Penalty Shot

by Paul Bishop

  I wondered which of the two sisters really was Terranee Brisbane's favorite. Each one thought it was the other, and it was easy to see how the bitter gulf between the two women had developed. Perhaps, I thought, Terranee Brisbane nurtured the feuding between his daughters as his revenge for neither of them being sons.

  I also wondered what Mother Brisbane made of all this and figured I'd set the cat among the pigeons by asking.

  The question made Caitlin laugh nastily. "Our mother was thrown out on her ear years ago when Father became convinced she was incapable of giving him a male offspring. There has been a succession of step-mommies since then, but not one of them has produced any further siblings for us to squabble with. Life would be a lot less expensive for him if my father would just admit he's become sterile instead of blaming each successive wife."

  As often happens when I hear the horror stories of other people's upbringings, I felt blessed a thousand times over for the loving family which I came from. When Gerald and I fought, it was always out of love, never from hate or jealousy.

  I shrugged as I finished my breakfast. "What does all this have to do with me anyway? I'm a goalkeeper, not a probate solicitor."

  "You know damn well what this has to do with you. I'm sure my sister has explained how my misguided father plans to make a decision regarding his business interests. Everything is based on the success or failure Nina and I experience with the teams he's given us to run."

  "From the look of things, I would have thought you had the upper hand. Hockey and volleyball over soccer and tennis?"

  "Under normal circumstances, perhaps, but not at the moment. The Blade Runners have little chance of climbing out of the league cellar before the end of the year. That type of position makes fan support an oxymoron. And as far as volleyball is concerned, the team indoor game has not yet developed the following that the two-man beach game has.

  "Nina has gotten lucky. Tennis has always been a big draw in this town, and her LA Rackets team tennis group has done well. And even with their own fan support problems, the Ravens have done even better. By getting into the play-offs, the Ravens are starting to develop a following. The death of Pasqual Maddox and the fighting in the crowds have also brought the team additional notoriety which is catching the public's attention.

  "The competition for crowds in Los Angeles is tough. The teams which were established before my father opened the Acropolis are still the big crowd-pleasers. Nina and I are left fighting for the dregs. If the success of the Rackets and the Ravens keeps building, I'm in danger of losing what crowds I am getting. Everyone loves a winner, and Nina's teams are the ones doing the winning."

  The Acropolis looked like a healthy concern. Even the dregs Caitlin was bemoaning could still add up to a good-sized gate. Still, I could see Caitlin wanting to attribute her sister's successes to fate rather than hard work.

  I stared pointedly at the envelope which was still on the table.

  "Look for yourself," Caitlin said, catching my gaze.

  I picked up the envelope and hefted it in my hand. "Is this how much a one-eyed goalkeeper is worth?" I asked.

  "You tell me."

  I opened the envelope and with exaggerated movements I allowed the wad of thousand-dollar bills to fall onto the table. I picked one up, held it by my face to examine the beautiful artwork splayed across the green bill, and smiled. I was enjoying myself. I even knew what I was doing.

  "How much is here?"

  "Fifty thousand."

  "And what exactly do you expect for your fifty thousand?"

  "How about a sudden muscle tear before the next game?"

  "Stavoros will just replace me with Nick or Bekka."

  Caitlin snorted like a stallion in heat. "That would be like replacing Babe Ruth with some sandlotter."

  I picked up all the bills and tapped them into a neat pile.

  "Is this how much you paid Maddox to maintain the highest goals against average in the league?"

  "He wasn't in your class as a goalkeeper. He took what he could get to feed his vices, and he was happy to do that well."

  "Fifty thousand isn't in my class either," I said. I was interested to see how far she would go.

  "A hundred thousand," she offered without hesitation.

  "Three hundred thousand." I had the pleasure of seeing her blanch.

  "Don't price yourself out of the market," she said.

  "We're talking millions and millions of dollars on the line here if your father leaves control to you. What's a few hundred thousand between friends?"

