by Eva Shaw
“You’ve been working with him, driving him around for only two days. How can you be sure he’s losing?”
“You’re kidding, right? Believe me, he’s losing, or you can pretend the Easter Bunny is dancing with the tooth fairy on top of the poker table as your pastor is saving lost souls. Give me a break. A guy who spends a lot of time in the cheap casinos, Pastor Jane, and comes out steamed and not plastered or being ushered out by the bouncer as he’s hollering stuff I can’t say to you, my bet is that he’s a loser. I’m no saint. I know what he’s doing, and it’s ruining his life.” He backed off and shrugged. “Yeah, okay, I’m not paid to think. I’m a driver, happy as a hog in new mud to get this gig. But yesterday and into the night, we were doing a version of this. Except it’s hotter today.”
“He’s been gambling for two days straight? You just wait here, Albert. I’ll be back.” Okay, maybe this wasn’t one of my most impressive career decisions, but there was a decent guy sizzling in the sun while a certain unscrupulous Las Vegas minister was inside with air conditioning and losing heaven only knew how much. And, might I add the question: Whose money was he gambling? What would you have done?
I marched right back inside and over to Bob and put a Vulcan Death Grip, straight from Star Trek, on his shoulder. “May I have a word with you?”
Bob flinched, and the cards flew across the table. Another guy at the table spilled his beer. One swore. The dealer grunted, “That’s it. Table closed.”
Guess they figured I was the wife. Probably looked like it, too.
Pastor Bob’s eyes got twice the size of the chip on the table. “Jane. Oh, my. You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I am certain I do.”
“No, Pastor Jane, you don’t. Let’s get out of here. This is so easy to explain.” He laughed, high and unmanly. “I’ll explain everything, everything you need to know. And only what you need to know.”
He took my arm, I yanked away, but took off ahead out of him and out of the casino, squinting in the light, tripping over the railing of the One Horse Saloon. I caught myself, regaining my balance as Albert looked the other way.
I glared at Pastor Bob. “I don’t have time to listen right now, Pastor. Get help, please. If not for yourself, then for our congregation, your flock.”
“Wait. I order you to wait,” he hollered in my direction, but I was moving toward the tan cruiser with the LVPD insignia on the side as it pulled into the McDonald’s across the parking lot.
Ab Normal could concoct whatever story he wanted; I’d seen the truth with the IOUs and him in action. What did he think I planned to do with these tidbits of incriminating evidence? Phewy, what did I plan to do?
I was boiling, and it had nothing to do with Las Vegas in July. Should I go to the church board? Best to write or email the District Council? Bob needed help, but Lord help me, I didn’t want to be his counselor.
As I stormed into McDonald’s at the same second grabbing the PSA adoption application papers from my big ol’ purse. Tom was just inside the doors and I, shoved the papers into his extended hand, and flipped around. I’d had enough of human nature for one afternoon.
“Whoa. Hold it.” Tom held fast to my elbow, and quickly, for a guy his size, he was in front of me. Think brick wall. There was a lot of him. “What’s the rush?” His chocolate eyes squinted.
“You would not believe who I just saw in that place over there.” I pointed. My finger quivered.
Tom’s eyes followed my finger. “The devil himself? Hey, just joking. You too ticked to laugh? You can’t drive anywhere in this condition. Take some breaths. And sit with me for a few minutes. I need a break. My, you are a fine-looking woman when you’re steamed.”
“Put a sock in it. I have decisions to make.” But my feet didn’t scamper away, and my elbow felt all tingly in a delicious way. Okay, my body was easily nudged into a booth.
“Can you wait until we have iced tea? I won’t make any more ‘gosh, you’re beautiful when you’re angry’ remarks, either. Promise. That was daft of me, but gosh, I haven’t had much practice being with a woman in a long while.”
“What about your Officer Christy?” How that “your” got into the question, I have no clue. I regretted it the second the cop’s eyes sparkled.
