by Jim Stevens
The next drill, which I create on the spot, is the Backboard Bounce Back. I line the girls up a few feet left of the free throw line and tell them to dribble up, toss the ball onto the backboard so that the person behind them can catch the rebound and throw it back onto the board to keep the process going. Each time the ball hits the board, I have the girls count out the number aloud. Kelly gives us a few upbeat tunes and we begin to bounce. It takes a while to get the idea, but we get the number up to six in about five minutes. By the time everyone is winded, we have a record of ten consecutive bounces. Good for us.
Next, we do a singing drill, starting with Old McDonald Had a Farm. Every time you are passed the ball, you have to continue singing the song. I call out when to pass. The team loves the E, I, E, I, O part the best. To further encourage them, I allow requests: songs by Katy Perry, Taylor Swift, One Direction, and several other acts I’ve never heard of blast out of Kelly’s cell phone. The girls, even Wilma Whiner, love it.
By the end of the practice hour, the girls are exhausted, from the bouncing, the singing, and mostly laughing at what they’ve been doing. But there is no one more spent than Mrs. Whiner who has watched the new drills in absolute horror. I see her sitting back in the bleachers absolutely aghast in what she has witnessed. All she can do is fan herself with her multiple pages of unsolicited basketball strategies to keep from fainting dead away.
“See you Saturday, Bailouts.”
And they cheer back in positive expectation.
This was fun.
---
“Was it Bruno who doped Tiffany’s drink, Dad?”
Homework’s done. Dinner was another complaint fest. And now the three of us sit in front of The Original Carlo. “I may never know for sure,” I answer Care’s question.
“Why not?”
“Somebody bashed his head in.” As soon as I say this, I regret it.
“Cool,” Kelly says.
“You’re not supposed to say it’s ‘cool’ when you hear about a murder, Kelly,” I admonish my elder daughter. “And don’t tell your mother you sit around here and discuss my murder investigations, either.”
“Who do you think iced him, Dad?” Kelly continues, not listening to a word I just said.
“I wish I knew.” For some dumb reason I continue the morbid conversation, “To be honest, I haven’t a clue.”
“I bet it was D’Wayne DeWitt,” Care says.
“Why?”
“Because he’s probably got a lot of pent-up anger, having the name D’Wayne.”
“Gibby did it,” Kelly says. “He’s a vigilante trying to clean up his own nightclub.”
“Where’d you ever pick up the word vigilante, Kelly?”
“I don’t know. I’m telling you, Dad, my mind’s like a sponge. I absorb stuff without even knowing I’m sucking it up.”
“Well, absorb this: quit spending so much time on that phone of yours. Every time I see you, you have that thing pushed up against your ear.”
“It’s not there now,” Kelly snaps back.
“Is it recharging?” I ask.
“How’d you know?” Kelly asks.
“Your father’s a detective.”
“Want us to move the cards around on The Original Carlo, Dad?” Care asks.
“It wouldn’t do any good,” I tell her. “The problem is I can’t find the connection between the crimes.”
“Maybe it’s a woman?” Kelly suggests.
“I don’t think so.”
“Dad,” Kelly says, “I’m trying to think outside the box.”
“How about money?” Care tries again.
“It’s always about money,” I tell her, “because life is always about money.”
“I thought you told us life was about choices, Dad,” Kelly says.
“It is, but if you don’t have any money, you won’t have a lot of choices.”
“So, the Commodore can choose anything he wants while you have maybe one or two picks on a good day?” Kelly asks me.
I hate arguing with any teenager, especially one who is my daughter. “Well, maybe you should ask the Commodore if he’d be interested in adopting you, Kelly?”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
“Does he have kids now?” I ask.
“No.”
“Well, that explains why he’s got so much money.”
“I don’t want to get adopted, Dad,” Care reassures me.
“Thank you, Care.”
“You will when you get older,” Kelly tells her sister, “and your closet is as empty as Dad’s refrigerator.”
I look at the clock. “Time for showers, then time for bed.”
Care doesn’t argue, she yawns.
Kelly says, “Already?”
“Git.”
They shower, get dressed for bed, and, as I come in to kiss them goodnight, Kelly hands me a note. It is addressed Richard Sherlock.
“Not again,” I moan.
I read it. “What do you mean you don’t have school next Wednesday?” I ask Kelly.
“It’s one of those teacher service days.”
“Why can’t your mother watch you?”
“She’s busy.”
“What? She has a job interview with a Mr. Salmon on Lake Michigan?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Yeah, right.”
CHAPTER 17
“This is for dragging my ass outta there,” Mr. DeWitt informs me from his hospital bed. His doctor is holding him over to the side to clean out the gunk in his lungs. Another stack of Hamilton’s is laid across my palm.
“I don’t think Gibby Fearn was the one who tried to blow you to kingdom come, Mr. DeWitt,” I tell him honestly.
“Then who the hell do you think it is?”
I really wish I had an answer, a good answer for him, but I don’t. “I’m working on it.”
“Maybe if you spent more time searching for the bomber, and less time following me around you might get somewhere.”
“What do you mean?” I play dumb.
