by D. A. Bale
“Employees can’t participate in wet t-shirt contests.”
“Doesn’t stop you from winning them.”
Score another one for the Ranger. “Are you done yelling at me, ‘cause I’d really like to get some sleep before sunrise.”
“Wouldn’t we all,” he grumbled under his breath. “Just promise me you’ll stop with whatever the hell it is you were doing tonight and go back to being a bartender.”
“But you just said I had no career tending bar.” This time I was successful in skirting around him and opening the apartment building door. I may be a foot shorter than Zeke, but what I lacked in height I made up for in wiriness and speed. As I jogged up the stairwell, I called over my shoulder. “Good night, Ranger Taylor.”
“I mean it, Vic.”
“I know you do.”
Knight-in-shining-armor or lack thereof, I had no intention of leaving Reggie to swing in the wind. But maybe it would behoove me to explore others on the blackmail culprit list before venturing out of my jurisdiction again. Regardless of what Zeke thought, Momma didn’t raise no fool.
You can stop laughing now.
Chapter Eleven
The idiot behind me in the champagne Lexus honked his horn one too many times, thereby justifying opening the Vette’s sunroof to the August oven and poking up my middle finger in a southern salute.
Four lanes of traffic had screeched to a dead standstill while news choppers circled what had to be a massive wreck up ahead. Wasn’t like I could do anything other than inch along like every other Tom, Dickhead, and Harry. Like it or not, we were all in this together. Snarled. Stuck. Pretty much screwed until Dallas’ finest finished the task at hand. I did what any other woman would do in this situation – turned up the music to drown out the honking horns.
Hey, it was either that or have a road rage incident captured on camera for the five o’clock news. After the night I’d had – or lack thereof – Mr. Impatient did not want a visit from Miss Bitchy.
The headrest cradled my aching skull as I leaned back with a sigh. The questions I’d been dragging around and trying desperately to ignore bounded into my brain like a lioness pouncing on her prey. She just wouldn’t be placated any longer with table scraps, and instead wanted a bite out of Reggie’s hide.
What would we do if we caught the blackmailer? The only way to stop him or her was to turn the perpetrator over to the police. But turning him or her into the police would create another paper trail, which would then be part of the public record, which would then expose Reggie’s past for public consumption. The purpose of this pursuit was to keep Reggie’s past from exposure, but by paying off the blackmailer, Reggie still had no guarantee he or she wouldn’t release the records anyway. And if he paid the blackmail now, who’s to say the blackmailer wouldn’t later return for another taste?
Since I was still trying to make sense of the insensible, I’d kept Reggie out of my looping thoughts. No need to bother him with pesky problems over details.
Last night when I’d laid my head to rest, or more like early this morning, I’d had every intention of dropping the gang angle in favor of exploring others on the suspects list – for now. However, Zeke’s mention of Bobby had me stirring with the guy on my mind. And no, not for any reason involving sexually charged dreams about Ford F-150s. Simply as a friend. Honest. Besides, I hadn’t caught up with the guy for a few weeks, and it was high time I touched base.
That didn’t mean there weren’t ulterior motives for visiting.
After losing his wife and unborn son, being imprisoned and then released from murder charges, Bobby had relinquished his position as the new children’s pastor at Celebration Victory Church in favor of starting a prison ministry. Not like prison ministries weren’t common, but one run by a pastor who had been wrongly imprisoned like Jesus and most of the disciples made Bobby think he could relate to the prisoners better than most. I’d refrained from reminding him that the majority of characters housed in those cells nowadays were incarcerated because of actual guilt and not because of trumped up charges from some anti-religious district attorney.
But I digress.
Since Bobby was in touch with the local prison populace, he might know of or be able to learn information about the local gangs, thereby helping with Reggie’s situation without actual further contact on my part. ‘Course, I’d have to tiptoe around the reasoning for asking. But if there was one thing about my pastor friend, it was that he was the king of discretion – unlike most of the gossipy church attendees I’d grown up knowing.
