a slow circle, eyes searching the aisles for the dark-haired hot dog vendor, but he had vanished into thin air. Had it been Axel, causing his usual trouble, or someone else? Given Axel’s little display of shape-shifting earlier, I had no doubt he could take on any form he wanted. If I stopped to think about it, that was a little scary—okay, a lot scary.
A Devil in the Details Page 17