“She’s a co-worker, Jane, a co-worker who happens to be married. To a fullback with the San Diego Chargers.” His eyebrows, which were lush, went up and down. “You care.” He made a fist like he’d just gotten the winning touchdown, which I felt was cute and weird at the same time. Then he said, “I don’t have much experience with dating a smart kind of woman like you. Sit still, will you? Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
“I’m making myself nervous, Tom.” I shrugged, attempting to shake off the stench of Pastor Bob as I watched Tom head to the counter. I said to his back, “Just a few minutes and then I’m off to dance class.”
“Need a partner?” He handed me one of the iced teas he had carried to a booth.
“No. Um, Gramps is expecting me to dance with him.” I didn’t want Tom with me. Okay, my brain didn’t, but my body seemed to have other longings. But brain won when I realized that having Tom there when I just might do something not fully appreciated by the law, like serious snooping without a license, could be bad for our budding relationship.
“I’ve been dumped plenty of times, Preacher, but I’ve never heard that line.” He sipped the tea like it was the most important thing in life.
Was he kidding me or did he feel bad about being shot down? “Handsome guy like you never gets dumped. It’s in the Code Book of Cute Men, isn’t it?” I flipped out the line, and then wanted to slap my mouth. I was flirting, in public and in less than ten minutes after my senior pastor was found gambling, by me, no less. “Wow, I’m out of practice, if I ever had any practice at making suggestive repartee, that is in the last decade. As for being dumped, seriously, I find it hard to believe that you’d have any trouble with women.”
“Soon as they find out I’m a cop, they smile politely. Some look guilty and comment about parking tickets. Then I’m history.”
“Try being a minister. Guys run. Every time it seems I’ve met Mr. Right, his first name turns out to be Always. He’s not reserved about that, either. Seems I’m meant to be a widow for the rest of my life, which is okay.”
“Widow?” He frowned. Like that meant something to him.
“Yeah, long story. Heck, it’s tough to counsel couples on marital problems when I’m single and childless, but when they find out my pilot husband died just months after we were married they know I have no on-the-job experience. Oh, way TMI—too much information. My mouth doesn’t stop, especially in awkward situations. That sets off a silent alarm in men.”
“I look like I heard any alarms?”
“You’re a cop. You’re not supposed to be scared.” I laughed again. So much for not telling too much too soon.
He studied his hands, rubbed the bruised knuckles, and said, “Don’t let anyone tell you it’s easy out there. If a cop stops being scared, he or she is usually dead. Will ya knock off staring across the street? Okay, and now, answer this: Have you seen anything in me that would be frightened by a woman of conviction? A woman who was confident and smart?” He put down the iced tea.
A bear-like hand stretched out. It moved toward mine. It was either going to touch my fingers or I’d have to take my hand off the table. Quickly.
The world and my breath stopped.
Have you heard of deciding moments? Have you ever felt your next actions might, just might, change your life? No, me either, but as if it had a mind or heart of its own, my left hand stayed put, with the palm up. Decision made.
If it’s true that there’s a season for every purpose under heaven, was this where my heart would be restored? Or smashed to smithereens?
Chapter 10
/> Tom’s palm was calloused, his fingers muscular, and his grasp felt just right, rather like settling into an overstuffed chair. Not that Tom really looked all that much like furniture, although he had a few to lose. Heck, if I were equally honest, so did I, but we’re not talking about me here.
One touch, and I was ready to flip through Brides magazine. Just what does a nicely padded preacher wear to her own wedding? When that question settled into my pea-sized brain, I pulled my fingers out of his grasp with the same speed used when you touch a boiling pot.
He jumped too. Electricity between us? Sheer fear, my guess. “Tom, we’ve known each other for, what, four days? I’m an adult, a solid citizen, a woman with a doctorate in religion and so much on my plate right now that it’s all spilling over onto the floor and getting splattered on my shoes.”
He pulled his hand back, empty as it was. He took a long drag on the straw connected to the iced tea. “Forget it. I’ve always moved too fast for my brain to catch up. Four days? Yeah, I’m the fool, but it felt as if I’ve wanted to know you all my life.” He gulped, clenched and unclenched his jaw. “My folks were married fifty years. They married after knowing each other two days. Thought it might run in the family. If you laugh, Jane, I swear, I’ll be emasculated for life.”