Call me surprised when I finally pulled into the driveway of Bobby’s three-bedroom home to see a For Sale sign parked in the yard – and a familiar red Mercedes convertible. Little ol’ Nosey Nana offered up a finger wave and a smirk from her front porch perch.
This particular neighbor had had a front row seat to the chaos in June and likely thought the pastor was once again up to salacious, gossip-mongering behavior – at least according to her overactive imagination. I offered a wave instead of the finger in return as I strode up to the front door and rang the bell, expecting one friend.
Then got another.
“Vicki?”
My best friend Janine answered Bobby’s door, wearing a folded scarf on her head, a pastel yellow shorts jumper, and a smudge or two of dust on her nose and forehead. None of it masked the blue, wide-eyed gaze of trepidation and the brows that shot toward her blond hairline faster than charges add up on Mom’s credit card.
“Hey, Janine,” I said trying to mask my confusion of seeing her here. At Bobby’s. Without me. “Whatcha doing?”
“Well, I…um…you see…”
Bobby’s six-foot-six frame loomed behind her as he reached his long arm around my immobile friend to open the screen door. “Hi, Vic. Glad you could make it.”
A zing of heat flashed through me like a woman in the throes of menopause every time I was within twenty feet of my former squeeze. Just my body’s residual memories of what had transpired between us eleven years ago. All I had to do these days was simply remind myself that Bobby was a pastor. Poof! Immediate cool-down.
Hmm. Maybe a twenty-six year-old could go through menopause. It’d sure save me a lot of trouble popping that daily pill.
“What exactly am I making?” I asked, walking in the door and doing a three-sixty around the living room. Boxes were stacked and piled in every available corner, some in varying stages of undress – er, packing.
Bobby’s face glowed with mirth, something he’d had little of since returning to Dallas. Maybe the shine was more a sweat sheen. “Why the packing party, of course.”
“Packing as in moving again?”
“Yup.”
“Why’re you selling after only a couple of months?”
He opened his arms wide. “Look at this place. Why all this space for only one person?” The reminder of loss faltered his jovial mood with a deep breath before continuing. “Besides, I want to limit my personal needs from ministry donations, so I’m looking to rent a small apartment.”
“Unlike the parents, huh?” I muttered.
“Moving in with them would save even more,” Bobby said, completely misunderstanding the meaning behind my mutterings. “But it wouldn’t be conducive to our relationship…or my sanity.”
A knowing gleam twinkled in his eyes, revealing Bobby had understood the deeper gist of my words. As his father’s ministry had grown, so had the size of the Vernet asset holdings. Their current palatial estate was a visible reminder to the greater Dallas metroplex that Dennis and Mary Jo lived what they preached: give and you’ll get. However, their demonstration of that tenet better illustrated the practice of you give so we’ll get. Bobby’s more frugal plans exhibited what I considered to be a more accurate interpretation of those words.
Growing up together, I’d had a front row seat of what Bobby had experienced as the son of a larger-than-life, mega church minister. It didn’t help tensions when my dad exerted dominance with his p
urse strings as a way to get something he wanted from Pastor Dennis – or just to prove how much control he thought he had over the ministry’s dictates. As witnesses to the behind-the-pulpit machinations, Bobby and I had commiserated through the years over our fathers’ shortcomings – and in the back of his brand new Ford F-150 the summer before he left for college. The resultant police report offered ample proof of how far our commiseration had gone.
This past summer I’d gotten another first-hand view of the reasons for Bobby’s current struggle to live the command to honor thy father and mother – especially considering they’d failed to bail him from jail. It left the elder Vernets in a less than heavenly light – and solidified Bobby’s desire to leave thy father and mother and cleave to thy wife. Amy’s passing may have changed Bobby’s marital status, but I wasn’t aware of any command forcing a widower to return to the family fold. Besides, he’d already confessed it was easier to practice the sixth commandment from a distance.
But hey, what did a sinful succubus like me know, right?
