by Diane Kelly
***
For the third time in as many months, I sat at the counter of my shoe repair shop screwing a new tap on the heel of a men’s size thirteen tap shoe. Part of me wanted to scold my son for abusing his dance shoes, but another part knew the broken tap was a sign of his passion for dance. With his enormous feet, athletic style, and unbridled enthusiasm, Riley could stomp a stage into splinters. Heck, I’d broken a tap or two myself over the years. Might as well cut the kid some slack.
My shop wasn’t much to brag about, just a small foyer and stockroom with walls painted a soft sage green and dark wood floors that, judging from the multitude of scars, were likely original. Two wooden chairs flanked the front door. Not that I was ever so busy customers needed a place to sit while they waited their turn, but best to be prepared just in case, right? A brass coat tree nestled in one corner, an oval standing mirror in the other. The white Formica countertop supported an outdated but functional cash register and one of the world’s last remaining black-and-white portable TV’s. A full-color map of County Cork, Ireland and a poster of Saint Fin Barre’s Cathedral, a County Cork historical landmark, graced the walls, giving the shop a touch of Irish kitsch.
The bells hanging from the front door tinkled and a blast of brisk winter wind blew into my shop, carrying a sweet, flowery scent with it. I looked up to see an enormous bouquet of long-stem roses, six red and six yellow, making its way inside. My heart performed a pirouette in my chest and I emitted an involuntary squeal.
“Flowers? For me?”
Dumb question, really. I was the only one in the shop. But you can’t blame me for being surprised. The last time anyone had given me flowers was when Riley’s father had shown up in the delivery room with a tiny bouquet of carnations and an even tinier engagement ring. That was fourteen years—and what seemed like a lifetime—ago.
I’d kept the flowers but refused the ring. The right choice, obviously, given the look of relief on Matthew’s face when I’d handed the small velvet-covered box back to him. But who could blame him? Like me, he’d been only nineteen, much too young to deal with a new baby and a wife, though not too young to knock me up, the knucklehead.
He’d promised to pull out.
Never trust a guy with a hard on.
Of course it takes two to tango, and I’ve accepted my share of the blame. Or should I say credit? When I think of my son, of what a clever and caring kid he’s turned out to be, it’s impossible to consider him as a mistake. The roses made their way toward me, bringing their lovely smell along with them, coming to rest on the countertop next to the cash register. Their courier stepped aside to reveal himself. I knew the face in an instant. Strong-jawed, with the ruddy complexion of a man who’d spent a decade toiling at the dockyards of Dublin.
Dark hair worn closely cropped in a no-fuss style. Intelligent, soulful eyes under thick brows. The roguish smile that revealed an upper bicuspid chipped in a life-changing moment the tooth would never let him forget.
Brendan.
“Happy Saint Valentine’s Day, Erin.”
Would I ever tire of that deep Irish brogue?
A sense of warmth flowed through me and a smile spread across my face. “Back at ya’, Bren.”
Brendan was “Black Irish,” dark-haired and darker skinned than the majority of the fair and freckled Irish population. Legend had it they were the progeny of naïve Irish lasses taken into the arms of Spanish sailors shipwrecked long ago on the Emerald Isle. God help me, I’d often wondered what it might be like to be taken into Brendan’s strong arms.
Shame I’d never get a chance to find out.
EXCERPT FROM DEATH, TAXES, AND A FRENCH MANICURE
Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure
Chapter One - Some People Just Need Shooting
When I was nine, I formed a Silly Putty pecker for my Ken doll, knowing he’d have no chance of fulfilling Barbie’s needs given the permanent state of erectile dysfunction with which the toy designers at Mattel had cursed him. I knew a little more about sex than most girls, what with growing up in the country and all. The first time I saw our neighbor’s Black Angus bull mount an unsuspecting heifer, my two older brothers explained it all to me.
“He’s getting him some,” they’d said.
“Some what?” I’d asked.
“Nookie.”