  "A hundred thousand now, and two hundred thousand when the Ravens are eliminated from the play-offs."

  "I want something else also," I told her.

  Her sexual antennae suddenly quivered as she interpreted the quickening of interest in my voice. This was something she understood very well. It was also something she enjoyed holding over her sister—using her beauty to get the physical reactions which would forever be denied to Nina.

  "I can't imagine what else you could want," she said, and moved her body under the table so one of her thighs rubbed up against me. She also leaned forward so the V of her sweater lowered to reveal creamy cleavage. She was as subtle as a bricklayer.

  I put my left hand on her thigh. "Oh, I think you can imagine," I told her.

  "Tell me," she said. One of her own hands was busy below table height.

  "All right," I said. "I want the tape recorder in your handbag."

  I was quicker than she was. My right hand shot into the handbag and came up with the miniature recorder before Caitlin had changed gears from sexual assault to the realities around her.

  "You bastard," she hissed. She swung a hand to slap my face, but I caught it before it finished its arc.

  "If you knew my mum, you'd realize there isn't a chance I'm illegitimate."

  There was movement behind me, and I knew Caitlin was trying to keep me distracted. I put my foot on one of the extra chairs around the table and shoved it for all I was worth.

  The chair skittered over the dining room's beautiful tile floor, collided with a scrawny man in jeans and a bulky sweater, and knocked him to the floor. The camera around his neck spat out its innards as it smashed against the tile.

  I released Caitlin's hand and turned to the man. Heads in the restaurant were turning our way. "I'm terribly sorry," I said, helping the man to his feet. I reached over to brush him down and at the same time, I popped open the back of the camera to expose the film. "What a shame," I said, in a solicitous voice. "I hope your holiday snaps weren't on this roll."

  "I'll sue you, you prick."

  "Take your best shot, mate." I turned back to face Caitlin, but she was on the move out of the restaurant. I left my newfound friend to follow her.

  Reeves and the Acropolis limo were waiting out front. I thought Reeves only drove for Nina Brisbane, but it was becoming clear that he was a general dogsbody. It would be interesting to talk to him further at some point in the future.

  I stopped behind the hotel's glass doors to watch as Reeves opened the limo's rear doors for Caitlin. When he did so, I saw another man in the interior. At first, I thought it was Terranee Brisbane and then realized the man was too small. The only connecting factor had been the head of white hair. The door closed again before I could get a better look at the man. Reeves saw me and tossed off a friendly salute along with a roll of his eyes. I wondered who he was impersonating today.

  I walked back into the Marriott's dining room, still holding Caitlin's tape recorder and the roll of film in my hands. My new friend with the camera had departed and my table had been cleared of dirty dishes.

  The fifty thousand dollars was gone too. I wondered if Caitlin had picked it up, or if the waitress just thought I was a good tipper.

  The blackmail attempt had been clumsy, but then it was clear that Caitlin, whatever her educational background and business skills, was not real polished when it came to dealing with people. Her beauty and her money had spoi
led her, like an overripe fruit that had been given too much sunshine and water. She was to use to getting her own way and couldn't understand that she was not the center of the universe.

  In her mind, if I couldn't be seduced over to her side by her beauty, I could be bought off by her money. And if I was stupid enough to resist her charms, bodily or monetary, then I would have to be blackmailed into thinking her way.

  She might not have even needed to resort to blackmail. If I wouldn't play along, the photos alone could have been mysteriously delivered and could put me in a difficult position with Nina Brisbane. The Ravens would have had a tough time replacing me with a top goalkeeper before the play-offs.

  The photos could have also placed me in a criminally prosecutable position with the American Indoor Soccer League. But I didn't think that was a factor Caitlin was going to lose sleep over.

  Caitlin wouldn't have appeared in the pictures of course. Just me, picking up heaps and heaps of money I didn't have an explanation for. Just me, mugging for the camera with a thousand-dollar bill next to my smile, and forty-nine others as a side order with my pancakes. However, Bekka had said there was more going on than the feud between sisters, and I felt she was right.

