“I go by Tank at work, and to my friends” my father said. “But, you and I will stick with Ted for now.”
Tito gave a crisp nod. “Yes, Sir.”
My father eyed Tito’s tattoos for a lingering moment, and then turned toward the kitchen. “You can give that sir shit a rest, Tito. I’m not the chief of police, nor am I a military officer.”
Tito glanced in my direction and shrugged an awkward apology. “It’s habit.”
My father waved his arm toward the kitchen in a whirlwind motion. “Follow me. I’ve got meat marinating.”
It had only been five minutes, but so far, everything was going smoothly. While my father sauntered toward the kitchen, I looked at Tito and raised my brows.
He smiled in return.
Typically, my father formed his opinions in a matter of minutes. After that, there was no turning back. I crossed my fingers that there were no major snafus before the night was over.
It took him five minutes to decide what he thought of Jared, and his beliefs didn’t change over time. In the end, he didn’t come out and say I was right, but he didn’t have to. His categorization of my boyfriends over the course of my life had been spot-on.
The ones that he approved of I let go, only to see them go on to get married. Of the men he detested, some wound up in prison. One was dead. A few continued to abuse and manipulate women elsewhere.
I wondered if being a detective allowed him to develop a sixth sense about mankind, or if his sixth sense about mankind allowed him to become an effective investigator. I found it odd that I never asked the question of him.
“The coffee we drank is going right through me,” Tito said.
“Second door on the left,” my father said.
“I’ll be right back.”
While Tito went to the bathroom, I stepped beside my father. As soon as I heard the door latch into place, I began to probe his thoughts.
“Well?”
“Well what?” he asked. “You want me to make a decision based on a handshake and the fact he called me sir?”
“Yes.”
“Here’s my observations,” he said. “He’s got a good handshake. He’s polite. Confident. I outweigh him by seventy-five pounds, and he’s not intimidated by me. That’s a good sign.”
“Is that it?”
He patted a steak dry, and then set it aside. “He’s got a lot of tattoos.”
“So do half the officers on the police force,” I argued.
After a lingering over the shoulder stink-eye, he went back to tending the steaks. “So far, I like him. I’ll give you a more educated opinion before the night’s over.”
“Okay.”
“Did you find out if he rides in a club?”
I feared if he found out Tito rode in a motorcycle club, that he’d immediately categorize him. Having him form an unbiased opinion after spending an evening together wouldn’t be possible. He’d decide Tito was a bad apple immediately upon finding out he was in an MC.
I couldn’t lie to my father, but I was hesitant to offer the truth. I struggled with a way to be honest without revealing my findings.
“I’m not sure what’s going on there,” I said.
“Let’s hope everything’s on the up and up.”
“Just give him a chance,” I said. “That’s all I ask.”
He kissed the top of my head. “I will.”
When Tito returned to the kitchen, my father immediately began prying into his person, his background, and his beliefs. It came as no surprise. He did the same thing to everyone I brought into his home. Finding answers to those questions were important to him. It allowed him to make an accurate decision regarding the person’s character.
“Silva’s what, Portuguese?” he asked. “Are you Brazilian?”
“Yes, Sir.”
My father placed the steaks in a hot cast-iron skillet. “Most people claim if you don’t grille a steak, you’re ruining it. I’ll sear these in this skillet, then cook them in a five-hundred-degree oven. Tell me what you think.”
“I’m a steak snob,” Tito replied. “I’ll be honest.”
“Steak snob, huh?” He glanced at Tito and smirked. “I like that. I might be one, too.”
“Life’s too short to eat bad cuts of meat.”
“That it is,” my father agreed. “Where do you buy your meat?
“Iowa Meat Farms on Mission Gorge, or Siesel’s. I’m on a first-name-basis with the butcher at both.”
My father laughed. “These came from Iowa Meat Farms. I’ll be damned. Small world.”
“It sure is.”
“Are you close to your family?” He flipped the steaks. “Are they in Brazil?”
