ON The Rocks (An Ozzie Novak Thriller, Book 3) (Redemption Thriller Series 15)

by John W. Mefford

  “If you’re not too busy. Your daughter comes first.”

  I gave her the location of my favorite watering hole. “Eight o’clock okay?” I asked.

  “I’ll have to make sure Earl isn’t around. If Earl Alvarado is at home, then he wants me there.”

  “Please don’t put yourself in any danger,” I said.

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  Steve smacked his hands together and said, “Okay, so I guess now is not a good time, Ozzie. Maybe we can talk later.”

  I gave him a thumbs-up, and he waved over his shoulder as he walked away.

  Rosie grabbed her things, and together we entered the garage area—where both garage doors were open. Suddenly, a huge gust of wind hit us. Rosie’s dress skittered up her thigh a couple of inches, and wisps of her hair flapped around her face and neck. It seemed like a staged scene out of Hollywood.

  “Mr. Novak—”

  “It’s Ozzie.”

  “Ozzie. I just wanted to thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For listening.”

  I nodded. She held my gaze an extra second, as if she wanted to say something more. No words were spoken, but her eyes spoke volumes. The windows to the soul.

  I hurried off to the school.

  4

  By the time I arrived at Mackenzie’s school, she had been coaxed out from under the bleachers by the principal, Mrs. Maus. Mackenzie was sitting on a couch in the school office with her legs crossed, doodling on a piece of paper, when I walked in.

  “Hey, sweet pea,” I said as I walked into the office.

  I fully expected Mackenzie to get up and bury her head into my chest. She’d become more affectionate in our short time together. We were a team. She’d even said as much.

  This time, however, I received a cold response. “Can we go home, please?” She wadded up the piece of paper she’d been drawing on, tossed it into the trash can, and walked past me to the door. I gave Mrs. Maus a questioning look. She had a stately presence. Pencil skirt. Silver-tipped hair just so. But her palms were turned toward the ceiling. “She won’t tell me what happened.”

  I thanked her for calling me and followed Mackenzie to the car. She was petite, just like her mom, and typically full of joy and warmth. This side of her was one I’d not yet seen; although, admittedly, we still had a lot to learn about each other. When she climbed into the backseat instead of the front, my heart sank. Something was definitely wrong.

  I climbed in, started the car, and threw some softball questions at her on the way back to our place, but all I got were one-word responses.

  “Nope.”

  “Yep.”

  All the while, she stared out the window. Once in the apartment, she turned on the TV, switched on her favorite show, Andi Mack, and burrowed into the couch. I stared at her a second, not sure what to say or do. Leave her be? Sit down with her and watch the show? Turn off the show and make her answer my questions? Offer her some ice cream?

  I was at a total loss. I was new to this parenting thing, and my inexperience was clearly being exposed.

  I scratched my chin and huffed out a breath. She didn’t notice, or maybe didn’t care to notice. So, I moved on, tried to make myself busy, cleaning up some dishes from our morning breakfast, then moving into the living room and organizing some of her sketch work that was scattered on the coffee table.

  Suddenly, she popped her hand against the couch cushion next to her. I figured that was her signal for me to sit next to her. So I did. I even kicked up my feet on the coffee table and pretended to be into the show.

  “So, is Andi still in a fight with her best friend?”

  “Nope. They’re cool now.”

  Four words. Making progress.

  I tried to pick up on the story line for a few minutes, but the drone of the fake laughter found on every Disney Channel show made my mind wander for a moment. It didn’t take long to land back on Rosie Alvarado. She was despondent—and understandably so. She believed her current husband—someone who could be her grandfather—was cheating on her, her ex had been abusive, and before all that, she’d been gang-raped by an English Lit professor we both knew. The last part was what really got me wondering. Was it just a coincidence? A small-world type of thing? I tried not to overthink the overlap of our lives. We had both lived in Austin and attended UT. Big deal. Leave it at that, Ozzie.