We watched through the barbed wire fence until the strange ordeal was over. Frankly, the process looked somewhat uncomfortable for the cow, who continued to chew her cud throughout the entire encounter. But when the bull dismounted, nuzzled her chin, and wandered away, I swore I saw a smile on that cow’s face and a look of quiet contentment in her eyes. She was in love.
I’d been in search of that same feeling for myself ever since.
#
My partner and I had spent the afternoon huddled at a cluttered desk in the back office of an auto parts store perusing the owner’s financial records, searching for evidence of tax fraud. Yeah, you got me. I work for the IRS. Not exactly the kind of career that makes a person popular at cocktail parties. But those brave enough to get to know me learn I’m actually a nice person, fun even, and they have nothing to fear. I have better things to do than nickel and dime taxpayers whose worst crime was inflating the value of the Glen Campbell albums they donated to Goodwill.
“I’ll be right back, Tara.” My partner smoothed the front of his starched white button-down as he stood from the folding chair. Eddie Bardin was tall, lean, and African-American, but having been raised in the upper-middle-class, predominately white Dallas suburbs, he had a hard time connecting to his roots. He’d had nothing to overcome, unless you counted his affinity for Phil Collins’ music, Heineken beer, and khaki chinos, tastes which he had yet to conquer. Eddie was more L.L. Bean than L.L. Cool J.
I nodded to Eddie and tucked an errant strand of my chestnut hair behind my ear. Turning back to the spreadsheet in front of me, I flicked aside the greasy burger and onion ring wrappers the store’s owner, Jack Battaglia, had left on the desk after lunch. I couldn’t make heads or tails out of the numbers on the page. Battaglia didn’t know jack about keeping books and, judging from his puny salaries account, he’d been too cheap to hire a professional.
A few seconds after Eddie left the room, the door to the office banged open. Battaglia loomed in the doorway, his husky body filling the narrow space. He wore a look of purpose and his store’s trademark bright green jumpsuit, the cheerful color at odds with the open box cutter clutched in his furry-knuckled fist.
“Hey!” Instinctively, I leapt from my seat, the metal chair falling over behind me and clanging to the floor.
Battaglia lunged at me. My heart whirled in my chest. There was no time to pull my gun. The best I could do was throw out my right arm to deflect his attempt to plunge the blade into my jugular. The sharp blade slid across my forearm, just above my wrist, but with so much adrenaline rocketing through my system, I felt no immediate pain. If not for the blood seeping through the sleeve of my navy nylon raid jacket, I wouldn’t have even known I’d been cut. Underneath was my favorite pink silk blouse, a coup of a find on the clearance rack at Neiman Marcus Last Call, now sliced open, the blood-soaked material gaping to reveal a short but deep gash.
My jaw clamped tighter than a chastity belt on a pubescent princess. This jerk was going down.
My block had knocked him to the side. Taking advantage of our relative positioning, I threw a roundhouse kick to Battaglia’s stomach, my steel-toed cherry-red Doc Martens sinking into his soft paunch. The shoes were the perfect combination of utility and style, another great find at a two-for-one sale at the Galleria.
The kick didn’t take the beer-bellied bastard out of commission, but at least it sent him backwards a few feet, putting a little more distance between us. A look of surprise flashed across Battaglia’s face as he stumbled backward. He clearly hadn’t expected a skinny, five-foot-two-inch bookish woman to put up such a fierce fight.
Neener-neener.
; He regained his footing just as I yanked my Glock from my hip holster. I pointed the gun at his face, a couple drops of blood running down my arm and dropping to the scuffed gray tile floor. “Put the box cutter down.”
He stiffened, his face turning purple with fury. “Shit. IRS agents carry guns now?”
Although people were familiar with tax auditors, the concept of a Special Agent--a tax cop--eluded most. But we’d been busting tax cheats for decades. Heck, when no other law enforcement agency could get a charge to stick, we were the ones to finally bring down Al Capone. And if we could nab a tough guy like Capone, this pudgy twerp didn’t stand a chance.