A bright blush slowly crept across Janine’s face like an advancing army of fire ants. I stood beside her in momentary silence while she thrust armfuls of books from the shelves into empty boxes scattered at her feet. My dear friend had never learned the fine art of hiding her emotions, despite having this expert for a friend since before we’d learned to piddle in a potty. If I waited patiently, it was only a matter of time before the guilt – real or otherwise – built up and spilled over the dam.
“I’m so sorry,” she sputtered within a ten second window. “I forgot to call you the other day after you got home to tell you Bobby needed help today.”
“It’s okay,” I assured, handing over some books.
Janine continued in a rush like water over Niagara Falls. “My doctoral thesis is nearing a critical phase. Mom’s been hounding me again about when I’m going to find a man and give her grandchildren. There’s the birthday trip to Louisiana this fall to see my grandmother, and Mother won’t shut up about how lovely it would be if I could share some good news with her. Then it sounds like my advising professor is going to dump so much work on me this coming semester I’ll not see the light of day. And to top it all off, my dog died.”
“Bunny?” I cried as the waterworks tumbled down Janine’s cheeks in earnest.
I wrapped my arms around my bestie as she dissolved into a tears and snot mess all over my black tee. Whoever said black doesn’t show dirt has never surrendered the color to an emotional avalanche from one Janine De’Laruse.
Even though I’d never much cared for her ankle biter of a dog, my best friend had loved that yipping Yorkshire terrorist – I mean, terrier. She’d treated it like her very own dress-up doll, painting its toenails, doing its fur up in bows and other bric-a-brac, even going so far as to dress it in themed clothes according to the nearest holiday. Halloween costumes were the worst. Figured that’s why the tiny critter always seemed to be in a bad mood.
Or maybe it was just me.
I am more of a cat person, after all. They’re somewhat indifferent and can pretty much take care of themselves – as long as I remember to put out food every day, clean water, and scoop the litterbox a couple of times a week. And if I ever tried to put Slinky in a Halloween costume, I’d spend the following week nursing wounds that looked like Freddy Kruger had stopped by for a visit.
But knowing how much Janine loved her pet, I contorted my face into one of sadness and offered condolences to comfort her. At least I tried.
“I’m s-o-o-o sorry, Janine,” I soothed in my best mothering voice. “It sounds like life’s been treating you rough lately. Why didn’t you call or stop by and talk to me?”
She sniffled and hiccupped between breaths. “You’ve had…so much going on too…that I didn’t want to burden you with…my problems.”
I held her out at arms-length to stare her down – and to protect my shirt from additional damage. “Listen here, your problems are my problems. That’s what friends are for.”
“But you’ve been busy…with the remodel,” her voice shuddered, “…and moving…then there’s the hunk of burning Nick issue I still need an update about.”
After working on the other side of the room, far away from the female emotive entanglement, Bobby perked up. “Who’s Nick?”
Janine dabbed at her moist eyes with a tissue, careful not to disturb the perfect eye makeup job any further. “Vicki’s boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I said a little too quickly.
“I thought Zeke was your boyfriend,” Bobby said with a furrow of brow.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“But weren’t you staying at his place all this time?” Bobby continued.
“Yes, but…”
Janine interrupted, “She hooks up with him.”
“Who?” Bobby asked. “Zeke or Nick.”
“Nick,” Janine offered with a brow wiggle, tears for Bunny forgotten. “They recently spent the weekend down in San Antonio.”
“While you were staying with Zeke,” Bobby clarified.
“No.” I finally got a word in. “I slept on Zeke’s couch for five weeks, but I’m home now. We’re friends. That’s all.”
“Then Nick is your boyfriend?” Bobby and Janine asked in unison.
“No boyfriend,” I said firmly, shattering the hope my friends carried for me into microscopic pieces.
“But you’re sleeping together,” Bobby said.
“Yes,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. Lord, help me now! A conversation about the current guy I was sleeping with was so not a discussion I wanted to have with the first guy I’d slept with. “Do you want to take my other confessions now, Father?”