  Overall, I was shocked at how her young life had unfolded. Some people just seemed to have the worst luck. At times, I would think it all boiled down to decisions made at the wrong time. Anything from getting in a car with someone you didn’t really know well all the way to choosing a mate. At other times, I would think it was just pure shit luck.

  Hell, look at me. The man who’d thought he had his life all stacked nice and neat. And then, in an instant, it had all changed. Nicole had kicked me to the curb. At the time, I wondered if it was some evil force that preyed on those who were happiest, just looking to balance out the scales. But what it had taught me, or at least reminded me, was that I was no different than any of my clients whose lives had been shattered, usually in far worse ways than mine.

  That reminded me: I owed Nicole a callback. She’d been texting and calling me, checking in to see how I was feeling about “us,” throwing out subtle hints about me and Mackenzie moving in with her. And she’d asked a lot of questions about the little girl sitting to my left. I couldn’t avoid her for much longer. Maybe I’d call her later today. Or tomorrow.

  Ozzie Novak, the new king of procrastination.

  “Dad, I want to look like Andi Mack,” Mackenzie said, nodding at the TV.

  The girl on the TV had a version of what I’d call a pixie cut. She was taller and more filled out than Mackenzie—probably already a teenager. “Sweet pea, you—and I say this as objectively as I can—are the cutest girl I’ve ever seen.”

  I patted her leg and instantly felt good about my fatherly input. I let my body sink into the couch and began to feel more comfortable.

  “No offense, Dad, but your opinion doesn’t really matter.”

  Ouch. “Okay, ’fess up. Is someone giving you a hard time about how you look?”

  She shrugged and twisted her lips. “I don’t know.” A pause. “Maybe. Kind of.”

  A few breadcrumbs had been tossed out. I followed the trail. “Are friends at school making fun of you? About what? What on this earth could they find wrong with you?”

  She smacked her hands down on either side of her and pouted. My interrogation had apparently been too one-sided, thanks to my fatherly blind spot. The lawyer in me wanted to kick myself.

  “You don’t get it, Dad. It’s everything. This frizzy hair,” she said, tossing her hair up.

  She had the cutest hair.

  I smiled tenderly. Ah, the looks thing—every girl hated her own hair. I knew at least that much. This was manageable.

  Then she said, “It’s the fact that I like to draw and paint. They think I’m weird for not wanting to sit around and gab about boys every second of my life.”

  My smile grew wider. Every child worried about fitting in. This, too, was manageable.

  I understood that the slights hurt her, but kids tended to be focused on the “here and now” and couldn’t see the bigger picture. Heck, many adults did the same thing. But Mackenzie would be different. I’d figure out a way to help her grow up at a healthy, appropriate pace. Of course, I had no idea how to accomplish that feat at the moment. But I knew it would get better. Because Mackenzie was special—strong, forthright, and talented. She just couldn’t see it yet.

  “Look, everyone has something they enjoy doing, whether they admit it or not. You like to draw and paint. I like to swim.”

  “I like to swim too,” she said.

  “Of course you do. So, these classmates who are finding fault with you…well, they’re really just insecure about themselves. They cut you down so they can make themselves feel better.”

  I thought about Rosie
and her ex. I thought about Professor Dickwad. And doubt began to seep in. Maybe I couldn’t protect Mackenzie like I thought I could. There were too many unhappy people in this world, and they wielded their weaknesses like a double-edged sword.

  “This one girl said I had a body that looked like a toothpick.”

  Oh no she didn’t! Now I was getting pissed, thoughts of bullies and victims fueling my anger.

  This last bit of info was a body-image taunt. I wasn’t prepared for this at all. I had one brother, Tobin, who bragged all the time about what a wiz he was, blah blah blah, but no sister. I had no personal experience about how girls dealt with barbs like this. I was a guy. For the most part while growing up, I’d played sports and never really worried about much of anything.

  Well, except for my hearing issues. That might be my way in.

  “So, you know I have this hearing aid, right?”

  “Yeah. You never told me why, though.”

  “Apparently, there were some complications when I was born, and I lost some of my hearing.”