For the first time, I heard the Spanish lilt, and I gulped. I was Silly Putty in the guy’s hands. I reached across the bright yellow table and grabbed his hand. “I’d never laugh at you, Tom. Besides, we have lots in common.” But luckily, I didn’t say, “And someday maybe I’ll tell you about my revelation about Brides.”
We both looked at our hands, and he asked, “Think we might go on a regular date sometime, Preacher? Movies or dinner?”
“Will you issue me a citation for a rain check, Policeman?”
“No.”
I swear tears sprouted to my eyes. “What? Just like that?”
He looked about a zillion percent more comfortable and laughed. It sounded as smooth as Ben & Jerry’s Brownie Batter ice cream. I’ve done plenty of research on that variety so I know smooth. “It’s going to be your turn to ask me. That’s the rule, from now on. Ball’s in your court.”
Was it that easy to fall in love? Pshaw, not me. I was too old, too tough, too religious, and I lied to myself too often.
Tom checked his watch. “Break time’s over, got a mountain of paperwork to go through.” He took the pile of adoption forms with PSA’s pretty logo and said, “I’ve got to make some sense of these. You need them back?”
“Yes, I want to proceed. But before you go, how’s Mikel? I met the woman who found him when I was at the Daily Bread Mission.”
“Did you meet the gal, Eddie, who could be a professional wrestler? Seems she runs the place. There’s always one. Yeah, we talked to them all. Mikel is okay. We’re still trying to find a Polish psychologist to talk with him, but the three we know of happen to all be on vacation or down with this flu stuff. All at once. Ought to be a law against that.”
We walked toward the doors. “My grandfather is a kind person, Tom,” I said, “and speaks fluent Polish, but he’s not a psychologist. Hey, there’s a Polish Social Club meeting tonight after dance class. Would you like me to ask if there are any psychologists in the group?”
“You’d do that? You liked that kid, didn’t you?”
“Call me Saran Wrap, see right through me. Will you tell me if there’s anything odd in the forms? Can you have somebody drop them at the church tomorrow? I’ll be there all day.”
Driving back toward church and sitting in my office, I tried to think about VBS, tried to focus on the report that waited for my attention—tried, but heck, trying didn’t cut it. By a quarter to six, I was back in the SUV and heading to my six o’clock dance class date at the East Las Vegas Senior Center. As I pulled into the lot, Gramps called me, double-checking my arrival time. He was giddy. Some redhead he’d been dancing with had invited him to the coffee klatch afterward. I couldn’t tell if he was starving for female attention or the kolaches or honey cakes they served.
• • •
I found a spot in the shade of a spindly tree as Petra pulled in next to me. She locked her battered gray Toyota then waved calling to me, “Jane, I heard news in the berry vine.”
“Grape?”
“No not about grapes. About a young boy, just five years old walking around in the bad section of town. Limping. You must understand. This could be important. My friend Drexel’s nephew had a limp, and he is about five or six. The records from the Child’s Play Home said that the boy had a severe knee ailment. He was born with only one kneecap.” Her delicate lips formed a pained straight line and her forehead, the color of vanilla ice cream, actually wrinkled. She put a hand up, shielding the sun so she could see me.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Drexel and Greta sooner?”
“They wanted everything to keep as secret. I know Drexel and Greta talked with you today, but this berry vine talk came from the buscias, the grandmothers. They talk a lot—too much sometimes. They think it’s bad for me to be here to fight the PSA all alone. They’re going to help, but what can a group of little old ladies do to fight these criminals?” On cue, one headed straight toward me. Petra scooted, at full speed, in the opposite direction. The girl was no fool.
“I am a buscia. Do you know what that means?” said the one who charged at me first. She was fierce, and I knew better than to try to grab back my arm.
“Yes, Grandmother,” I responded in Polish.
“Good, then you know I am serious. Stop the PSA or we will.” She extended an arm, motioning toward the door.
