Penalty Shot

by Paul Bishop

  "And your second reason?"

  "Much more self-serving," Bekka said with a defiant shake of her head which made her hair sway again in the movement I found so delightful. "As go the fortunes of the Ravens, so go my fortunes as a professional goalkeeper. I told you before that the Ravens were the only team willing to take a chance on me—albeit not much of one.

  "If I can help you clear up this mess, then maybe you'll bug out back to your magazine desk next season, and maybe Nick Kronos will drop dead of debauched causes, and ta-da, I'm playing in goal for the Ravens."

  "That easy, huh?"

  "Hey, I can dream, can't I? Now, what about this guy on the motorcycle?"

  I drank more coffee. I wasn't sure how much to tell Bekka, but I knew I had to give her something.

  "Well, I'm not exactly sure how he fits into all of this yet. His name is Liam Donovan, and he is some kind of terrorist attached to an IRA splinter organization. I had a rude introduction to him in England when he requested, in rather strong terms, that I not come to Los Angeles."

  "But how did he know you were going to be at the Acropolis?"

  "Whoever sent him after me in England has to be connected with the team somehow. They probably met Donovan after practice to tell him I had arrived and to discuss what to do about me. Liam has a personal axe to grind also, and I think when he saw us in the parking lot, he couldn't resist rattling my cage."

  "Is he dangerous?"

  "Like a stick of sweaty dynamite."

  A shiver ran down Bekka's body, and her eyes flashed.

  I picked up the check from the table and slipped a sheaf of bills underneath it before helping Bekka up from her chair.

  "Do you want me to take you back to your hotel?" she asked when we moved outside to the parking lot and entered her car.

  "Not right away," I told her. "First I want you to tell me a little about the rest of the team, and then I want you to help me run an errand."

  "Okay. What do you want to know?"

  "Give me a brief rundown on the team's strengths and weaknesses."

  She rested her hand against her headrest and closed her eyes in thought. "The weaknesses are easy. We have a major problem with the two styles of play on the field, European and Latin. They don't mix well and neither do the players or even the fans.

  “We have a large contingent of die-hard Latin fans who come out to see the Hot Tamales shake-and-bake with their flashy passes and fast and furious play. We also have an equally rabid group of fans who come up from the Santa Monica area, which is a bastion of British immigrants. They love to see Wagstaff and Devlin on the field, and they go as far as throwing trash on the field—which stops the game-when the Hot Tamales come on. We've had more than one fight in the stands between the two sets of fans. And they're both rooting for the same team."

  "What about strengths?"

  "They can be summed up in two words—Patrick Devlin."

  "The little Irishman?" I was surprised.

  “Absolutely. He is the only one of our players who can move freely between the two styles of play. He is our one uniting factor, and as a result he's scored more goals and has more assists than any other player. At the end of the regular season, he was named Most Valuable Player for the entire league. Whether or not the Ravens make it through to the finals, Pat Devlin will be there to receive his award at halftime."

  "What about Wagstaff and the others?"

  "Do you figure Wagstaff as the villain of the piece?" she asked with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

  I grimaced. "I'll not make out that he's my favorite person, but I'd not considered railroading him."

  "Too bad. He's almost as big an ass as Nick Kronos."

  "He's a hell of a lot better player, though."

  "You can say that again. He's tied with Danny Castalano as the team's second leading scorer, and it really chaffs his buns. I've never seen anybody as intense as Wagstaff, but it's a trait which seems to short-circuit him more often than not."

  "I see your psychology major isn't going to waste."

  Bekka chose to ignore this and continued on. "The other players are the usual mix of over-the-hill or second-rate European or Latin players who couldn't make it in their own countries, or young American players like me who don't know any better."

  I laughed out loud at this. "You won't make me believe that you, especially, don't know better. I think you have some grand plan set aside to take Europe by storm someday soon."

  I could tell I was hitting close to the mark because she immediately changed the subject.

  "What was that errand you wanted to run?"