  “You were adopted, right? Grandmother Juliet isn’t really your mom.”

  We’d yet to come up with a grandmotherly nickname for my mother. She’d only been around Mackenzie a couple of times, and she didn’t seem all that interested in the role of grandmother.

  “Right. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I had people at school teasing me because I couldn’t hear so well, but it wasn’t something I could change. Yeah, I might have wanted to be able to hear like everyone else, but I also knew I couldn’t change who I was, my physical self. Besides, I liked myself. And I know you like yourself too. Know this, Mackenzie. Only you can define how you think of yourself. I know it seems like this week of school is a make-or-break week in your life. But trust me on this: in a month, it won’t matter. Next year, it won’t matter. People change, they move on, and the haters will move on too. But you, sweet pea, will always be special. Not just for your looks, but for being the best daughter a dad could ask for.”

  There was silence for a moment, and I wondered if I’d missed the mark.

  Then, she leaned her head against my shoulder. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Manageable. I kissed the top of her head. “No problem.”

  “By the way, if it’s okay with you, when you drop me off at school, let’s just figure out a cool fist-bump or handshake or something. I’m a little too old for the hugging thing.”

  “Sure thing, sweet pea.”

  “Oh, one more thing. I like it when you call me sweet pea. I really do. But, if we’re out in public, can you just maybe whisper it in my ear?”

  A kind negotiator. I liked it. “You got it.” I held out my fist, and she bumped it.

  We binge-watched four Andi Mack shows, and I started thinking about Rosie.

  5

  My buddy Tito, a former high-school football teammate who’d dominated play as a defensive tackle, was big and burly, wore a golfer’s cap, and had recently grown a slick goatee that I envied. I couldn’t pull off that look, but he wore it well. He also happened to be the most talented artist that I personally knew. The fact that I really wasn’t close to any other artists was beside the point. He’d carved out his own niche—he could paint the most authentic Christmas vignettes I’d ever seen. And he was no starving artist.

  He and Mackenzie had instantly connected when they’d first met. She hung out at his studio/loft apartment, and she even participated in an art class he was teaching. “Diversifying his income,” he’d told me.

  I dropped off Mackenzie at Lena’s Art Gallery off 6th Street, where Tito was holding the class; then I drove my Cadillac about a mile down Lavaca to Peretti’s. The Cadillac had seen better days. It, like me, had barely survived a drive-by shooting a while back. The cops had seized the vehicle to search for evidence. Now that I had it back, the shattered passenger window had been replaced, but I still had two bullet holes in the driver’s side door, and both side panels had been key-scratched. I didn’t want to go down the path of getting insurance involved. It would have meant involving Nicole again. Just the thought added more weight to my shoulders.

  The moment I walked into Peretti’s, Poppy, the bartender and a former client, gave me a quick nod, which wasn’t easy to miss, considering her red dreadlocks. She poured me my drink of choice: Knob Creek on the rocks. As I plopped down on the barstool, she flipped a napkin on the counter, set down the drink, added a straw.

  “You’re moving more like a man who’s seventy, not twenty-eight.”

  She’d noticed the hitch in my step. “I’m okay.”

  “Did you pull a muscle trying to race that adorable daughter of yours?” She smiled, showing off the stud piercing her tongue.

  You have no idea. “Something like that.” I sipped my drink. “Hey, a client is supposed to meet me—”

  Heads turned to the doorway, interrupting my thought. Even Poppy, who was no stranger to the rougher side of life, dropped open her jaw. I swiveled the barstool in that direction while stealing another sip of my drink.

  What the—

  “Rosie,” I called out. She was standing just inside the doorway, stiff-legged, her hands at her sides. Her dress was ripped at the shoulder, her hair messed beyond belief. But it was the burgundy splotches on her face and neck that almost had me spitting up my whiskey. She didn’t respond. It was as if she were looking through me. I hurried in her direction, realizing what the stains were.

  “You’re covered in blood. Are you injured?”

  A single tear rolled down her face.

  Her bottom lip quivered as her eyes finally met mine. “There’s been a murder.”

