Game Face

by Mark Troy

  "You hurt her enough," said Frodo.

  He received no argument from me.

  Frodo let go and I sank to my knees, desperately trying to suck in air and expel blood at the same time. Floeck knelt beside me, grabbed my hair and yanked my head back. The smell of his piss was eye-watering strong. Like my eyes didn't have reason enough to water. I tasted sour bile and copper in my mouth.

  He said, "See how you like the truth you want so badly, honey. The bitch deserved it."

  Baggins said, "What bitch?"

  Floeck said, "Shut up!"

  I spat blood and said, "You p - pushed her." Hard sounds presented a challenge. My cheek felt slippery with my blood and Floeck's piss where it contacted his pants.

  "What bitch? Her who?" Baggins said.

  "Will you fucking forget what bitch?"

  "Not a bitch," I said. "Lorraine."

  "Yeah, Lorraine," said Floeck. He yanked painfully on my hair. "You know what? She screamed all the way down."

  I had a wild vision of clawing at air and screaming. When hope is gone, a scream is all that's left.

  Baggins said, "You killed Lorraine?"

  Floeck said, "Will you leave it alone?" He let go my hair. "Get her legs, damn it."

  "He killed her," I said, scrambling to get my feet under me. "She liked you, Frodo. She thought it could happen between you."

  "How you know that?"

  "Don't listen to her," Floeck shouted.

  "Messages she sent her brother. I read them."

  "She's lying. There are no fucking messages." He kicked me in the side but I managed to roll away from the worst of it.

  "Hey, man! You hurt her enough."

  Floeck said, "I decide what's enough."

  With his attention diverted, I eased out my knife and palmed it. I said, "You kept him away from her, didn't you, Frodo? Lorraine said so."

  Floeck became livid. "You what?"

  "Yeah," said Frodo. He gave Floeck a powerful shove and staggered him back. "I helped a woman. You hurt women. That's the difference with us." He shoved Floeck again, pushing him back towards the cliff.

  I realized what was happening before Floeck did. I yelled, "Frodo, don't!" Frodo lifted him under the armpits and carried him to the spot where the island dropped off. Floeck yelled, "Put me down, you sack of shit!" He clawed a handful of Frodo's shirt and looked like he might be able to hold on.

  Frodo said, "Lorraine weren't no bitch." He gave one big heave and all of Floeck's hope vanished.

  I moved over to where Moon was struggling to get up from the ground. He had a big knot on the back of his head and a thin trickle of blood down his neck.

  "You look awful," he said and vomited.

  Frodo brought a golf cart over. He said to Moon, "Sorry man." To me, he said, "He screamed all the way down."

  "They do that sometimes."

  "Guess I'm in deep shit," Frodo said

  "Naw," Moon said. "You'll be all right. Saved a lady."

  "He had a history," I said.

  "And he cheated at golf," said Moon.

  END

  Teed Off was originally published in Fedora, Private Eyes and Tough Guys, edited by Michael Bracken, Wildside Press, 2001.

  HOME WRECKERS

  The telephone’s ring yanked me to consciousness. I flicked on the light and reached for the receiver, knocking the hotel services directory to the floor. My watch said six ten in the morning. Somebody was going to pay for this. I dragged the phone to my pillow. Mumbled something about death to whoever disturbed my beauty sleep.

  “Val,” said the voice on the other end. “Shut up. We have trouble.” The voice belonged to Sherri Costello, Head Coach of the Tropical Storm. “Julie Ramos is dead.”

  “What?”

  “Somebody shot her. You’ve got to get down here.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I hung up. My mind reeled. The Tropical Storm sat atop the Women’s Professional Basketball League. Julie Ramos was a post player on the team, second in points, first in rebounds, big in headlines — such headlines as women received, anyway. Me, I consulted to the team on matters of security. My headline days were past. When things went smoothly nobody noticed me or my job. Now, with one phone call, that was changed. Julie was dead and the team, including me, was seriously screwed.

  Especially me. I had a twenty-four year old guy in the bed next to me. The sonofabitch had slept through the phone call. Sonofabitch fit him perfectly: he had big brown eyes, big wet tongue, and the energy of a Frisbee dog when it came to sex.