  If, as Caitlin had intimated, she had bought off Pasqual Maddox, it only muddied the waters surrounding the question of who murdered him. Had Pasqual backed out of his deal with Caitlin, and had she decided to eliminate him? Or had Nina found out Caitlin had the fix into her goalkeeper and had him killed for revenge? There was also the possibility that the bent-nose brigade, which Bekka had mentioned, had indeed come back for a round-three knockout.

  For my part, I would have loved to find a way to put Liam Donovan in the picture. And there was still the police mugging theory to contend with. In the real world the rozzers are rarely wrong when it comes to murder. Due to procedural glitches or lack of evidence, they might lose a case in court. However, in cases where there are any clues at all, the police don't often find themselves barking up the wrong criminal tree.

  I looked at my watch. There were still three hours before the scheduled two o'clock Ravens practice. Contending with the police theory was not something I was looking forward to, but it might be best to get it out of the way. I used the lobby phone to call the number Sir Adam had given me. He had said he would use what influence he could to smooth the legal way for me, but if experience proved my fears correct, then influence would only breed contempt.

  I got passed through the desk officer to Detective Gill, via two other disembodied voices, without being cut off. Gill sounded gruff and hurried. I wondered briefly if it was an attitude he cultivated. He said his partner would be back in an hour and they would see me then. It was obvious he was doing me a favor.

  I had an hour to kill. I decided to do what I'd wanted to do all morning.

  I called Bekka.

  Chapter 13

  My phone call caught Bekka just as she was going out the door. She sounded bright, breezy, and excited—glad to hear from me, but in a hurry. She was on her way to an early practice session arranged for her by Sticks. We agreed to meet again for dinner that evening after the regular practice. It would be our last night in town before flying to Houston, Texas, for the first playoff game with the Houston Alamos. Now there was a team name a publicity manager could love; built-in rallying cry, ready-made headlines, instant fan identification.

  After hanging up, I sat in the lobby and spent some time with the maps Spiros had given me. I familiarized myself with the directions and names of the local streets. The layout was so much clearer and more straightforward in American cities than in English. I pinpointed the police stations, hospitals, small airports, and the Acropolis complex.

  Recovering the Laverda, I zipped on the leathers I had brought with me from England. Then I left the hotel and headed for the police station in a roundabout manner to gain a feel for some of the area.

  Knowledge of the battleground is one of the most important standards of any war, and I had no doubts about being engaged in a war. Small scale it might be, but with the presence of Liam Donovan complicated by Terranee Brisbane's supposed IRA ties, the animosity between Nina and Caitlin, and one death already, whatever Sir Adam had dumped me into was still a war.

  I was also aware of the adrenal glands in my system telling me that the Ravens were in a war. Every professional athlete knows that the line between the game they play and the struggle for life and death is erased on the trail to a championship. Even though I'd only had one practice with the Ravens, I could sense the play-off tension. There was an instant identification with our dark-horse chances. Everyone loves an underdog. I always play to win, no matter what the odds. I don't know any other way to play the game; whether it be the game of soccer or the game of life. In my case, I often found it difficult to separate the two.

  With five minutes to spare before my appointment, I parked the Laverda in front of the Los Angeles Police Department's West Valley station. It was a small building, matching in architecture the library and city offices which extended to one side of the police building. There was a small park on the opposite side. Apartments and older houses filled in the surrounding streets like peasants crowding around a castle for safety.

  Inside the swinging glass doors, a uniformed desk officer directed me down a hallway to a small office where the bottom half of a Dutch door kept the public at bay. Inside the office was a cramped jumble of desks, files, business machines, files, men in shirtsleeves and ties, files, and ringing telephones. The phones seemed to ring incessantly even though every man in the office seemed to already be talking on every available instrument.

  I waited until a detective grudgingly noticed my presence. With marked irritation, he asked me what I wanted.

