Think Before You Speak

by D. A. Bale

  “Banker Boy?”

  I shrugged. “Some of the regulars earn pet names.”

  Grady smirked. “I’d hate to think what pet name you’ve cooked up for me.”

  “You’re not a customer.”

  “I’m your boss.”

  “Exactly. You have a title.”

  “Which is?”

  “What else? The Boss.”

  “Catchy.”

  “I try.”

  That earned me a smirk before Grady got down to business again – ATF business, it seems. “What can you tell me about this Banker Boy guy?”

  “Not much,” I admitted.

  “Impressions?”

  “Of the Three Musketeers, he’s the least likeable, though that may have more to do with the fact he’s stingy with tips.”

  “What about his two friends?”

  “They’re good guys. The dark-headed one is a lawyer, and the other…”

  “Yeah, we all know what you think of Radioman,” Grady acknowledged with a grin.

  I punched his arm and got another laugh for my trouble. “Don’t know why I keep working for you.”

  “Hey, just a minute ago you were worried about gettin’ fired.”

  “Well, we both know now that won’t happen anytime soon,” I muttered, taking another hard look at the stilled screen image of Banker Boy.

  The three guys surrounding him looked rough. Not the usual suspects he came in with. Trust me, if Radioman had been within a hundred yards of the bar, my nether regions would’ve set off like a cell phone on vibrate.

  I asked the question building in my brain. “Is this footage from tonight?”

  “Yep.”

  “I don’t remember seeing him here.”

  “Me neither,” Grady said. “Which is why this parkin’ lot interaction caught my eye.”

  “It was rather busy, so it’s possible we just missed him.”

  “Hmm,” he murmured, sliding the till into the safe before resetting the cameras, then grabbing his Stetson and escorting me out of the office to set the alarms.

  As we walked across the empty lot to our vehicles, Grady offered up a pat on the back just above my haunches. “You did good tonight, Vic.”

  “Are you talking with the clients or surveillance?” I asked, enjoying a little too much the warmth of his hand on my hip.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Guess that was all the information he was willing to offer. For once in my life, I didn’t push the issue. We stopped off at my Vette, and Grady leaned on the hood while I fumbled for the keys.

  “When Banker Boy comes in next,” I started, “do you want me to do a little fishing?”

  “No fishin’, Vic. Just keep your ears open. This might be a situation where a couple of low-lifes were harassin’ an innocent bystander.”

  I stopped fumbling in my purse for a half-second and offered up my best evil-eyed stare. “You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?”

  “We’re only blocks from the edge of gang territory, so anything’s possible.”

  No mustache tilt. No slow, easy smile. The milk chocolate gaze hardened into obsidian disks. My boss had let down the good-ol’-boy routine and revealed his undercover persona. It was a little frightening – and hot.

  “Let me help, boss,” I pleaded. “With a little alcohol, I can get any man to talk. A lot of alcohol, and I can tell you what his momma called him before he got out of diapers.”

  “I realize you’re no wilting flower, and you’ve got good instincts. That’s why I asked for your impression of this guy. But leave this alone and let the professionals handle the bad guys, sweetheart.”

  With that, he pushed away from the Vette and climbed into his black Dodge Ram, shining the bright lights atop the roll bar until I climbed into my car with first degree burns. At least that’s the way it felt – and not just on my skin.

  First Jimmy had rained on my parade by telling me to avoid a gang leader who had to be about as old as dirt by now. Then Grady dressed me down for offering to get information from a patron who frequented the bar. Pretty crappy of him, if you asked me. Wasn’t like the boss hadn’t asked for my impressions or anything.

  I peeled out of the parking lot with the truck not far behind and made to head toward home. After offering up a southern salute out my driver’s side window, I turned onto the next street while Grady’s Ram thundered through the light with a honk of acknowledgement. I waited for a couple of beats at the following stoplight before shooting a U.