  I gave his shoulder a hard shove. “Dennis! Wake up!” He made a sound like an air mattress deflating and rolled over. His breath smelled like the floor behind a bar. I shoved him again. “Dammit, wake up!”

  He rolled his eyes open and gave me a cockeyed grin. Then he clamped a big paw on my left breast and fastened his mouth over my right nipple. Jesus, he was like a sea lamprey! I tried to pry his fingers off my breast to no avail. His free hand snaked between my legs and I could feel his erection growing against my thigh. I grabbed his head and stuck a thumb in his eyeball with enough pressure that he saw stars. He yelped and rolled off.

  “Oww! What’s the idea?”

  I shoved him off the bed. “Get up, asshole. Somebody killed your wife.”

  It took him a while to get it. That was another thing about him: show him a naked breast and nothing else seemed to enter his mind.

  Finally he said, “Julie? Julie’s dead? Where? In her room?” He got to his feet and started around the bed to the door, grabbing his pants off the chair.

  I lunged for him and got his arm. “Where are you going?”

  “To Julie. I gotta get down there.”

  “Dumb ass! You can’t go there. You’re not even supposed to be here yet. Right now you’re supposed to be on a plane somewhere over the Pacific.”

  “Yeah, but she’s dead.” He struggled into his pants.

  Christ, why do I fall for the dense ones? The fact that he was capable of an erection even in a crisis had something to do with it. I grabbed his face with both hands. “Listen to me, Dennis! It’s a murder. The police are on their way. If they find you’ve been up here boinking me the whole time we’ll both be in deep shit.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “You leave after I leave. Take the stairs, not the elevator. Make sure nobody sees you. Got that?”

  He nodded slowly. “Yeah, sure. Why don’t I go to the airport and wait for the flight from Honolulu? When it lands, I come back here like I just arrived.”

  “No! The first thing the police will check is the manifest.”

  “Okay. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.”

  I threw on some clothes. My bra was AWOL and I had no time to look for it. I tucked my tee shirt into my jeans and stepped into a pair of leather mules. Over the tee shirt, I put on a blue blazer which I bought because no matter what you’re doing a blue blazer makes you look professional. Ditto the leather bag. At the door I stopped. “Remember . . .”

  “Don’t let anybody see me. Trust me!”

  Jesus, he was still hard.

  I stepped in the elevator, caught my reflection in the mirror and gasped. The Bride of Dracula! Wild hair, circles under my eyes, and a quarter-sized purple hickey at the base of my throat. I ran my fingers through my hair, fished a scarf and some Tic Tacs out of my bag. I knotted the scarf around my neck and shook six Tic Tacs into my mouth.

  Sherri Costello was waiting with the hotel manager outside Julie’s room. The brass tag on the manager’s lapel gave his name as Watson. He tapped a cell phone nervously against his pants leg. Sherri, in contrast, was the picture of control. She had on a slate gray suit and heels. Her makeup was perfect. At six in the morning?

  “Val, it took you long enough.”

  “I had to put on my face. Anybody call the police?”

  “I did,” said Watson.

  “Sherri, tell me how you found her.”

  “I
was supposed to meet her for breakfast. We have a conference call scheduled. Oh God, I have to cancel that.”

  “I think that can wait. This breakfast meeting, it was something important?” Sherri seemed hesitant and then it hit me: today was trading day. “Julie was being traded?”

  Sherri lowered her voice. “It wasn’t final. The trading deadline is noon, Eastern time. That’s less than two hours from now.”

  “Did Julie know about the trade?

  “She requested it. When she didn’t show for breakfast, I called her room and then I got the manager to come up with me.”

  “You went in together?”

  “He went in. I couldn’t. I had a bad feeling about it. Are you going in? If you do, make sure she’s covered. I don’t want anybody to see her like that.”

  “It’s a crime scene,” said Watson.

  “I don’t see any yellow tape. Sherri, watch the elevator. Tell me when you see the police.”

  The room had a single queen-size bed, a bureau with a television and lamp, a table with two chairs. Julie Ramos lay on the floor on the far side of the bed. She was sprawled on her back, a big red splotch soaking her nightgown. The blood came from two small holes in the middle of her chest. Her nightgown had ridden up when she fell, exposing the lower part of her body. I tugged it down.