  6

  Poppy ushered us to the back room and found a chair for Rosie.

  “Is this your client?” she whispered as she went to the sink and dampened a rag.

  I nodded. “Don’t judge.”

  “Who, me? I just hope she’s okay.”

  I turned and handed the rag to Rosie. She held it for a moment, as if unsure of what to do with it, finally dropping it on her lap.

  “What happened, Rosie?” I pulled up a chair, and Poppy leaned on a wall nearby.

  Rosie stared straight ahead, as if she didn’t hear me. As if she couldn’t hear me.

  I shot a glance at Poppy. She whispered, “Should I call the cops?” I shook my head. Not yet. I had no idea what was going on, and I wanted a little more time to figure out the basics.

  I bent my knees, trying to get in the line of Rosie’s sights. “Hey, it’s me—Ozzie. Do you remember me from this morning?”

  She blinked and then turned to look at me. “Yes. We talked about…everything.” She sighed. “But Earl… I…”

  “You what?” I began to consider the unthinkable. Had life’s relentless burdens finally broken her will? Had she finally seized control and killed Earl for his cheating ways?

  Her lips opened, but no words came out. Her eyes settled on the desk to my right. In my peripheral vision, I could see Poppy shuffling her feet.

  I gently took the rag and began to wipe the dried blood from her cheeks and nose. She just sat there, looking lost, like a small child. I cleaned most of her face, although there was still blood on her ears, neck, and chest.

  “Rosie, I’m concerned about you, and I want to help. But you need to give me some information.”

  She inhaled a breath as if she were about to dive into a deep pool of water. “I…uh, had to go with Earl to a meeting at Troy’s Diner.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Poppy said with a snap of her fingers. “The one down off Nueces.” I gave her the eye. This was not about who could fill in the blanks the quickest; the whole point was to get Rosie to open up. Poppy shrugged and did a “zip-my-lips” thing.

  Rosie’s eyes were like currants in milk. Beautiful. But there was emptiness too.

  “So you went to Troy’s Diner with Earl. Anyone else?”

  “Stuart Benson. And his wife, Margo.”

  “A couples date.”

&nb
sp; “Hardly,” she said quietly, looking down. She began to sniffle. Poppy handed me a box of tissues. I plucked one out of the box and offered it to Rosie. “No toilet paper. We’re going first-class here.” The moment I said it, I realized my attempt at lightening the mood had fallen flat. “You were saying?”

  “Earl has been trying to build his empire,” she said, rocking her head side to side. “It’s always about the money. Money, money, money. First Billy, now Earl. Hell, I’ve been blind. Earl’s always been about the money.”

  A moment of silence. I started to say something to get the ball rolling again, but Poppy beat me to it.

  “But what about all this blood?” Poppy asked, her hand on her forehead.

  I flipped around and ran my fingers across my throat—the sign for her to stop talking.

  “He was assassinated! That’s what happened,” Rosie yelled out. Tears cascaded down her reddening face. I couldn’t hand her tissues fast enough.

  “So, someone died,” I said as calmly as possible.

  “No, I didn’t say that, Ozzie. I said he was assassinated.”

  “Who, dammit?”

  Poppy again. I glared at her, wondering if there was a way we could use a couple of her piercings to somehow staple her mouth shut.

  “Stuart Benson.”

  I was confused. “Did you see who did it?”

  She took in a shuddering breath and then let it go. “No. There was a huge crowd of people in the parking lot. Some country singer was leaving a performance at the honky-tonk next door, and tons of people were out there. Shots were fired, people screamed and ran. At first I thought it was fireworks or a car backfiring. Until I realized my face was wet and half of Stuart’s neck had been blown off!” She held herself, rocking back and forth.

  “My God,” Poppy said.

  I dropped my head. “I’m so sorry, Rosie.”

  Rosie’s breath fluttered again. “I…I was in shock. I…I just can’t—”

  “How long ago did this happen?” I interjected, looking at my watch.

  “I don’t know. Ten minutes, thirty minutes.”