  "I want you to take me shopping for a motorcycle."

  "Why in the world do you want a motorcycle?" Bekka asked after I had given her a slip of paper with the address of a local dealership.

  I'd planned on using a motorcycle for transportation even before leaving England, so one of the first things I did when we checked into the hotel was to check out the dealerships in the phone book. Los Angeles and the San Fernando Valley are vast communities, and I felt sure I could find what I was looking for without too much trouble. However, there only seemed to be one establishment within the local area which fit the bill.

  "I want a motorcycle," I explained, "because I'm not going to rely on Reeves and his limo to chauffeur me everywhere I want to go."

  "You could rent a car."

  "I'm more comfortable on a cycle. I ride one at home, and it suits my disability better than driving a car."

  "If you say so." She looked again at the address I'd given her. "This is only a little further up the boulevard. We'll be there in five minutes." She started her car, put it into gear, and pulled out of the restaurant lot.

  She caught the expression on my face.

  "Did you forget something?"

  I shook my head. "It's far too late now. I'm out of practice for more than just goalkeeping. "

  "What do you mean?"

  "I just got through telling you what a dangerous man Liam Donovan is, and yet I didn't even think about checking out your car until after you started the engine."

  "You mean for a bomb or something?"

  I gave an affirmative nod, and Bekka turned a little pale in the streetlights which now streamed through the car's window.

  "This game is for real, isn't it?" she asked, slightly shocked.

  "Liam Donovan wants me badly. I don't think a few extra bodies one way or the other are going to make any difference to him." I didn't want to be melodramatic, but I'd dealt with characters like Donovan before and I knew the word "conscience" wasn't in their personal dictionary. Bekka needed to know what she was getting into by helping me.

  I watched her driving and cursed myself for the feelings which were stirring within me toward her. I was giving Donovan, and whoever was controlling Donovan, an edge. Even having known her for what amounted to just a few hours, I was aware she could already be used as a lever against me. Plus, my emotions toward her were distracting me. I never would have started a car up in similar circumstances without checking and double-checking if I was running on the cutting edge of cold logic instead of heated emotions. I would have to be very careful or we could end up losing far more than the play-offs. Love, or lust, or insanity, or whatever this was, obviously was a gremlin which delighted in choosing the worst possible moment to assert itself.

  When we parked again, Bekka looked at me quizzically. I understood why. Behind us on both sides of the street were the garish lights and gleaming machines of numerous car and motorcycle dealers, but the address we were parked in front of had no machines on display and a rather dingy facade.

  In large white letters, a sign on the building proclaimed: European Motorcycle Sales & Repairs. Painted flags of the European community surrounded the lettering. A smaller sign told us to enter from the rear, so we hiked around to the back of the dealership and had a pleasant surprise. Rows of bikes could be seen through plate glass windows and the open service bays were bustling with acti
vity even though we were well into the evening hours.

  "Can I help you?" a voice from behind us asked.

  Bekka and I turned to confront a lanky youth who was wiping his hands on a scrap of cloth. He wore clean, pressed overalls which had a smear of fresh grease down one leg. The youth rubbed it self-consciously.

  "I'm interested in buying a cycle," I told him.

  He looked at my eye patch dubiously.

  "I ride a BMW RS-90 at home, but I need something to get around on while I'm here." This statement launched a conversation about BMW bikes, my reasons for being in America, and exactly what I was looking for in a cycle. It also gave a platform from which the youth introduced me to his father, Spiros Jaul, an Austrian immigrant who knew motorcycles inside out and loved soccer with the heart of a true fanatic. When he found out who I was, he couldn't do enough for us.

  It was quickly clear that the front of the business was far from indicative of its status. The service bays were immaculate and crammed with local European cycle enthusiasts, all working to perfect the performance of the oddest assortment of cycles I'd ever seen gathered together.