“I can hear that crappy piece of shit car of yours putt-putting behind me.”
I’ve got to get that muffler fixed.
“Gibby had no motive to smoke you,” I say.
“What do you mean?” Mr. DeWitt yells back. “The only person stopping him from running the Zanadu is me. He’s a corporate climbing little weasel who would stop at nothing to get what he wants.”
“So, why didn’t you just fire him?” I ask the obvious question.
“Because it’s complicated at the top.”
By the way he makes this comment, I realize I shouldn’t ask the obvious question of who’s in charge.
“So, what do you want me to do, Mr. DeWitt?”
“Get out of my sight.”
“I can do that.”
“You’re fired.”
Evidently, it isn’t all that complicated to fire me. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more service to you, Mr. DeWitt. If there’s anything I discover from this point on, I will report it to you.”
“Don’t bother.”
I decide to wait for a better time to ask him if I can use his name as a reference. I leave the room. Once outside his door, I pull the stack out of my pocket. It would have been really tacky of me to count it in front of him, but now I rifle though the bills like a gambler in a hurry to place a big bet. Eleven hundred bucks.
Cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-ching.
---
“No, no, I do love you, Jack. I was just tired that night.”
“Jack,” Tiffany says, “Neula is telling you how she feels.”
“Well, let me tell you how I feel,” Jack says. “This gout of mine might actually be a case of phlebitis.”
Although I’m sitting at a table in a very nice restaurant, I feel like I’m in the front row at a taping of a bad Doctor Phil episode.
“No-No” says, “No, no, Jack, can’t
you give me another chance?”
“I might not be able to because a blood clot might break loose, go all the way to my head, and leave me brain dead.”
“Neula,” Tiffany says instructing her pupil, “tell Jack you’d be more than happy to stay at his side if he falls into a coma.”
“I’ll be there for you.”
“Jack, your turn—”
I interrupt Tiffany. “Can we order?” I flag the waiter over to our table.
“She and I will have a salad with no dressing, a broiled chicken breast with no sauce or butter, and iced tea, lemon, no sugar,” Tiffany announces.
“Really?” “No-No” questions. “Couldn’t I get mine with fries at least?”
“No,” Tiffany lays down the dieting law.
“I might be the one in a coma, if I don’t get some real food into me,” “No-No” laments.
“And you, sir?”
“Fettuccini Alfredo, cream of whatever you got soup, and lots of bread slathered with butter and garlic.” Evidently, Jack is playing hard to get via the menu.
Tiffany glares at Jack. “Ordering the Heart Attack Special, that’s totally rude.”
“Okay, forget the butter,” Jack says.
“I’ll have the turkey sandwich,” I tell the waiter. He exits quickly. I can’t blame him. “I need a favor,” I tell the detectives.
“What?”
“I need you to pull some guy over tonight, get him out, and search his car.”
“No, no, we can’t do that,” “No-No” says without hesitation.
“Sure we can,” Jack says.
“No no, we can’t. We need a search warrant.”
“Oh, come on,” Jack says.
“A warrant or at least a good reason,” “No-No” tells Jack.
“How about a briefcase full of dirty money?” I ask.
“Sounds reason enough for me,” Jack says. “Who is it, Sherlock?”
“I’ll point him out to you tonight.”
---
I’m not wild about gyms and I’ve never liked health clubs. They don’t make any sense to me. Why would anyone consider a place healthy when all the members leave their sweat on the equipment for the next guy, spit on the floor, and leave their dirty towels all over the place? The shower stalls always have the latest species of athlete’s foot bacteria, plus the sinks and vanities all sport a full assortment of hair follicles, used razor blades, dried toothpaste spittle, and dirty Q-Tips. Most confusing to me is why so many of the people working out wear ear buds to either listen to music or talk on the phone while they grunt and groan on torture devices with overly impressive monikers like the Hip Abductor and Thigh Eradicator?
Monroe’s health club is no exception, except for the fact that here all the work-outers aren’t only just filthy and sweaty, but filthy, sweaty, and filthy rich.
As Tiffany and I enter the workout area, it’s a bit difficult not to raise eyebrows. I’m in my usual pair of slacks and a polo shirt. Tiffany is dressed ready to pose for an Elle photo shoot in a racy little blue tube top and black yoga pants combination.
“Do you see what I see, Mr. Sherlock?”
“Bacteria multiplying?”
“No. It’s that no good, self-centered, egotistical, conceited, bitch, Alix Fromound.” Tiffany has locked her eyes on her nemesis like a pointer rigidly aiming at a soon-to-be-dead duck.
“She’s here working out, Tiffany.”
“She’s working it out alright,” she says. “And right in front of Monroe.”
“From what you’ve told me, it’s not like you and Monroe are becoming Antony and Cleopatra.”
“Who?”
What would be the point of a history lesson here? She wouldn’t listen.
“Just because I don’t want him,” Tiffany says, “doesn’t mean I want her to have him.”
“That doesn’t sound like the new ‘Nice’ Tiffany to me.”
“When it comes to Alix Fromound, the ‘Nice’ Tiffany is history.”