“I do have family in Brazil,” Tito replied. “But my parents are in Montana. I’m very close to them both. My father is a neurosurgeon, specializing on spine injuries. He works at the hospital in Great Falls, and travels to Billings from time to time. My mother works from home, developing and upgrading computer virus software.”
My father transferred the steaks to the oven, placing them in a second cast-iron skillet. His cooking skills increased tenfold after my mother left us. He had no alternative but to learn to cook. At first, he saw it as an inconvenience. Now, he seemed to enjoy it immensely.
“Three minutes on each side, and they’ll be just south of medium. Anything more than that, and the meat’s ruined.” He wiped his hands on a towel and faced Tito. “How do you prefer your steak?”
Tito grinned. “Off the fire at 155 degrees. It’s about 160 in five minutes.”
“What’s that? Medium?”
“I think so.”
“I don’t use a thermometer.” He folded his arms over his chest. “It’s cheating, in my opinion.”
“I won’t cook a steak without one,” Tito replied. “It’s a steak snob thing, I guess.”
“Reggie tells me you manage car washes,” my father said, changing the subject completely. “Far cry from computer science and neurosurgery. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I guess I’ll be blunt.” He gave Tito a quick once-over. “What happened?”
I shot him a glare. “Dad! Really?”
“With a perfect SAT score and a rather attractive GPA,” Tito said. “I was accepted into MIT. Instead of going, I opted to move here and manage carwashes. Some might see it as taking the easy way out. Personally, it works well for me. Living with two people whose moods were dependent on their job performance allowed me to place value on living a simple, stress-free life. If I need extra money for any reason, I do freelance work.”
“Interesting,” my father said. “What kind of freelance work?”
“Computer science. Coding, Writing programs. Solving problems.”
My father gave a curt nod. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.” He checked his watch, flipped the steaks, and then faced Tito. He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Let’s say I die of a heart attack one day. At some point following my heart attack, Reggie trips over a banana peel, hits her head on the concrete, and ends up in a coma. The doctor tells you she’s brain dead and asks your permission to unplug her. What do you do?”
“I buy a plane ticket,” Tito replied.
My father raised a brow. “Where are you going?”
“I’m not going anywhere. The ticket is for my father. He’d be coming here to do whatever needs to be done to repair the damage to her brain.”
“Let’s say he failed. Then what?”
“If you’re asking whether or not I’d unplug her, the answer’s no.”
My farther glanced at his watch. “Better get the meat out of the oven, or it won’t be worth eating.”
He removed the skillet and plated the steaks. He then poured two glasses of wine and handed each of us one. “Let those things sit for five minutes, and we’ll be ready to eat. I’ve got salads in the fridge, and I made a potato salad that’s out of this world.”
I gazed through the kitchen window, toward the
outside patio. The area of hand-laid brick was built by my father, a project he worked on one day a week while I was a toddler. The saplings he planted around the perimeter were now mature shade trees.
Before my mother left, we ate on the patio often, allowing the cool evening air and the warmth of the California sun to become part of our meal. Since my mother left, we hadn’t eaten out there once.
My father said he built the area as a place for the family to gather and enjoy. He never officially addressed the issue, but I guessed without my mother present he felt we were no longer a family.
We were simply the survivors of one.
Saddened, I faced Tito and my father and sipped my wine.
Tito lowered his wine glass. “How long have you worked in law enforcement?”
“Thirty-two years,” my father replied proudly.
“You’ve probably reached your pension cap by now, haven’t you?”
“I have.”
“Do you have any retirement plans?”
“I planned on retiring at the thirty-year mark. I’ve got one more case to solve before I go. As soon as I’m done with it, it’ll be nothing but off-shore fishing and extended vacations.”
Tito raised his glass. “Here’s hoping you solve that case sooner rather than later.”
We raised our glasses in toast. As my father sipped his drink, we made eye contact. I’d remained silent during the question-answer session, allowing him to get a feel for who he felt Tito was.