  "They are good people," Spiros explained. "Most of them are from the old countries or are first-generation American and proud of it. By making the bays available to them, it provides good business for me. They are loyal customers and it keeps Mica and his friends off the streets." He affectionately cuffed his son on the head.

  "Oh, Papa," the boys said with slight embarrassment. He was in his middle teens and appeared bright and personable.

  Spiros took us around into the showroom and through the rows of new and used Motoguzzis, Triumphs, Nortons, Husqvarnas—the top Swedish dirt bikes—Ducatis, and various other esoteric European manufacturers. He didn't have a BMW RS-90 in stock, and he refused to sell me any of his other similar BMWs because they had not yet been reconditioned to his satisfaction.

  "Couldn't you settle for something normal, like a Honda Gold Wing, or a Suzuki, or maybe a good old American Harley?" Bekka asked in frustration after we had seen most of the cycles in stock.

  Spiros looked at her with deep sadness in his eyes. "You have a lot to teach this one," he said to me cryptically, and then turned away to whisper in his son's ear. Mica moved quickly away.

  "The Honda Gold Wing is basically a two-wheeled Winnebago," I told Bekka, referring to a popular brand of motor home. "The other Japanese rocket bikes have too much power and not enough sureness of handling for my one-eyed liking, and Harley-Davidsons are basically reserved for rebels without a clue."

  Spiros laughed, but Bekka sniffed. "I'd be careful where you spread such blasphemies," she told me. "Those are fighting words if I've ever heard them."

  In the back of the shop an engine turned over and settled into a distinctive rumble. I instantly looked at Spiros, who flashed his teeth at me when he knew I recognized the sound.

  "A Laverda," I said to him.

  "Yes, yes," he said, clapping his hands. "I thought it might interest you. It is a 1978 in beautifully restored condition."

  "Three-cylinder, 1000 cc engine?"

  "Absolutely. Nothing else sounds like it."

  ' 'What's the cylinder alignment? Two up and one down, or one up, one down, and one in the middle."

  "The latter. It made for better optimum horsepower."

  "Orange or black?" I asked. The Laverda had been manufactured in the two colors by an Italian tractor company whose owner and sons dabbled in motorcycles as a sideline. It handled better than most Japanese bikes and was much faster than the British cycles.

  "Come and see for yourself," Spiros said, and led the way.

  We walked quickly through to a small room at the back of the shop. Mica was standing near the beautiful black Laverda. His smile was a duplicate of his father's.

  The cycle had twin disks on the front and the typical sport style handlebars for leaning into the wind. It was also taller than most Japanese cycles because of its higher ground clearance.

  I wanted it immediately. "Find me a helmet," I said, and sealed the deal by taking out a thick book of traveler's checks.

  There was another reason for the motorcycle, which I hadn't discussed with Bekka. If I spotted Liam Donovan again, I wanted a two-wheeled chance to catch him.

  Chapter 12

  For most of that night, I slept the sleep of the dead. I'd ridden the Laverda back to the hotel after saying good night to Bekka and acquiring a stack of local maps from Spiros. After the events of the day, I had reveled in the feeling of power I always keyed into when riding a motorcycle. The wide city streets were a dream, and I'd found my way back to the hotel faster than I would have liked.

  One of the hotel's parking valets was a bike fanatic, and he fell in love with the Laverda as quickly and I had done. He promised to park it in a nearby protected area. I over-tipped him, happy with the arrangement since it would keep the bike handy as well as safe. I entered the hotel and made my way up to my room.

  Sticks was already sawing logs with the rattling sounds which can only be produced by the true mouth-breather. I had to close the doors to both his bedroom and my own in order to cut the noise of his snoring to a reasonable level.

  I had planned to lie in bed and think through the events of the day, to decide what steps I was going to take next, but the instant my head hit the pillow, I was off to the land of nod. I didn't actually go to sleep. I passed out instead.

  Ten hours later, as my jet-lagged sleep receded, I dreamt mixed-up dreams filled with images of Nina Brisbane lifting her veil to reveal Bekka's face, only to have it explode like a cartoon character's demise. My agitation over the dream affected my breathing, which woke me up as 8:15 a.m. clicked over on the digital clock.

