In the Line of Fire

by Beverly Bird

  He’d loved the guy like a brother. But Danny didn’t feel like playing games. “You heard about it the instant I stepped through that jailhouse door this morning and you were waiting for this call.” He knew the way it worked. He knew too much. Therein lay the problem.

  He was still as much of a threat to Carmine as he had been six years ago, Danny thought, when the mob had framed him and had him put away because he’d left their ranks. The fact that he had remained silent for six years, not singing like a bird to gain his own release, would hold minimum sway with the old man even now. Danny knew he was alive only because Ricky had probably interceded for him back then, convincing his uncle to go for the prison term instead of eliminating the problem of Danny Gates entirely.

  Ricky finally laughed. The sound was rich and familiar. “Okay, we kept tabs on you. So I guess you’re not calling me for a lift somewhere.”

  “No. I’m already where I need to be.”

  He heard Ricky accepting this in the ensuing silence. “You’re definitely still out then.”

  “I’m out.”

  “What do you want to do about it?”

  “We need to meet and work out a stalemate.”

  This time Ricky didn’t hesitate. “How about tomorrow?”

  “No. Friday. I’m going to need a little time.” This, Danny thought, would be the true test of how much of their friendship remained. They both knew what he was going to do with that time. “Can you hold Carmine and the others off until then?”

  “I guess I have to.”

  Danny let himself breath again. Cautiously.

  “I’ll meet you at the country club at one o’clock,” Ricky said.

  Danny thought about that. As long as Ricky had kept his nose reasonably clean these past six years, meeting with him wouldn’t be a violation of his parole. It wasn’t against the law for an ex-con to meet with a suspected mobster—yet. “You haven’t been charged with anything while I was gone?”

  “Bro, I’m way too clever.”

  Same old Ricky, Danny thought. “I thought I was, too.”

  Ricky ignored that. “Friday. One o’clock. In the Yellow Rose Café.”

  Danny’s eyes narrowed hard and fast, like blinds slapping down to cover a window. It worried him that Ricky hadn’t chosen the Men’s Grill for old time’s sake. “Why the change?” he asked.

  “Because the grill isn’t there anymore. Somebody blew it clear to China last month.”

  “No kidding?”

  “Sky-high, buddy. It’s a pile of rubble.” Ricky laughed again.

  Danny didn’t ask if the Mercados had been behind the explosion. It was just one more thing he didn’t need to know. “All right. The Café, then. In the meantime you’ve got my back, right?”

  “You’re covered.”

  For now, Danny thought. After Friday, who knew?

  He disconnected and shifted his shoulders back and forth, trying to rock some of the tension out of them. Then he cocked his head to the side. From downstairs came the thump-thump-thumping sound of a basketball hitting the gym floor. He grinned to himself. The kids had already come inside.

  He returned to the stairs and trotted down, then he went still, holding the door to the gym open with one hand. Whatever was going on out there more closely resembled a game of keep-away than basketball. And it didn’t resemble keep-away much at all. He suspected this all had something to do with the woman who had pulled the kids inside onto the court while he’d been upstairs.

  As he watched, she more or less tackled Cia on the hard flooring and began tickling her. The two of them came up gasping for breath. Somehow Cia managed to keep her modesty in that tiny skirt. Then the woman sprang to her feet again. Laughing, she scraped her hands through her hair, pulling it back from her face. It was a wild mass of curls that had hidden her features, but when it was swept clear, Danny saw delicate cheekbones and a spattering of freckles across her nose.

  She was small, compact and she had the voice of a drill sergeant. She spun to one of the boys who’d stuck his tongue out at her behind her back—a new one who hadn’t been outside. “Keep it in your mouth, Fisk, until you figure out how to use it.”

  “Hey, babe, I know how. Want me to show you?”

  “Grow up first. Maybe we’ll talk in ten years.” She caught the ball that Lester shot to her. And fast, without looking, she threw it in the direction of Fisk. The boy was startled, but caught it. “Good job,” she said. “See? Your hands actually work for something besides picking pockets.”

