Lethal Play

by Loretta Giacoletto

“God, I love that woman,” Vince said after the door closed behind Perri.

  “Doesn’t everybody, she’s quite the charmer. I hate to admit this but she’s been a godsend.”

  “Amen, but it’s you who worries the hell out of me. If you don’t mind my saying, you’re looking on the far side of awful.”

  And with good reason, soon everyone would know her latest secret. “Thanks for saving that until Perri left.”

  “My words weren’t meant to give you pain. I’m worried about you.”

  “I appreciate the concern.” She stepped back, found the recliner with the bend of her knees, and sat down. Her head felt heavy; she leaned it against her fist. “If only I could stop thinking about Rex, the night he died, the awful mess.”

  “You have my sympathy, kid—first the humiliation, and now the ugly rumors.”

  She glanced up to see him sitting on the couch, his body squared to face her. “What are they saying about me?”

  He backed off with his hands. “Such crap you don’t want to hear from me.”

  “Who better to hear it from?” Bring it on; she could take whatever he hurled in her direction.

  “You’re right, but at this moment there’s something more important weighing on my mind.”

  “The wedding, of course, how can I help?”

  “The wedding can wait. I’m talking you and me.” He examined her face long and hard before he spoke his next words. “I was there the night Rex died, more than just a drive-by. I think it’s time we leveled with each other.”

  “What? Have you been sniffing glue or worse?” She started coughing. Damn the surge of early morning coffee gurgling in her throat. She stood up, as did Vince. “I can’t believe you had anything to do with his death. Vince, please tell me you didn’t.”

  He silenced her running-off-at-the-mouth with his finger to her lips. “No more lies, Francesca. That night when I stopped by your house, Matt told me about his buddies calling. Not that made-up emergency he fed the police but what they’d said about you and Rex. Such desperation, he wanted to save his mother. I couldn’t refuse him.”

  “Dear God, Matt has known all along? Until yesterday I thought he was more involved than after-the-fact. How I didn’t know until he opened up to that smart-assed officer. Now you’re telling me the whole thing’s been a charade between the two of us.”

  “That night I wanted him to stay behind, let me handle everything but he wouldn’t stand for it. Like I said before, I couldn’t refuse him.”

  “What Rex did to those soccer boys was unspeakable.”

  “The man was no good. I’d heard rumors but only about the many women he supposedly seduced.”

  “In my case it was rape by coercion. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “When Matt and I got to the soccer complex, it wasn’t your SUV we saw pull away, it was the Logan boy’s, a detail we sort of hedged on during Matt’s interview yesterday.”

  “What are you—”

  “Let me finish, Francesca, or we’ll never resolve this. I parked my vehicle in the upper lot and told Matt to stay put. Thank God, he listened to me. I didn’t go all the way down to the field but I did see the two SUVs parked nearby. One I recognized as belonging to Rex. The other was yours, Francesca.”

  She put one hand to her ear, anything to quiet the pounding of her heart. How many times did she have to go through this, and now with Vince of all people. “That’s true. I did come back to check on Rex, never expecting to find him in such a mess. Even though Rex was a horrible person, I would’ve helped him out. But would he let me, no. Instead he cursed me and insisted I leave. I’ve already explained this to Detective Winchester, and he believed me.”

  “But that’s not the way I saw it. I moved in closer and yes, Rex was wrapped up and standing on the cooler. Yes, I heard him call you a bitch and threaten to tell Matt about the two of you. But here’s where you and I differ: he yelled for you to get him down because the patrol car would be coming by soon. You were yelling too, something about wanting the police to find him. And that you were going to report him to the soccer commission.”

  “He went berserk, Vince, and started twisting around in the netting. At that point I walked away. He must’ve lunged forward, kicked the cooler away from under his feet. Not that I actually saw this happen, you understand. He was a proud man; and pride goeth before a fall. You know, from the bible.”

  “Close enough but not excusable. Look at me, Francesca.” Vince held her face between his hands. “What you’re telling me is what you truly believe, with all your heart?”

  “Of course, would I lie to you—the godfather to my beloved Ben, surrogate father to Matt, my dearest friend and advocate.”