  I am a firm believer that whoever invented mornings should be taken out and shot, so it was a cranky Ian Chapel that I dragged out of bed and put through a half-hearted exercise routine. My body had stiffened up from the flight with Wagstaff, and even after a twenty-minute hot shower, it hurt to raise my right arm above shoulder level.

  Sticks, knowing well my morning moods, had gone out after leaving me a note stating he would see me at the Ravens' afternoon practice. Left to my own devices, I eventually wandered down to the Marriott's dining room for breakfast. The waitress was young and pleasant, and I ordered something called the lumberjack special, orange juice, and a pot of coffee. She smiled and bounced away full of light and joy. I really hate morning people.

  The lumberjack special turned out to be a tall stack of pancakes topped with three eggs, a side of sausage, and enough hash brown potatoes and toast to feed an army. I was just taking the first sip of juice when Caitlin Brisbane stepped up to my table. She looked trim and sultry, with a knowing expression on her face beneath perfect makeup.

  "Do you mind some company?" she asked and slid into one of the three empty chairs without waiting for an answer.

  Ancient habits die hard, and I had purposely sat facing the entrance to the dining room, but I had not seen Caitlin enter. She must have been lying in wait for me at another table or booth, and I wondered what she would have done if I had ordered room service. She placed an elegant eel skin handbag on the table between us.

  "To what do I owe this honor?" I asked. I gave the rest of the room an unobtrusive scan to see if she had brought along any other company. There was some furtive movement in a rear corner booth.

  "Oooh," she faked a shiver and ran her hands up and down the sleeves of her pink cashmere sweater, making her breasts bounce around like bear cubs fighting under a blanket. "If the temperature in your voice drops much lower, we're going to have to move this conversation closer to the equator."

  I ignored this. "How long have you been waiting for me?" I said, not raising the temperature any.

  "About two hours," she said. At least she was not going to try to con me that this was a chance meeting. "But I think you'll be worth the wait."

  "That probably depends on what you're waiting for."

  The radia
nce of her smile spread slowly across her face, and I could almost feel her turning up the heat of her raw sexuality. It made me think, though, of the emotional electric shock I'd experienced when I first laid eyes on Bekka. I knew immediately that there was nothing this woman could offer me beyond the physical.

  At some other point in my life a physical spark might have been enough. However, at the moment I still hadn't had a chance to come to terms with what I was feeling toward Bekka. I hadn't even been able to consider what she might be feeling toward me. All I knew was that Bekka had definitely thrown a spanner into my emotional works; so much so that the sexual sparks flying off Caitlin Brisbane were having as much effect on me as a hammer on an anvil.

  While Caitlin watched, I dug into the breakfast in front of me. She poured coffee into one of the extra cups on the table and allowed me to struggle with a full mouth when the waitress came by to ask if everything was okay.

  Oblivious to the fact that we were sitting in a nonsmoking area, Caitlin took a slim cigarette out of her handbag and used an inlaid pearl lighter to set flame to it. She released smoke through flared nostrils, an action which immediately negated any sexual pull she might have tried to exert.

  She put the lighter back in the handbag and pulled out a fat envelope. She placed the envelope on the table near my left hand and left the handbag open. I stared at the envelope.

  "I won't beat around the bush," she told me. "My sister thinks I don't have the brains of an earthworm, but she's wrong. I have an MBA degree and I am a certified public accountant. I know my father's sports businesses from the inside out, and when he retires or dies, I am determined to take over from him. I deserve it. All the time everyone spent coddling Nina over her face, was time that I had to help keep Father and his enterprises together. He was a basket case for a long time after Nina was shot. If it hadn't been for me there would be no spoils to fight over. Just because Nina is Daddy's favorite little girl, his poor wounded bird who needs to be protected, is no reason why I should be cut out of things."