  Then she threw herself into the game, or whatever it was.

  Her face changed, Danny thought. Her eyes went hot. Passion, he thought. It was there on her face, a hunger both for the release of the exercise and the need to win, assuming her game even had rules. Her hair bounced, all long, dark ringlets that made a man’s hand itch for palms full of it.

  A new girl had joined the kids from outside, as well, he realized. She caught the sleeve of the woman’s white sweater. In an instant the woman stopped playing and turned, looking concerned. Then she slung an arm over the girl’s shoulder and together they moved off the court in his direction, their heads close as they whispered.

  “Ah, man,” Lester said. “Damn Anita’s got more problems than an ex-con.”

  Somehow Danny doubted that.

  The woman made a semirude gesture in the boy’s direction and it shut him right up. Passion and kindness, he thought, and no-nonsense guts. He felt one corner of his mouth try to pull into a smile. Danny rubbed his palm over it to get rid of the reflex.

  When she looked up and saw him, she stopped midstride. “Who are you?”

  Danny lowered his hand and stepped out of the stairwell. “Danny Gates.” Her eyes were emerald green, he noticed, and she definitely had freckles.

  “Is that your rattletrap out there?” she demanded.

  “My what?” She’d lost him.

  “Your car. There’s a car out there in my parking space.”

  “There’s no assigned parking out there.”

  “I always leave my car at the door. There’s an old yellow Dodge there now, in my spot.”

  “It’s lemon.”

  It was her turn to frown in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Lemon. That’s what the salesman called it.”

  “He might have been referring to its condition, you know, not its color.”

  That snagged his pride. He walked past her. “Yeah, if the car in question is lemon, then that would be mine.”

  “A rose by any other name…” She shrugged and pivoted to follow him with her gaze. “Are you leaving now? Because if you are, I’ll move my car back to where it belongs since the rain’s tapered off a little. I don’t want to have to run a block in a downpour to get to it when I’m done here.”

  He stopped and looked back at her. It had been a while since he’d had occasion to handle a woman, Danny thought, but he was pretty sure he could remember how the routine went. Something told him that this one was used to having her own way, to giving orders. He’d have to fix that if she intended to spend any time around here playing with his kids.

  “Finders keepers,” he drawled. “I was there first. Live with it.”

  “I’m staying here for a while, and you’re not!”

  “Who says?”

  “I…well, I volunteer here. I’m Molly French.”

  “Yeah? I work here. I live here. Guess you’ll have to find someplace else for your vehicle from here on in, won’t you? That spot is mine now.”

  He had the pleasure of seeing her jaw drop as he picked up the ball that had fallen at center court. “Okay, here’s how we’re going to do this,” he said to the kids. “Let me show you how you’re supposed to play basketball, not that sissy thing you were doing a minute ago.”

  He heard the woman make a choked sound of outrage behind him. Danny grinned to himself, and this time he didn’t wipe the reflex away.

  His new life was starting to look interesting.


  Chapter 2

  Who did he think he was?

  Molly stared after the guy as he started snapping out directives to the kids. Her kids. For the most part, they were ogling him, just as she was.

  “Sure, this’ll work,” she murmured aloud.

  Already Lester had that evil gleam in his eye. She gave five-to-one odds that he’d be tripping Mr. Basketball with one of his big booted feet within the next two or three minutes. He was generally the one who protected the kids’ turf from hostile adults. Jerome just shrugged and went to sit down at the edge of the court—he was the most easy-going of the lot and didn’t get worked up about much. As for Bobby…well, Bobby J. rarely showed much reaction to anything, Molly thought. Beneath his bristle-shaved hair, his brown eyes were as watchful as his expression was neutral. He stood at the edge of the court, so painfully thin it hurt her. Bobby rarely spoke to anyone. When he showed up at the center, he was just…there. It was anybody’s guess why he bothered to come by at all.