I turned back to see. Five endearing grandmothers were standing there. “Look over there. That’s the Buscia Brigade. There are more of us, too, more around the country.”
“I will do my best.” She let go of my arm and I rubbed it. That’d leave a bruise, I thought. “A phone call I have to make might even help. May I go now?” I sounded about five years old, but this lady looked like my own buscia. Dangerous.
“You’ll come back after.” It wasn’t a question. “We’re having social time and there are nice men for you to meet. You are not married, says your sweet dziadek—ah, grandfather. He’s not married, either, is he? Oh, this is good. You will help us, and we will find you a good, strong husband to give you many babies,” she said and slapped me on the backside. “You are a good fat woman. Good to have babies.”
“Let’s see if I can help you first, shall we?” I jumped away before she could slap me again. “Get the guys to line up, and I’ll check them out to see if they’re worth marrying me.” I tried to laugh, but the buscia pulled me down to her level and smacked a kiss on both cheeks, whispering, “I am glad you’re here, dziewczynk. That means baby girl in Polish. Help us stop the PSA, and we’ll find the right maz, that is, a husband for you.”
The buscias kept circling me like sharks, but I managed to move through their lines. What would they do to me if I didn’t help them stop PSA? Violence would be the answer, I had no doubt. You’ve heard about mama bears being separated from their young? They’re regular pussycats compared to Polish grandmothers. It would not have shocked me if they’d decided to storm the PSA office and tar and feather Delta Cheney if she refused to stop the black market baby business.
I opened my cell and pushed the numbers for Tom’s office only to get his voice mail. I pushed the numbers for his cell phone and got another one. I was standing there wondering how in the world to find him when my phone rang. “Jane here.”
“Jane, it’s Tom. Are we okay?”
“Are we a ‘we’?” I was way too confused about our relationship or what it might be or even morph into to encourage this line of talking or thinking so I snapped, “Tom, what exactly is wrong with that little Polish boy Mikel?”
I could hear sirens in the background. Again. Tom respond
ed, “His foot, a malformation in his ankle and knee. The docs seem to think it can be surgically repaired, but I have got the Feds breathing down my neck and I can’t worry about that kid right now. Sorry.”
Chapter 11
“You sure?” I trembled then I asked, “Not a hip or an ankle? Or a kneecap?”
“Awfully curious about that kid’s bone structure. Yeah, why?” The sirens were getting louder. “Hey, Jane, looks like I have to take off. In my business, there are interruptions.”
I swear I heard a crash and what sounded like, “Put your hands against the car,” but then I have been known to have a fertile imagination. “Is everything okay?” Those sounds were beginning to grate on my under-caffeinated nerves.
“Part of the job. Why?”
The siren ended it for me and fantasies of snuggling with Tom. I’d buried one lover who thrived on adrenaline, and each time an F-15 flew overhead out of Nellis Air Force Base, I saw Collin’s jet burst into flames and heard the sirens on the airfield. Period. No more “we.” I mumbled, “Yes, yes, it was the noise.”
“You’ve got to loosen up, Jane, especially if we’re going to see more of each other. Do you? Can we?”
Changing the subject was safer than heading down that dead-end highway. “Which knee? Which foot?”
“I’ll have to check. Something from trauma to his mother before his birth. Probably beat when she was pregnant. But the doctors only checked him out to make sure he hadn’t been physically abused.”
“And, was he?” I held my breath.
“Physically, other than the limp, he’s good. Breaks me up. He loves playing catch. The kid’s pretty good. Maybe we can take him to the park. Or something?”
I didn’t answer his question about getting to know me better or the park, but ended the conversation by closing my phone as I walked out. I felt queasy. Could the doctors be wrong? Could Mikel be Drexel’s long-lost nephew? There were a million reasons why this wasn’t possible and about a million more why it could be. Sweat popped out on my top lip, bottom lip, armpits, and in the crevice between my breasts. Some from the heat, but most because coincidences do happen. Could I make this come true by holding my breath, keeping my fingers crossed, or sprinkling salt over my shoulder?