“Actually, I’m a pastor…Protestant, not Catholic,” Bobby said with a smirk. “But I think we’re good now.”
I buried myself into heaving books into boxes, with mumbles and grumbles that would make most pastors and priests alike cross themselves with a blush. After the rush of back-and-forth conversation, accusations, and denials, I was gonna need a neck brace to recover from whiplash.
“I’m really sorry I forgot to tell you about today, though,” Janine said, returning to her original soliloquy.
“We’re good, Janine.”
“Hey,” Bobby began. “If Janine didn’t tell you, then how did you know to come over today?”
“Actually, I didn’t,” I confessed. “I wanted to ask you a question.”
“Oh,” Bobby said. “Well then, fire away.”
Now that I had Bobby’s and Janine’s full attention, I had to focus on a way to ask without giving away any hint of Reggie’s secret. After all, the De’Laruse clan was a design client too, and if Mrs. De’Laruse got a whiff of scandal, Janine wouldn’t be able to keep a secret from her mom no matter how hard she tried. Mrs. De’Laruse could smell fear coming off her daughter from ten miles away and draw a confession from her better than any priest of the Inquisition.
“So,” I started out strong. “There’s this friend who once had gang ties a long time ago. That association has recently come back to haunt him.”
Clean. Smooth. Straight-forward. I’d successfully kept my disease-ridden mouth in check.
“Okay,” Bobby said with confusion painted across his features like dust smeared over sweat. “What’s the question then?”
The question. Right. Yeah, I really needed to stop hanging out with Nick. Ditzy was catching like a cold virus in heat.
“In the confines of your prison ministry, I wondered if you connected with the prisoners individually or as a group.”
“Both actually, but that’s still not really a question.”
“Well, then try this one on for size,” I said with a huff. “Do you work with local gang members?”
“Ah, good question.” Bobby smiled, the little demon. “Yes, there are several gang members I’ve spoken with in the short course of the ministry.”
“Another question then. Do yo
u hear any details from these gang members? Things like why they’re in jail, what gang they’re involved with, rivalries…that kind of stuff?”
He nodded. “Some. But if you’re looking for specific details, I probably can’t help yet. It takes time to build trust, and I’ve only been doing this for a few weeks now. I don’t want them thinking I’m fishing for information to share with authorities.”
“Well, do you think you can find out something for me?”
Janine interrupted with a frown. “What are you asking about gangs for, Vicki? You’re not in any trouble again, are you?”
“Trouble? Me?” I countered. “I haven’t been in any trouble.”
“Yeah, that was me,” Bobby offered. “What kind of information are you looking for, Vic?”
“A name…Switch. He’s the original leader of a gang called the Switchblades.”
Janine crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “I don’t like this. Gangs? Knives? You’re investigating for someone again, aren’t you?”
What could I say without piquing her suspicions any worse than they already were? This was definitely material I didn’t want to get back to her mom – or mine.
“I plead the fifth?”
Chapter Twelve
Everyone was on tap at the bar on Friday nights: Grady, Rochelle, Baby, Wanker, and of course little ol’ me. To keep drinks flowing at bullet train speeds, Grady kept Wanker and me behind the bar while Rochelle and Baby worked the tables – and the crowd.
Wanker’s what we call an old codger here in the south. He was about as true-blue a cowboy as modern times allowed. Grizzled, long beard and matching hair straggled in a ponytail from beneath the weathered hat. I think at one time the fabric of the hat must’ve been white or light tan. Now it sported stains so imbedded, the color leaned more toward grayish-brown.
But don’t let Wanker’s age or lanky frame fool you. If things ever got out of hand, he’d be the first one in the fray, bashing heads together and dragging carcasses outside to sober up. In his younger days, he would’ve made a Clydesdale appear like your average-sized filly. There was a comfort in working side-by-side with him ‘cause I always knew he’d have my back – even if my antics sometimes caused the commotion he had to clean up.