  “But I was there. I saw the whole thing.”

  “Then you have to believe what I believe, what Ben would’ve wanted.”

  “How much does Matt know?”

  “Only what I told him, none of which included your being there at the end. He thinks we got there too late, that Rex was beyond saving.”

  “Beyond saving, yes, I can live with that.” He loosened his grip and she stepped away from him. “I just kept walking, Vince. I stopped to turn out the lights and never looked back.”

  “Neither did I. But I can’t help wondering if we could’ve saved him.”

  “Only God knows for sure,” she said. “And I will answer to Him someday. Whatever I did, whatever my motives, I have to live with for the rest of this life. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “And break Perri’s heart, what sort of person do you take me for.”

  “A man of honor, Vince. And don’t you forget it.”

  ###

  About the author:

  Loretta Giacoletto divides her time between the St. Louis Metropolitan area and Missouri’s Lake of the Ozarks where she writes fiction while her husband Dominic cruises the waters for bass and crappie. An avid traveler, Loretta has written several sagas inspired by her frequent visits to the Piedmont region of Italy and an edgy novel about a young drifter searching for the father who doesn’t know he exists. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous publications including Literary Mama, which nominated her story “Tom” for Dzanc’s 2010 Best of the Web.

  Connect with Loretta Online:

  A note from the author:

  My thanks to Captain Guy Means of the St. Louis County Police Department for introducing me to the inner sanctum of police procedures; to Caren Schlossberg-Wood of Lost Marbles Design Group for the cover design; to my beta reader, proofreader, and marketing consultant Diane Giacoletto Lambert; to Nick Giacoletto and Jordan Giacoletto for providing the technical aspects of soccer; to my beta reader and contributor Steven Giacoletto; to Joe Ashmann for suggesting the title; and to my husband Dominic Giacoletto for his patience and unwavering support.

  An added bonus: The opening chapters of

  FREE DANNER

  Description

  Free Danner is his name and he really is free, after spending ten years in Juvy for what the judge called an unspeakable act and Danner considered one of mercy. Now he’s determined to find the dad who doesn’t know he exists. One thing’s for sure: this is not The Maury Povich Show; it’s Danner’s. And he figures everybody’s out to screw him, especially the big shot who hired him as a hit-man-in-training. So what’s a guy to do? The right thing, but Danner has a problem distinguishing right from wrong.

  Free Danner is eleven when his party-girl mom sends him to live with her parents on their Southern Illinois farm. The generation gap proves harder on the rebellious city boy than his grandparents and soon results in a tragedy so horrific no one could’ve predicted it. Fast forward to Danner at twenty-two, bypassing those years he spent in the juvenile system and then some. He locates his mom Lark in St. Louis and demands she name the clueless dad. Lark’s not sure but with Danner’s not-so-gentle persuasion, she comes up with three possibilities. Danner’s search for his dad and a better life takes him on a crisscross journey to Las Vegas, S
outhern California, and the Florida Panhandle. Most of the off-beat characters he encounters along the way either wind up dead or wanting Danner out of their lives. But these people don’t know the real Danner or what being free means to him. Fans of the dysfunction-family novels by Pat Conroy will enjoy FREE DANNER.

  Chapter 1

  The first time I killed a man should’ve been my last, but what did I know then. This man, I didn’t exactly hate him, leastways not at first, but due to a domino effect of weird circumstances, he’d been reduced to a festering boil on the butt of humanity, begging for a quick and painless removal. The man needed help doing what he couldn’t do by himself. Okay, so I didn’t exactly kill him with my own hands but I convinced him that dying was the right thing to do, the only thing. Damage control, it’s what I did then and what I’m stuck with now. At twenty-two, jeez, give me a break, where did I go wrong.

