We all liked what we did, and each of us had our place in the equation.
Baker’s planning would afford us the opportunity. My ability to manipulate the security system got us inside. Reno’s diversion tactics would assure the police were elsewhere. Cash made sure no one stuck their nose in our business, Goose guarded the premises with the precision of a well-trained sniper, and Ghost would make sure we got home safe, one step ahead of the police.
When the job in question was complete, the payment I received was a bonus.
I now looked at the men who I once considered brothers and saw leeches. Parasitic predators who were dependent upon me for their continuation on earth. In my absence, they’d wither and die.
I glanced at each of the men, and then looked at Baker. The ice cream wasn’t working. It was time for me to tell the truth. “I’m thinking this might be my last job.”
His eyes shot wide. “Excuse me? I thought there for an instant that you said this might be your last job.”
“You heard correctly.”
“I don’t have any fucking idea what’s going on,” Baker said, his voice nearly frantic. “But take whatever time you need. Fuck these coins. I’m not worried about this job, Tito. I’m worried about you. Something’s off, and I have no idea—”
“You’re not worried about me,” I said dismissively. “You’re not now, nor have you ever been. You’re dependent upon me. There’s a difference.”
He gave me a look. “What are you saying?”
It decided to apply the advice Reggie gave me. The men needed to know how I felt, and how their actions affected me.
“When was the last time you were at my house?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he responded. “Why?”
“You were there right after I bought it. You came over with a bottle of wine. That was over ten years ago.” I shook my head and looked away. He began to speak, and I cut him off. “When’s my birthday?”
“Fuck, I don’t know.”
“I know everyone’s birthday,” I said.
“That’s no big fucking surprise,” he said. “You store information like a library.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Goose. When’s my birthday?”
“C’mon, brother,” Goose whined. “Don’t put me on the spot.”
“When’s my birthday, Goose?”
“May 8th,” he responded.
I looked at Baker. “Goose was over last week. Want to know why? He was worried about me. He helped me find a solution, too. Gave me sound advice. Would you care to guess why?”
He sighed. “I’ll just let you tell me.”
“Because he cares.”
“I care,” he said. “I just show it—”
“You care about the next job,” I argued. “So you can give your proceeds away to make up for a deficiency in your life. Provide for others what your parents couldn’t provide for you. Well, brother, I’ve got news for you. Money can’t buy peace of mind. Neither can giving it away.”
“I think it’s time for you to take some time off,” he said in a bitter tone. “Before friendships are ruined and—”
“What about this job?!” Cash barked, shooting up from his seat. “What the fuck are we going to do about this job?”
I stood. “Don’t worry, Cash. I’ll take care of it. Because I know how much money you sank in that house, and in your business.” I glanced at each of the men, and then Ally, before fixing my eyes on Cash. “But everyone else? We don’t need the money. You’re the only one that does. Why? Because you’re a lazy irresponsible piece of arrogant shit who thinks he’s better than everyone else in the room. You’ve never cared about anyone other than yourself. You suck the life out of everyone around you. Personally, I’m sick of it.”
“Fuck you,” Cash snarled, puffing his chest. “I’ll whip your little—”
“Damn it,” Baker said through his teeth. “That’s enough.”
“It’s the fucking truth,” I said, clenching my fists. “Everyone here believes it. I’m the only one who has the guts to say it. Cash is a dick.”
I glanced at everyone in the room. Ten eyes stared back at me, each filled with disbelief. Not knowing if that disbelief was in opposition of my claim or nothing more than shock from my lack of tact, I turned toward the door.
Without saying another word, I left.
21
Reggie
Sunday dinner at my father’s house was a tradition that started when I was a child. Regardless of where I was or what I was doing, I always made it home for dinner. Other days of the week could be spent with a friend, having a sleepover, or, later in life, just running around doing nothing.
Sunday evenings, however, were spoken for.
As a child, I looked at it as a burden. An unnecessary cog in my life’s wheel. When I became an adult, I realized the importance of spending quality time with my father.
“You don’t have to.” I put my coffee cup in the dishwasher and turned around. “It’s just. It might seem weird, but I go over there every Sunday for dinner. It’s kind of a tradition, or whatever.”
“Believe me, I understand about traditions,” Tito said with a smile. His look went serious. “You don’t think it’s too early?”
“What do you mean?”
“Too early in this…”
Seemingly at a loss for the words to continue, he paused. Apparently, I needed to finish his sentence for him.
“Relationship?” I asked.
He sipped his coffee. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“What else would we call it?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m new to this.”
I didn’t think placing a label on what we were doing was necessary, but for the sake of argument, I’d give it a try.
“Was it a one-night-stand?” I asked.
“No.”
“A booty call?”
“No.”
“Are we fuck buddies?”
He shot me a glare. “I’d like to think not.”
“Well. There’s only one thing left. A relationship.” I raised my brows. “Are you okay with that?”
“If you are.”
“I’m fine with it,” I admitted. “I’m not saying I’ve fallen in love with you or anything ridiculous. I’m just saying this can’t be perceived as anything but a relationship.”
He nodded. “I’ll agree with that.”
“I guess it’s settled. For what it’s worth, I don’t mess around outside the relationship.” I crossed my arms over my chest and waited for his response.
“Neither do I.”
The corners of my mouth tried to form a smile. “So, is that a yes? You’ll go over to my dad’s for dinner?”
“Sure.”
“It doesn’t bother you that he’s a cop?” I asked with a laugh. “You said cops were corrupt when we went on our first date. Remember?”
“He’s your father,” he replied. “How bad can it really be?”
* * *
My father shook Tito’s hand for an inordinate amount of time, studying him all the while. “Ted Gottschalk,” he said. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Taddeo Silva,” Tito said. “I prefer Tito.”
“I go by Tank at work,” my father said, crossing his arms over his chest. “But, let’s just 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 three 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 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 enforce
ment?”
“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 wine, 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.
22
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 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?”
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