  Before leaving, I looked around. On the night stand was a glass with about an inch of what looked like cola. Sweat from the glass pooled around a romance novel bearing a picture of Fabio and a swooning, bosomy maiden. The table by the window held a trove of junk food: potato chips, buttered popcorn and Oreos.

  The telephone’s message light blinked insistently.

  Using a tissue from the bathroom, I picked up the phone and pressed the message numbers. A programmed voice said, “Welcome to Manor Hotel’s voice mail service. You have one new message sent at 1:17 a.m.” Then I heard Dennis’s voice say, “Honey, I’m on board a big old jet airliner, coming to you. Keep the fire going ‘cause I’ve got a big log to put in it.” The last words were nearly swallowed by a high pitched metallic screech. I replaced the handset just as Sherri hissed a warning that the police were here.

  Two uniforms arrived first. They separated us and took statements before the detectives arrived.

  I leaned against the wall, closed my eyes, feeling tired and angry and confused. It’s what I get fucking a man ten years younger. The morning after is when the age difference shows up. The anger was directed at myself for getting involved with Dennis. When I was younger I wouldn’t have given him a second look. Men came around as regularly as subway trains. Now, the trains didn’t run so regularly. Dennis comes along and I hop on. Knowing that I’d do it again made me angrier.

  What had me confused was the message on the machine. At 1:17 this morning, he was not on an airliner; he was dancing with me in a roadhouse.

  “Miss Lyon, security consultant to the Tropical Storm. Have I got that right?”

  I opened my eyes to find one of the detectives in front of me. Decent looking guy in chinos and a sweatshirt, detective shield on a cord around his neck, yesterday’s stubble adding character to otherwise bland features.

  “Sorry. Catching a nap. I’m not much good at this hour.”

  “Yeah, me neither. Steve Lebeaux. Must be tough losing a client on your watch. Got your fee in advance, I hope?”

  I pulled myself up taller. Time for the blazer to power up. “The team curfew is eleven-thirty. Once they’re in their rooms, I don’t have responsibility.”

  He looked at me coldly. The blazer didn’t seem to be working. “What exactly is your responsibility?”

  “Public appearances, team gatherings. I check out the venues before a game or press conference. Make sure the locker rooms are secure, that no nuts can get in. That sort of thing.”

  “A women’s basketball team needs ‘that sort of thing?’ No offense, but you don’t have any Jordans or Shaqs.”

  I felt my face burn. “They’re professional athletes. They work as hard and give as hard as the men.”

  “Hey calm down. I’m not saying they don’t. You still haven’t answered my question. Why does the Tropical Storm need security?”

  “People get fanatic about their hometown team and some go over the line. Each city we go to we get hate letters.”

  Lebeaux produced a glossy photograph, similar to ones in the lobby and outside the arena. The photo showed the team wearing stiletto heels, cocktail dresses and boas. The caption said, “Watch out! The home wreckers are coming.”

  “Catch me up on this home wrecker thing,” said Lebeaux.

  “‘Home wreckers’ — The Storm wins despite the other team’s home court advantage. The road’s been good this season. Ten, fifteen, twenty points a game. People started to notice. First it was, ‘Wow, that’s interesting.’ Then it became an attitude. ‘We’re going to come into your house and tear it down.’ The team gets jazzed up for road games. Radio jocks play it up. The league loves it because it puts butts into seats.”

  “They play in outfits like this?”

  I shot him my best withering look. It had no effect. “No! Women’s basketball is a sport, not a freak show, Detective. If you have questions about it, contact the league office. If you have no other questions for me, I’m going to my room to get some sleep.”

  “Had a big night?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  “Have it your way. You already told me you don’t patrol the halls after bedtime. Where’d you hit the clothesline? Your tourniquet’s slipping.”

  “Shit!” My hand flew to the scarf at my neck. I tugged it down over the hickey.

  Lebeaux’s eyes flickered in amusement. “Mrs. Ramos . . . she was married, right? She was one of these home wreckers?”

  “Julie was a gamer. Her rebound production went up on the road.”