  When told to stay out of other people’s business – or away from a crime and gang ridden area – most smart and intelligent individuals would do just that. Perhaps I was buoyed by a sense of invincibility after escaping only slightly scathed the last time I’d helped out a friend. Maybe it was an unrequited death wish I carried.

  The truth? I have a bit of a stubborn streak. Well, and Grady had pissed me off.

  Then there’s also the fact the low-life’s of Dallas tended to congregate not too far from my home and work near the Historic West End. In the eighties, the area was reclaimed and revitalized into a hopping hangout for the yuppie crowd. Over time though, the pond scum gradually crept in unnoticed until a turf war broke out and drove more than a few businesses away. It’s funny now how on one side of the street you’re safe as a daisy in the sun, whereas if you cross to the blocks on the other side, you’re kinda on your own when it comes to lawful, nighttime activities.

  I only hoped I stayed close enough on this edge of the dark side as I slowly drove down the one-way street. Streetlamps on this side of the road flickered yellow with a mere heartbeat of life. This late at night – or early in the morning, take your pick – I prayed the area was like the majority of Dallas. After the bars closed and the drunks made their way home, things tended to quiet down pretty quick. People had to sleep sometime.

  Which kinda stopped me short – what did I hope to accomplish by cruising through a known gang hangout in the middle of the night? If I expected everyone to be asleep, then what, if any, information did I hope to discover about this Switch guy and if he knew about Reggie’s current predicament?

  Yeah, I’d obviously not had enough shots at work. Or maybe that stubbornness had gotten in the way of rational thought. It wasn’t the first time – and if history bore out, it wouldn’t be the last. The old gray matter grew a little fuzzy on the reasons behind my reckoning.

  Chain link fences surrounded most of the brick and stone structures, providing little protection with all of the yawning gashes big enough to drive a Smart car through. Just as I was about to discard this doomed idea and turn around, a rumpled and dilapidated kid, no older than six and barely out of diapers, ran through my high beams and snuck through one of the fence openings. I quickly parked along the street opposite a ramshackle automotive garage to catch my breath and killed the headlights.

  What the hell was I worried about, sneaking alongside gang territory, when a little kid ran full-bore into it? On my smart side, I throttled down the car and exited with my flashlight while locking down the Vette nice and tight. I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid.

  Oh, shut up.

  The clatter of a broken bottle sent shards of fear trembling along my spine and threatened a piddle in my panties. What if someone chased after the kid? I listened for the scuff and scuttle of racing feet – and heard nothing.

  I stepped to the alley and peeked around the chain link fence separating the buildings. A shine of the flashlight revealed the glimmer of glass, oily puddles, and scattered cigarette butts. No movement. No nearby sounds. The kid must have found a hiding place or was long gone. I sighed in relief and turned around to my car.

  The flashlight beam highlighted the posse surrounding the Vette and glinted off their weapons.

  If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear those were switchblades.

  Chapter Ten

  The ragtag group inched forward like a pack of wolves on the prowl as I took a hesitant step backward into an oil-
sheened puddle. Well, there went a nice pair of sandals down the crapper.

  Young pups glared from ravaged faces. I doubted any would know the original leader of their pack, but that didn’t stop me from asking the dumb question of the day. “Is Switch around?”

  Like a carefully choreographed scene from a bad horror flick, blades clicked open with a flash of metal.

  Before I could squeak out a yelp, the growl of engines and peel of tires echoed from the garage. Headlights blinded the gang as trucks barreled to the scene of my crime of stupidity. I wanted to drop to the pavement, curl into a ball, and kiss my ass goodbye when I realized I was about to be the line of delineation separating the sides in a turf skirmish between rival gangs.

  I was about to become someone’s bitch – or worse.

  I believed in God so firmly in those seconds, I was willing to walk on coals, kneel and cross myself, dance in the aisles holding snakes, chatter in an indistinguishable tongue – do pretty much anything but drink poison to cover all denominational bases in order to secure my rapidly approaching eternal reward. Hell – I mean heck – I’d even confess to everyone within hearing range to the time I blamed Lorraine Padget for putting liquid laundry soap in the old church baptistery, effectively shutting down any and all baptismal activities for a month.