Tiffany marches right up to where Alix pumps iron on a machine designed to tighten and tone the areas underneath surgically enhanced breasts, of which Alix has two.
“What are you doing here?” Tiffany barks at Alix, who wears a black spandex body suit so tight it looks like it was sprayed on.
“Exercising.”
“What, your libido?”
“Mine doesn’t need any exercise,” Alix snaps back. “But I hear yours does.”
I can see Tiffany’s brain go into overdrive, wondering what Alix knows or doesn’t know. “Who’d you hear that from?”
“I have my sources.”
Tiffany stares her down.
Alix stares right back.
“You’re here because Monroe’s here,” Tiffany accuses.
“Maybe he’s here because I’m here.”
“No way.”
“Yes, way.”
Tiffany digs in. “You don’t belong here.”
“I’m a member. Are you?” Alix responds with a question.
“I wouldn’t be a member of any club that has you as a member,” Tiffany states emphatically.
“That doesn’t leave you many choices then, does it? Because I’m a member just about everywhere.”
“Eastbank?” Tiffany throws out a club just west of Michigan Avenue.
“Of course.” Alix says tossing her nose into the air.
“Oh, where the more mature woman goes and pretends to exercise?”
In seconds they each may run off searching for a pair of designer boxing gloves. “I’d love to hang around and referee, ladies,” I tell them, “but I’ve got work to do. Enjoy your time together.”
Neither hears a word I say. I leave the two, hoping there’s no blood on the floor when I return.
To my left is a boxing ring where Monroe and his workout partner are semi-sparring. I make my way in that direction until I reach the edge of the ring. Monroe wears a pair of half-gloves, and is punching away at what looks like over-sized oven mitts worn by Oscar Odie, his much ballyhooed and newly-indicted trainer. I have to admit that shirtless Monroe is quite the physical specimen with his rippling pecs, dancing deltoids, and six pack abs. As he throws his jabs, hooks, and haymakers, his entire body glistens as a mass of coordinated muscles. I’m impressed.
I read somewhere, probably at my favorite Barnes & Noble, that boxing is the latest workout craze. I don’t understand how boxing could be good for you, since it would seem getting hit in the head repeatedly would be the antithesis of improving your health and well-being. The only exercise I can imagine being any worse for your body is Mixed Martial Arts where you add kicking, gouging, and head butting to the aforementioned boxing punishments. Gee, I feel healthier just thinking about it.
The buzzer sounds and Monroe ceases his onslaught. They probably save the bell for the real fights. He comes over and stands well above me, his whole body dripping beads of sweat. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d drop by and see what it would cost to get my own locker.”
Monroe squats down, now he’s only twice my level. “What do you want?”
I give Oscar, who’s standing in the opposite corner, a half-hearted glance. “I heard your trainer got caught dealing steroids,” I say.
“It’s a bullshit charge.”
“You the one who put up his bail?” I ask.
“It’s tough to find a good trainer,” Monroe says.
“I can only imagine.”
I change tactics. “The night Tiffany went down in the Zanadu, could you describe the guy who came between you and Alix?”
“I already told the cops. Ask them.”
Monroe has a point. I concede and move on. “What were you drinking?”
“What difference would that make?” He asks a question to my question—which I hate.
“Humor me,” I plead.
“What I always drink. Sto
li on the rocks, two olives.”
“No Gatorade?”
“It’s a bar, not a gym.”
“You never saw the guy before?”
“What guy?” I’m pretty sure right now Monroe wouldn’t mind giving me a punch or two.
“The guy who stepped between you and Alix.”
“No,” he says. “How many times do I have to tell you?”
I see out of the corner of my eye that Oscar shifts closer to us, listening to our conversation. “I just thought I’d ask again,” I say to Monroe. “Sometimes your memory kicks in after you give it time to work on its own electrical impulses.”
This is one of my theories concerning the power of the brain. You think real hard on a problem or a remembrance and then you totally put it out of your mind for a while. This allows your brain’s electrical synapses to go to work and figure it out for you.
“That’s bullshit.”
Evidently, Monroe doesn’t adhere to my theory.
“Was there anything else about that night that seemed odd or out of place?” I ask.
“Listen, buddy,” he says firmly, “I didn’t have anything to do with anything that night. I’ve told you. I’ve told the cops. That’s enough. Get out of here. I’ve got work to do.”
I back up a couple of paces, signaling the end of my questioning. All I can think is what he’s said is bullshit too.
Oscar comes over to Monroe. The buzzer sounds. The punching begins. I wonder if Oscar ever gets to punch Monroe.
I retreat to Alix and Tiffany, now at the Gluteus Maximizer machine. No blood on the floor. Whew.
“I’ll tell you something else, Alix,” Tiffany says.
“What?”
“What I want, I get,” Tiffany tells her in no uncertain terms.
“And what you want, I already have,” Alix returns.
“I trust you two ladies had a nice visit,” I say in closing.
---
“Idiot.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
Jack, “No-No” and I are back at the IRS. Lloyd Holler Mr. “two L’s and two L’s” is snorting snot like Ferdinand the Bull. “I busted my butt to crack that D’Wayne DeWitt.”