  I was not going to have somebody tell me to "have a nice day" here. Apparently, nice days came around in police work as often as rain in the desert—and with about as much effect. I gave my name and said I had an appointment with Detective Gill. I was told to wait, so I sat on the hard-wooden bench outside the office door and waited.

  For twenty minutes I watched the odd parade of humanity which walked up and down the corridor. There were suspects in handcuffs and victims in shock. A few members of each category were bleeding. There were confused witnesses and outraged parents, and there was all manner of police officers. Some of the cops were in uniform, others in suits, and still others whose looks differed from those of the suspects only by the addition of police badges or ID cards. Everyone shared a communal agitation. Eventually, a knife-faced man called my name from the Dutch door. I stood up and he looked at me like I was lying about who I was.

  "Ian Chapel?" he asked again, as if seeking confirmation.

  "Yes." I wondered if he was making snap judgments based on my motorcycle leathers. It had happened to me before.

  "I'm Gill. This is my partner, Briggs." He indicated another man behind him who was talking on the telephone. Briggs continued his conversation without acknowledging me. Unlike the thin, sharply dressed Gill, Briggs sported a beer belly held in check by a wide belt and the latest in lime-green polyester attire.

  Gill opened the bottom half of the door and ushered me inside. With his hand he indicated a smaller office that couldn't be seen from the Dutch door opening. He seemed very put out with having to deal with me, and I couldn't think for the life of me what I could do to put him at his ease.

  Inside the smaller interior office soundproof tiles kept the ringing of the telephones at bay. There was a table and three hardback chairs seemingly thrown into the room at random.

  In one of the chairs sat a man of my own age and build. He wore a black sweater over black jeans and shining black cowboy boots. A police ID card was clipped to the sweater's crew neck. I had seen him come up the hallway and go through the Dutch doors shortly before Gill had called me in.

  The man stood up and smiled. Youth was still in his face, but it was hiding beneath the crinkles brought on by stress, sunshine, and time. He was blo
nd and his eyes were very hard under the surface twinkle. I'd seen eyes like that before, when I ran with Sir Adam's crowd. I'd seen them in my own mirror. They were warrior's eyes.

  Gill backed out of the room without a further word and closed the door behind him.

  "Ian Chapel?" the man asked. I wondered if this constant questioning was supposed to make me break down and confess to lying about my name.

  "Yes. And you are?"

  "Ethan Kelso. Detective Kelso if you prefer, or plain Ethan if you want to make things easy. Can I call you Ian?"

  "Yes, of course, but I thought Briggs and Gill were the detectives handling the case I'm interested in."

  "They were. That's why they've had their noses put out of joint. Although with Gill it's hard to tell. He is always surly. Something to do with his hemorrhoids. Still, nobody likes to have an open case taken away from them. It makes them suspect that you're either going to steal their thunder, or that somebody is questioning their competence."

  "Which is it in this case?"

  "Briggs and Gill are topflight homicide investigators, but to mix a metaphor or two, this case could take them out of their depth and into my ballpark. However, the last thing I want is publicity. To do my job successfully, you have to make out like you're pissing in a dark blue suit. It feels warm and good, but you hope nobody notices."

  "What exactly is your job?" I asked, slightly confused.

  "Oh, sorry. I'm a spook."

  A sudden shape became clear in the dark waters.

  "Has Sir Adam Qwale been pulling strings in high places?"

  "Who?" Ethan looked coy.

  "Ah, I see. I'll take that as a yes. Are you part of the Los Angeles Police Department? Or are you attached elsewhere."

  "I'm true blue LAPD, all right," Ethan said with pride. "But I'm assigned to a special unit which I like to refer to as The Emperor's New Clothes Division. I don't think anybody, not even us, knows exactly what we do, but everyone still says we're doing a hell of a job at whatever it is. One day somebody will notice that the emperor isn't wearing any clothes, but until then I have job security."