I raised my brows in wonder of his thoughts.
He winked.
I lowered my glass and flashed Tito a smile. He didn’t know it, but he’d formally been accepted by the most critical man I’d ever come to know. The thought of it was exciting. To date, my father had never been wrong.
I hoped this time was no exception.
228
Tito
Hap leaned forward and peered past me. After a moment of going unnoticed, he cleared his throat. “What do you do with your spare time?”
Seated between Braxton and me, Reggie leaned forward. “Are you talking to me?”
“Well, I’m sure as shit not talking to my son,” Hap growled playfully. “And you can see what my tattooed neighbor does with his spare time, he’s doing it right now. Yes, dear, I’m talking to you.”
“Oh.” She smiled. “Let’s see. I run. I read quite a bit. I play the online crosswords from the LA Times and the Tribune. I don’t know. I guess that’s about it, really.”
Hap relaxed. He processed her reply for a moment. Then, he leaned forward. “Play any games other than crosswords?”
“No,” Reggie replied. “Not really.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I guess it’s because I don’t have anyone to play with.”
Hap stood and walked past Reggie and me. He handed Braxton his empty bottle. After receiving a fresh one in return, he faced Reggie. He took a drink, giving her a quick look-over in the process. “But you’re not opposed to it? If there were willing participants?”
“Playing games with others?” She laughed. “No. I’m not a snob, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Didn’t peg you for a snob.” He sipped his beer. “I was more concerned with your willingness to play games.”
She glanced in my direction.
I shrugged. “I have no idea where he’s going with this.”
She looked at Hap. “I’m willing.”
Hap lifted his chin slightly. “Ever heard of fuck, marry, kill?”
“Oh, yeah! This is going to be fun.” She rubbed her hands together feverishly. “Alex Rodriguez, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Tony Stark. Whatever that guy’s name is. I can’t ever remember it.”
“Robert Downey Junior,” Braxton said.
“Yeah, that’s him.” She glanced at each of us. “Who goes first?”
“I don’t fuck men,” Hap huffed.
“Well,” Reggie said. “I don’t fuck women.”
Hap rubbed his jaw. “Didn’t give this much thought.”
“I’d fuck Rodriguez, Kill Gyllenhaal, and marry Iron Man,” Braxton said dryly.
Reggie glanced to her left. “Why Iron Man?”
“He’s the oldest,” Braxton replied. “He’ll die sooner than the others, leaving me to inherit his fortune. And, after seeing Nightcrawler, Gyllenhaal gives me the creeps. I couldn’t fuck that guy or marry him. I think I’d toss him in the lion den at the San Diego Zoo. Process of elimination leaves Rodriguez and Iron Man. Iron Man’s the clear winner.”
“Rodriguez and Iron Man have comparable net worth,” Reggie said. “If that makes a difference.”
Braxton tilted his beer bottle toward Reggie and grinned. “I’ll stick with Iron Man.”
“I’m not playing this round,” Hap whined. “I can’t bring myself to fuck a man, and I’m damned sure not marrying one. I’d kill all three of those bastards, but we’ve deemed in previous games that such violent acts are unacceptable.”
Reggie looked at me. “Do you play this often?”
I nodded. “Hap enjoys it.”
“When you’re old and single.” Hap lowered himself into his seat. “Little things bring excitement to your life. This is one of them.”
“I guess we can play with women,” Reggie responded. “I could do that for the sake of your sanity.”
“I like her,” Hap said, directing his comment to me. “She’s a team player.”
“Be careful,” I said. “She’s got a mean streak.”
Hap shifted his eyes to Reggie. “What’s the kid talking about?”
“Probably about me burning my ex’s things.”
“Did you have a celebratory shit can fire?” Hap asked.
Her face contorted. “A what?”
“Did you toss his socks and skivvies in a shit-can and douse ‘em in lighter fluid?”
“Not exactly,” she responded. “A friend and I carried his couch, a lamp, an end table, his clothes, and some ridiculous slippers out to my back yard and burned them.”