  Heat swarmed my legs as engine warmth revealed how close the trucks had pulled in behind me. The metallic click and clatter of chambering rounds resounded too close for my bodily comfort. I did what any good ol’ Texas gal who’d recently visited the Alamo would do. I held my ground against unbeatable odds.

  Or maybe fear had frozen my feet where I stood, but this wasn’t the time to quibble over minor details. One way or another, I was about to become Swiss cheese.

  A voice from behind yelled through an intercom. “Disperse or we’ll open fire!”

  Disperse? What gang leader used a word like disperse? Did their order include me? I’d be glad to disperse if I could get over to my Vette.

  The next thought sent my innards practically plummeting to the ground. What if instead of a simple gang at my rear, I’d become fodder for a group who kidnapped hapless and helpless females to sell into prostitution rings? What if instead of stewing about blackmail, I was about to be sold into the black market and pawned off on some ancient, wealthy sheik to spend the rest of my life doing the Timbuk-two-step?

  Okay, I’m neither hapless nor helpless. Most of the time. Present circumstances excluded.

  Grumbles rumbled through the guys in front of me, and a smattering of anger reflected across the headlighted faces followed by a sprinkling of fear on others. Those others? Looked like they were only a few years out of diapers – and might need another one real soon.

  “You have ten seconds,” the voice hollered again.

  Those holding the switchblades didn’t stick around for a fight, but I wasn’t in the clear yet if the rival gang with guns decided to take me as their prisoner. The rival gang who had a loudspeaker system mounted on one of their trucks. A loudspeaker system with a slightly warbled yet – now that I thought of it – somewhat familiar voice.

  The drawn-out creak of an opening truck door finally had me turning around to face my fears head on. As he stepped to the side of the headlight glare and my eyes adjusted, I realized I’d truly stepped knee deep into the crapper. Oh yeah, I was about to be someone’s bitch alright – and it wouldn’t be those of the gang variety.

  Jaws clenched in anger as he ripped the riot gear helmet from his head. Daggers practically shot from his eyes and skewered me to the spot. If I could’ve thought of anymore clichéd sayings, I’m sure they would’ve fit the look on Zeke’s face.

  His voice hissed through clenched teeth. “You had better have a good explanation for what you’re doing here, Vic.”

  ***

  Explanation? Yes. How good it was would be something Zeke and I would debate until the second coming.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Zeke yelled, leaping from his truck after we’d pulled our vehicles into the parking lot of my apartment building. “What the hell were you doing in that part of town?”

  I guess he thought it’d be safer bawling me out in front of my own building than in one entrenched in gang territory where we’d left the remainder of his team. Instead of answering, I drove the Vette past his Kevlar-clad form and into the garage space before slamming down the door with a metallic rattle. When I turned around, his glare practically stabbed my carcass against the side of the garage.

  Nothing he did would intimidate me after the scare I’d already had that night. With a flick of my ponytail, I strode past and marched across the lot. His much longer stride made it easy for him to keep up.

  “You grew up in your little ivory tower,” Zeke fumed and fussed. “You can’t fathom a time when your knight-in-shining-armor won’t show up to rescue your sorry ass.”

  “You used to think my ass was less than sorry, if I remember correctly,” I responded in kind, lengthening my stride until I was in danger of breaking into a sprint – or breaking the straps off my sandals. “And when did you start claiming knighthood status?”

  “Well someone’s gotta do it, sweetheart.”

  The second sweetheart of the night. Zeke must’ve already talked to Grady. “Check your armor at the door then, because from this angle there’s no shine and plenty of chinks out of it.”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  I slowed and tossed him a glare of my own. “And speaking of ivory towers, you didn’t grow up so bad off yourself, Sherlock.”