  The coach-nobody-wanted was in Fisk’s face now, talking to him urgently. Molly took in his clothes—really bad-fitting jeans and a rain-dampened blue chambray shirt that was at least one, if not two, sizes too small. Who was he? she wondered again. And where had he come from?

  In another thirty seconds, Molly had had enough.

  She stalked over to him, reaching for the basketball. “Give me that.”

  He went up on his toes, his arm extended, the ball balanced on his hand. He was tall. It was well out of her reach. With a quick little thrust of his wrist, he sent the ball sailing, then it dropped neatly through the hoop. He was all male grace and flexing muscle. It was quite a sight, Molly admitted, swallowing carefully. Something tickled her pulse.

  “Nothing but net.” He turned and grinned at her. “You were saying?”

  “I—” Molly began, then her mind went blank.

  He kept watching her with the kind of smile that spelled trouble…and the trouble was an invitation. Come play with me and get burned. Some women were crazy for his type, and Molly discovered in that moment that she could definitely be one of them.

  Unfortunately, they didn’t go crazy for her.

  Molly planted her hands on her hips. A lock of her hair fell into her eyes and she blew it back. “Okay. That was pretty.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And it was a total waste of effort.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me. We’re dealing with a bunch of aimless teenagers here, not the Houston Rockets.”

  He feigned a look of utter awe. “You know about the Rockets?”

  “Knock it off,” she growled.

  “Come on, come on, you’re on a roll here. I’ll help you. They’re a basketball team. They actually play by certain rules. They get paid for it. Five-on-five competition in four quarters. Man-to-man defense, twenty-four-second clock to shoot. Does all that sound familiar?”

  “Basketball isn’t the issue here.” She ground the words out and realized her jaw was tight.

  “Tell that to Ron Glover.”

  Ron Glover was the director of the rec center. Molly frowned. What had he said earlier? I work here. “Ron hired you to play basketball? We don’t have that kind of budget!”

  “You’re telling me. The pay stinks.” He sauntered away from her to go after the basketball. None of the kids had made an effort to touch it. They were all gathered under the opposite net now, watching them.

  This, she thought, was incredible. “He didn’t tell me he was hiring anyone.”

  “Ron reports to you?”

  “No, of course not. But he…we just…we pool our efforts around here. And he never mentioned this.”

  He shot another basket unperturbed. “Don’t take it so hard. It all just came together on Friday.”

  Molly went after him as he moved to catch the ball again. “Why? Why would he do something like this?”

  “We had a meeting of the minds.” He started dribbling the ball in circles around her.

  “What kind of meeting?”

  “The kind that says that if we put together a team that’s even halfway good, if we teach these kids the basics, some of them might land on their high school team. One of them might get noticed by a college scout.” He stopped and pinned her with intense dark eyes. “Granted, that would require some raw and unconventional talent, but one of them could get out of here to someplace better, someplace where they might have a chance.”

  Molly opened her mouth one more time and shut it again. She couldn’t argue with that.

  She wanted the same thing for her kids. It was what she had been trying to do here herself these past two years, why she volunteered her time to the center—though her methods were different. She wanted each and every one of them to get out of the poverty, the drugs, the petty crime that could lead to treacherously bigger things.

  Still, she felt she had a certain stake in being contrary, if only because he looked so good with that ball in his hands…and he knew it. “What do the rest of the kids get in this grand scheme of yours?”

  “They get something to do for a few hours a day instead of hanging, on the streets.”

  This time when he sent the ball swishing through the net, Molly lunged for it and caught it as it bounced to the floor. She gathered it against her chest. “They’re off the streets—sometimes—even without organized basketball. I keep them off the streets. I help them.”

  “And how do you do that, pretty Molly French?”

  Pretty? Her heart chugged even as she refused to react. “I get them jobs and I get state assistance for their families. I listen when they talk.”