“What was wrong with the couch?”
“It was stupid.”
“All couches are stupid,” Hap said. “What made that one dumb enough to burn? Mind explaining that to me?”
“Not at all.” She stood and patted her palms against the backs of her bare thighs. “This part of my legs stuck to it like glue. It was made of fake leather and it was lime green. If I wore shorts, when I stood up, it sounded like someone was ripping Velcro apart. I hated that thing with a passion.”
“Why’d he buy a green plastic couch? He couldn’t afford real leather?”
“It cost almost four grand,” she complained. “He thought it was awesome.”
Hap chuckled. “Probably didn’t sit on the thing bare-legged, did he?”
“Nope.”
“Can’t think for the life of me why anyone would need a lime green plastic sofa.” Hap rubbed his head with the tips of his fingers. “Was he a weirdo?”
Reggie took a gulp of beer and handed Braxton the empty bottle. Braxton twisted the cap from a fresh one and handed it to her.
“He preferred banana hammock underwear to boxers or briefs,” Reggie replied. “He wore furry slippers in public and fucked nasty strippers in the parking lot of the strip club—in his car. I’ll let you decide.”
Hap squinted. “Was he hung like a mule?”
Reggie extended her index finger and gave it a thorough inspection. “His dick and my index finger had a lot in common.”
Midway through a drink, Braxton coughed out a laugh, spitting beer off the porch in the process.
“Son-of-a-bitch.” He pinched his nostrils closed. “That shit came out my nose.”
“If a man isn’t hung like a horse, he ought not be wearing a banana hammock,” Hap said. “And who in the hell wears fuzzy slippers in public?”
“Pffft.” Reggie scoffed. “They were Gucci’s and they cost a thousand dollars.”
“Jesus jumped up Christ,” Hap bellowed.
“A grand for a pair of slippers? Did this guy shit money?”
Reggie shook her head. “They were a gift. I bought them.”
Hap scowled. “I’m beginning to wonder about your sanity, little girl.”
“I tried everything to make him happy.” She shrugged. “Nothing worked.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Hap said. “If he was fucking strippers while you were sitting at home on that green couch, my guess is he didn’t know what he wanted out of life. Some men are complacent on the outside but on the inside they’re angrier than a sack of wet cats.” He nodded at me. “If it’s any consolation, the Kid is pretty even-keeled.”
She grinned. “He seems to be.”
“Change of subject. Katy Perry, Miley Cyrus, and Taylor Swift,” Braxton said. “Go!”
“Fuck Katy, marry T-Swift, and kill Miley,” Reggie blurted.
“Care to explain?” Braxton asked.
“Sure.” Reggie leaned against the handrail of the porch and sipped her beer. “I’d kill Miley, because sooner or later she’d go off the deep end and do something stupid and unpredictable. Katy’s a bitch from time to time, so I couldn’t marry her. I’d fuck her just to see what her tits feel like. That leaves T-Swift for the marry. Pretty simple math. How about you?”
“I’m afraid I’d have to fuck Miley,” Braxton said. “She’s nuttier than a squirrel turd, and nutty girls are always good in the sack. I’d kill Perry because she irritates me. Afraid I’d have to marry Taylor, too. Probably end in a divorce fairly quickly. She’s far too strong-willed for me.”
“You prefer submissive types?” Reggie asked.
“Not so much,” he replied. “Doesn’t mean I want to spend my life arguing over petty things, though. I can see that girl being difficult to live with.”
“I’d hit Miley in the head with a wrecking ball, kill that skinny little Swift girl, and marry Perry,” Hap said.
Reggie laughed. “How do you know about Miley Cyrus and the wrecking ball?”
“I watch all the awards banquets. Get a huge kick out of seeing everyone. Except for that damned Cardi B. That woman’s voice grinds on my last nerve.”
“Me, too.” Reggie pointed at Hap. “And yuck on you for marrying Katy Perry. She’s—”
Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set Page 120