By our best estimate, Battaglia had cheated the federal government and honest Americans out of at least eighty grand and didn’t seem too happy when Eddie and I’d shown up to collect. Now, with my partner on a potty break, Battaglia was treating me like I was a shrimp and he was a chef at Benihana.
The mad man sneered at me, revealing teeth yellowed by age and excessive soda consumption. He waved the blade in the air. “If you shoot me, you better shoot to kill. ‘Cause if you don’t, I’m gonna carve you like a pumpkin.”
My gunmetal gray-blue eyes bore into Battaglia’s. “Daddy had a strict rule about firearms. Anything we killed we had to eat. No amount of barbecue sauce would make a hairy guy like you palatable.”
He raised the box cutter higher. Now that just burned me up. He didn’t think I’d do it. He was wrong. Still, I’d only shoot as a last resort. Not because I was some kind of bleeding heart. There was just too much paperwork involved. Besides, gunplay was hell on a manicure and I’d just had my fingers freshly French-tipped yesterday.
EXCERPT FROM PAW ENFORCEMENT
Paw Enforcement
Chapter One
Job Insecurity
Fort Worth Police Officer Megan Luz
My rusty-haired partner lay convulsing on the hot asphalt, his jaw clenching and his body involuntarily curling into a jittery fetal position as two probes delivered 1,500 volts of electricity to his groin. The crotch of his police-issue trousers darkened as he lost control of his bladder.
I’d never felt close to my partner in the six months we’d worked together, but at that particular moment I sensed a strong bond. The connection likely stemmed from the fact that we were indeed connected then--by the two wires leading from the Taser in my hand to my partner’s twitching testicles.
#
I didn’t set out to become a hero. I decided on a career in law enforcement for three other reasons:
1) Having been a twirler in my high school’s marching band, I knew how to handle a baton.
2) Other than barking short orders or rattling off Miranda rights, working as a police officer wouldn’t require me to talk much.
3) I had an excess of pent-up anger. Might as well put it to good use, right?
Of course I didn’t plan to be a street cop forever. Just long enough to work my way up to detective. A lofty goal, but I knew I could do it--even if nobody else did.
I’d enjoyed my studies in criminal justice at Sam Houston State University in Hunstville, Texas, especially the courses in criminal psychology. No, I’m not some sick, twisted creep who gets off on hearing about criminals who steal, rape, and murder. I just thought that if we could figure out why criminals do bad things, maybe we could stop them, you know?
To supplement my student loans, I’d worked part-time at the gift shop in the nearby state prison museum, selling tourists such quality souvenirs as ceramic ash trays made by the prisoners or decks of cards containing prison trivia. The unit had once been home to Clyde Barrow of Bonnie and Clyde fame and was also the site of an eleven-day siege in 1974 spearheaded by heroin kingpin Fredrick Gomez Carrasco, jailed for killing a police officer. Our top-selling item was a child’s time-out chair fashioned after Old Sparky, the last remaining electric chair used in Texas. Talk about cruel and unusual punishment.
To the corner, little Billy.
No, Mommy, no! Anything but the chair!
I’d looked forward to becoming a cop, keeping the streets safe for citizens, maintaining law and order, promoting civility and justice. Such noble ideals, right?
What I hadn’t counted on was that I’d be working with a force full of macho shitheads. With my uncanny luck, I’d been assigned to partner with the most macho, most shit-headed cop of all, Derek the “Big Dick” Mackey. As implied in the aforementioned reference to twitching testicles, our partnership had not ended well.
That’s why I was sitting here outside the chief’s office in a cheap plastic chair, chewing my thumbnail down to a painful nub, waiting to find out whether I still had a job. Evidently, Tasering your partner in the cojones is considered not only an overreaction, but also a blatant violation of department policy, one which carried the potential penalty of dismissal from the force, not to mention a criminal assault charge.
So much for those noble ideals, huh?