  “At least I have half a brain to know where I don’t belong…” Zeke checked his watch. “…at nearly four A.M.”

  “Then what were you doing there?” I challenged. “Getting a lube job?”

  We came to a sudden stop at the main entrance. “Are you volunteering?”

  “I meant for your truck,” I explained, fishing around him for the door handle.

  Zeke pressed his back against the thick glass door, folded his arms, and continued the stare down until he spoke in a more controlled tone. “What were you doing in gang territory, Vic?”

  “What were you doing in gang territory, Zeke Taylor?”

  “My job.”

  “Which is?”

  “A complete and utter shit-storm now, thanks to you.”

  “What’d I do?”

  “What’d you do?” Zeke repeated, his brown eyes widening before staring into the starry night as if seeking guidance from the great beyond in how to deal with a headstrong woman like me. “How about unzipping our fly? How about exposing our undercover base of operation? How about setting back this investigation for God only knows how many months? No, more like years.”

  I had the presence of mind to soften my voice and appear sheepish. “You were on a stakeout?”

  “Something like that.”

  How was I supposed to know I’d chosen to pull into the very spot where a Texas Ranger undercover operation was going down? Perhaps I really was rather hapless – but definitely not helpless. Besides, I’d have figured some way out of the mess I’d gotten myself into back there if Zeke and his Ranger posse hadn’t ridden in to save the day.

  Okay, that was probably a pretty big maybe.

  I sighed as if it killed me to have to admit something to the Ranger. “I was trying to get the lay of the area.”

  “Why?”

  Another sigh to bide time and figure out how to approach this without giving Reggie away. “I needed some information.”

  “About?”

  I shifted my purse to the other shoulder to garner even more time. When I’d mentioned Switch’s name to Jimmy-the-Super, he’d reacted badly. If I mentioned it to Zeke – and in his present state – I might as well call the coroner to come clean up after the meltdown and resultant explosion.

  “This old gang leader.”

  “Because?”

  The leading questions were getting pretty tiring, as if I was back in Mrs. Walker’s first grade
class and she was trying her hardest to pull the correct answer to two-plus-two. Matter-of-fact, I was pretty tired period after the night at work and the adrenaline rush from knives coming at me from the front and guns cocked at my rear. All I wanted at that moment was a hot soak in the tub – and a change of underwear.

  “I’m trying to help a friend,” I finally confessed.

  That brought Zeke standing straight up in my face – or at least looking down from his lofty heights. “What’s Bobby Vernet gotten himself into now?”

  “Bobby?” I questioned. “I have other friends, you know.”

  “Yeah, but he’s the only one who gets you into Nancy Drew mode.”

  What is it with law enforcement’s love of calling me that name? My hair’s dark, not strawberry-blond. “No, he’s not.”

  “Yes, he is,” Zeke shot back.

  “For your information, this has nothing to do with Bobby,” I said.

  He groaned and swiped a hand across his forehead. “For crying out…would you stop playing like you’re some PI and find a real career?”

  Wait a minute. Here I was, being cooperative while receiving a tongue lashing from the Ranger – hmm – and now he was gonna denigrate my job? The job he’d recommended me for? Oh, hell-to-the-no.

  “For your information,” I emphasized with a finger poke to his chest, stopped by a solid weave of Kevlar. “I have a real career.”

  “No you don’t. You’re only playing bartender babe to bide your time and tick off your parents.”

  I snorted. “Like you would know.”

  That just got me a hard stare – or maybe more of a glower – from reddened eyes with bags hanging beneath like he hadn’t slept in days. The Ranger appeared more than beat in the ambient glow cast from the over-the-door security light. “Actually, I would know.”

  I had to give him that one. “Knowing you is what made Grady even consider me for the position.”

  “I just never expected you’d make a long-term stint out of sloshing drinks, dancing on bar tops, and winning wet t-shirt nights,” Zeke admitted.