  Tonight I am driving on a two-lane highway east of Mobile, Alabama, with my current half-squeeze nodding off to the music of Dave Matthews while I discreetly follow a black Lincoln Town Car. Its chauffeur makes me no never mind but his boss in the backseat spells Bread and Butter with capital Bs, my one-way ticket to beaucoup bucks that so far have escaped me. I allow two cars between the Lincoln and my SUV, a gift from my former benefactor and didn’twannabe dad who cashed in his chips before I was ready to let him go. Not only did he introduce me to the Vegas scene, he wowed me with the great outdoors, unlike Mr. Hollywood, another didn’twannabe who took my money and left me nothing but make-believe promises.

  One of the cars up ahead turns onto a side road, leaving a Mustang convertible to separate my vehicle from the Lincoln and its passenger. A cigarette flies out of the back window, its tip left glowing on the roadside. The asshole who sucked on the filter has no regard for the landscape or those who maintain it. This I already know from a pricey character profile that didn’t come out of my pocket. The convertible turns off at the next side road. Now there’s just my SUV, one hundred feet separating it from a set of taillights and the contaminator of nature, even worse, mankind. This degenerate represents the lowest form of humanity, an abuser of animals and kids who has enough money and IOUs to continually avoid incarceration. I should be so lucky, having wasted the best years of my life in juvenile detention.

  Headlights to my left, another car pulls onto the highway from behind, pushing me forward against my will. I close in on the Lincoln, unsure of my next move. But then nature takes over on my behalf, a night creature scurrying from the wooded area, its beady red eyes catching the Lincoln’s headlights. The chauffeur swerves to the right, a simple act that makes me think he might have the heart his employer lacks. I brake hard and fast, as does the car behind me, judging from the squeal of tires assaulting my ears. My half-squeeze lifts her head in time to see the Lincoln hit a guard rail, bounce back and cross the highway, directly into the path of a truck speeding from the other direction. The Lincoln flips into the air, comes crashing down on the sunroof. Its horn sends out an eerie, soul-searching blast, the only sound escaping into an otherwise quiet night.

  I pull over to the side of the road. The car dogging me does the same and from the driver’s side a woman hops out. Cell phone plastered to her ear, she approaches my vehicle, leaving me no choice but to roll down the window.

  “I’ve already called 911,” she yells while passing by. “Do you have any blankets?”

  No need to answer her question since I notice the truck driver partly responsible for this mess is now running toward the Lincoln’s crumbled remains. He’s carrying more than one army blanket, which relieves me from the first-aid gig I want no part of.

  POW … POW, POW! Without warning, the Lincoln explodes, hurling its junk into the sky, across the highway, and onto the hood of my SUV. A severed hand bounces off. My half-squeeze goes wide-eyed spastic, her delayed-reaction, gut-retching scream tangling my gut into one sorry knot. When it comes to blood and gore mixed with the emotional outburst of a high-maintenance female, I, John Earl Danner the Second, am not worth the price of a good shit.

  Chapter 2

  “But, Lark, I don’t wanna go. Can’t I please stay with you?” I fixed my eyes on hers, willing them to look at me, if only for a second or three. “I promise not to cause any more trouble.”

  “Sweet Jesus, you know I’d keep you if I could.”

  “I’m not sweet and I’m not Jesus. I’m eleven, big enough to take care of myself. And you, in a couple more years.”She shifted on her stick-person frame, showed me the profile of her face—an older version of what I considered my own. “Look, this may be my last chance for a decent life,” she said, using her country voice instead of the city one. “After things settle down between me and … and—”

  “Greg, you said his name was Greg.” Cripes, there’d been so many she lost track.

  “Right, you know I can’t think straight without my morning coffee.” She leaned in, put her fingertips on my shoulders, and offered me her cheek. “Now give me some sugar before you get on the bus.”

  I hated when she did that in front of strangers, treating me like a little kid when I stood more than shoulder-high to her.

  She pointed to the cheek. “Come on, Free. I don’t have all day.”

  I glanced around the black and white checkered station, made sure no one was looking. Then I sunk my teeth into a blotch of her freckles and held on until I tasted blood. When she pulled away, tears streamed into the circle of my teeth marks, the only gift I could afford on such short notice.

  “Why, you little shit,” she said, brushing long strands of reddish-brown hair from her face. “What the F was that about?”