  “So let’s say somebody takes exception to this home wrecker attitude and wants to straighten things out, it wouldn’t be a surprise they’d see Mrs. Ramos as one of the problems?”

  “No, it wouldn’t”

  “You do anything about these hate letters?”

  “I notify the local police. They make a note of it. The fact is, the desk officers don’t seem any more inclined to take us seriously than you do.”

  “I get the point. You carry a gun?”

  “I have one. I’m not carrying it now.”

  “I have to see it.”

  “It’s up in my room. I’ll get it.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Lebeaux set a quick pace to the elevator. My legs were almost as long as his and I could match his stride, but I held back. Give Dennis more time. He should be gone by now, but with Dennis you never know. Lebeaux reached the elevator ahead of me. He asked my floor and punched the buttons.

  “You ever play?” he asked.

  “Years ago.”

  “Yeah? What position, same as Mrs. Ramos?”

  “Guard mostly. Sometimes post.”

  Lebeaux followed me to my room. I put the card in the slot and eased the door open. Lebeaux went in behind me.

  Thank God, no Dennis.

  Still, I couldn’t relax. Lebeaux stood just inside, surveying the room. He didn’t need a detective’s powers to see what had gone on. Bed clothes in disarray, indentations in both pillows, an unopened beer in the ice bucket and empties scattered around. I crossed to the dresser where I had the gun, switched on the lamp and found my bra. It was hanging on the shade, one cup on the inside and one on the outside. The clasp caught on the shade when I snatched at it and I had to reach out to steady the lamp. Lebeaux watched.

  I dropped the bra on the dresser and took the gun from the drawer, held it out to him, butt first.

  “You need to see this?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He seemed disappointed. “A .357?” He swung out the cylinder and sniffed the barrel. “You fired it lately?”

  “Couple weeks ago on the range.”

  “I
had you for an autoloader. Something flat like a .380 that would fit in a purse.”

  I relaxed a little; talking about the gun was safe ground. Better than talking about a bra on a lampshade. “I like my chances for a first shot better with the revolver.”

  “A first shot doesn’t get you much if you miss.”

  “Like I said, I like my chances.”

  “I have to take this.”

  “You found shell casings from a .380 in her room?”

  Lebeaux put my gun in his belt. “You’ll get it back,” he said. He looked around again, glanced at my bra, at the lamp, the bed. Calculating the trajectory.

  “Do you need to see anything else, Detective?”

  “Gotta use your bathroom. May I?” He didn’t wait for my answer but went straight to the door and tried it. “Locked,” he said. “Somebody in there?” I felt blood drain from my face. Lebeaux noticed. “Police!” he shouted. A long second later Dennis walked out of the bathroom.

  He gave me a sheepish look. “I thought, why would anybody look for me here? Bad choice, huh?”

  “Detective Lebeaux,” I said, “Dennis Ramos, dickhead and husband of Julie Ramos.”

  Lebeaux towered over Dennis. He said, “I’m sorry about your wife, but I don’t suppose it’s news that she’s dead, is it?”

  “No,” said Dennis. “Can I see her?”

  “I have some questions first. Like what were you doing last night?” He shot me a look. “I’d say that just became my business.”

  * * * * *

  Steve Lebeaux slid into the booth opposite me. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Sounds like an oxymoron,” I said.

  “This morning?”

  “All mornings.”

  We were in Manor Hotel’s coffee shop, more than a day since I’d first met him outside Julie’s room. I’d spent most of that day at police headquarters. I must have given my story a dozen times. The gist of it was that I’d picked Dennis up at the airport a few minutes after midnight as we’d planned. Not being a player, I wasn’t subject to curfew. We’d stopped at a roadhouse where we’d had some drinks, did some dancing. We’d left about 1:30 and arrived back at my hotel room around 2:00.

  Lebeaux slid a bulky manila envelope across the table to me. I opened the flap and saw my gun.

  “It’s clean,” he said. “M.E. puts the time of death around one in the morning.” He ordered coffee, eggs and pancakes. The waitress brought my English muffin and refilled my cup. When she’d gone, Lebeaux said, “We liked him for the murder, you know. Things weren’t the greatest between him and Julie. He ever tell you that?”