  “Admirable.” He started circling her again, clearly looking for a way to knock the ball from her arms.

  She felt like prey. Molly pivoted with him, trying to keep him in front of her. “Basketball’s just…you know, something we horse around with here while we…while we…talk.”

  “Not anymore.” His hand snaked out so quickly she barely saw him move. He knocked the ball straight down out of her grasp. The back of his arm nudged her breast. Molly lost her breath and took a quick step back. The basketball bounced on the floor between them, and he scooped it up with one broad hand, then he spun it on his index finger.

  “Show-off,” she muttered.

  “Yeah.” He grinned. “Maybe we ought to leave you in charge of jobs and state assistance. When it comes to the game, you’re…ah, a bit lacking, Molly. No offense intended.”

  She flushed. “I rarely get worked up about something so trivial.”

  “So what does work you up?” He grinned a devil’s grin, sizing her up with his eyes.

  He was flirting with her. Molly definitely felt something working inside her now. It was a low, steady thrumming. She decided to change the subject. “So what are your qualifications for this, hot shot?”

  “All-state my sophomore year.”

  That would have been high school, she thought. “And the college scouts just gobbled you right up, didn’t they? That explains why you’re working for Ron now.”

  A hardening came to his eyes. It happened as fast as his nifty hands could move. “I quit playing when I was a junior.”

  “And now you’re here to impart all you learned in two short years.” That was always her problem, Molly thought. She never knew when to keep her mouth shut. “Aren’t we blessed.”

  To her surprise he laughed. It was a deep sound, a little rough around the edges. It tickled her skin. He pocketed the basketball against his side and shook his head. “Thanks. I haven’t done that in a while.”

  What? Laugh? That puzzled her, then her thoughts scattered again as he took a step toward her until his face was inches from hers.

  “Guess what, Molly French? I think I like you.”

  Her heart somersaulted. “My jury’s still out on you.”

  He laughed again and rubbed his throat as though the reflex hurt him.

  “I’m leaving now,” Molly decided.

  �
�It’s pouring.” He gestured with the ball in the general direction of the barred window.

  Molly saw rain battering the dirty glass, making tunnels in the brown-gray dust there.

  “I’ve decided I don’t care.”

  She hurried to the door and shot into the vestibule where she ran headfirst into Fran Celtenham, another volunteer whose contribution to the center was about as indefinable as Molly’s. Fran was in her sixties. She was a widow, a retired civil servant, who worked hard to organize the kids into doing occasional community-service projects. She also ran a bingo program on Monday nights—not just for the kids but for any Mission Creek family who cared to join in. Attendance was sporadic, but she never stopped trying.

  “Ron hired a new guy,” Molly blurted without even greeting the woman.

  “Yes, I know. On Friday.” Fran smiled at her benignly as she started to step past.

  Molly caught her arm. “No, I mean, he hired him.” She held up her hand and rubbed her fingers together to show that money was changing hands. Then, finally, Fran’s words registered. “What do you mean you knew?”

  “Ron told me.”

  “He didn’t tell me.”

  “You weren’t here on Friday.”

  That was true. Molly rarely missed a day, but she’d had to testify in court on one of her arrests. “Everyone knew but me.”

  Fran patted her on the shoulder before she continued into the gym. “Don’t take it so hard, sweetie.”

  Exactly what Danny Gates had said, Molly thought. She stepped outside into the drenching downpour, disgruntled. In seconds her hair was flattened to her skull. She put her head down and trudged to her car.

  She was halfway home before she realized that she’d hardly thought of Mickey or her birthday at all today.

  The man standing in front of the long ebony desk practically vibrated with anger. “Are you out of your mind? You approve of this?”

  “I think it’s a brilliant move.”

  “Letting her on the task force?”

  “Think about it. She was sticking her nose where it didn’t belong, anyway. She found Ed Bancroft. Think of the trouble we’d have on our hands if she’d gotten to him before his, ah, demise…if he had talked to her.”