  “As if you didn’t know,” was all I could manage before adjusting the strap of my canvas bag onto one shoulder. I stepped onto the bus and handed the driver my ticket. Lark’s voice followed me on board but I refused to turn around. She had her chance and blew it.

  “Drop him off on the road to Dubois,” she told the driver. “That’s on Route 127 in the stretch before Murphysboro.”

  Moving down the aisle, I met the stares of nosey passengers, not one of them under the age of forty. I stopped at the tenth row, slid my bag against the window, and slumped down in the aisle seat, where Lark couldn’t see me from outside, even if she tried, which I didn’t think she would. I turned on my Game Boy to Super Mario, positioned my thumbs, and sent Mario’s tiny figure to fight an army of bad guys. I didn’t look up when the bus pulled away from Lark. For all I cared, she could go straight to hell—in a shopping cart, along with those sixty-three pairs of shoes she loved more than anything in the whole wide world.

  People around me were talking so loud I finally upped the volume on Game Boy, a distraction that cost me one of Mario’s five lives. No problem, I pulled up his brother Luigi to continue the battle. After making a couple of turns leading away from downtown St. Louis, the bus started across the bridge toward the crappy state of Illinois. I scooted over to the window seat, still managed to keep Luigi in the game but lost him over the river. Down below, this barge loaded with pipes was cutting through the dirty Mississippi, leaving behind churning water that reminded me of whipped cream sprayed from a can. And the whipped cream reminded me of real food.

  After putting Game Boy on pause, I dug through my bag, found two packages of Twinkies and a bottle of soda. I unscrewed the cap, tore open both Twinkie wrappers, and sucked out all the creamy fillings. While chug-a-lugging my soda, I looked across the aisle to this round lady with shiny black skin. She wore church clothes and a hat loaded with fake flowers. Tacky, but what did I know. She pressed her full lips into a tight line and stared me down, as if I owed her an explanation. Lark would’ve told her to bug off but not me because I had better sense. I pulled the bottle away from my mouth and told her the ugly truth. “My mom didn’t have time to make breakfast.”

  “You still hungry, boy?” She rattled a shopping bag taking up the window seat beside her.

  “Depends on what you’ve got.”
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  She brought out a Ziploc filled with sandwiches. “Sliced bananas, peanut butter, and jam between thick slices of whole wheat bread, enough to feed the two of us and then some. Plus oatmeal raisin cookies, I made them myself.”

  “Never mind.” Cripes, what did she take me for?

  “Kids today, they got it so good they don’t know what’s good,” Sandwich Lady said.

  I lifted my shoulders, showed her my best hound dog face. “My mom don’t want me anymore.”

  “Then you better off where you’re going than where you been.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’s what she said too.”

  Enough with the sandwich social worker, her kind bothered me enough back home. I leaned my head against the window, resumed Game Boy, and played nonstop through every hick-dumb town in Southern Illinois, all the while ignoring the hole in my stomach growing bigger by the hour, or minute. I was thinking about asking Sandwich Lady for a handout when the bus stopped again.

  “Dubois,” the driver called out, his head tilted up to the rearview mirror. “This is where you get off, Game Boy.”

  Yeah, right. I put Super Mario on save, slipped him into my bag, and nodded to Sandwich Lady.

  “Stay out of trouble, you hear,” she said.

  “Yes ma’am. I’m sure gonna try.”

  I shuffled up the aisle, my way of bugging the driver tapping his fingers on the wheel. He stopped tapping when I showed him my finger, the middle one. As soon as my feet hit the road gravel, he left me in a cloud of dust. I counted to ten before opening my eyes to a gray pick-um-up truck parked on the side of the road and two old people heading toward me. The man was John Wayne tall and walked like him too. He wore a Cardinals baseball cap, plaid shirt, and farmer’s overalls—definitely not John Wayne. The woman’s gray hair belonged on a French poodle, I’m not kidding. She weighed too much for her tight jeans, and should’ve been embarrassed but I guess at her age, size didn’t much matter anymore. Behind her granny glasses were eyes the color of Lark’s, but older and maybe wiser. Lark, how could she have done this to me, the best thing that ever happened to her.