Game Face

by Mark Troy

GAME FACE

  by

  Mark Troy

  First Edition

  ISBN 978-0-9848081-1-3

  Copyright (c) 2011 Mark Troy

  All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.

  Ilium Books

  1002 Rose Circle

  College Station, TX 77840

  https://www.marktroy.net

  Cover design

  David L. Shackelford

  DEDICATION

  To Mary Fran, Ted, Michael, Laura, Morgan and Matthew for their love and support over the years.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  Teed Off

  Home Wreckers

  Kill Leader

  The Big Dance With Death

  Wahine O Ka Hoe

  Drop Dead Zone

  Horns

  Ripper

  Pilikia Is My Business

  Note To The Reader

  About The Author

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many people contributed help and support to these stories, including all of those friends from Brazos Writers and The Raven Mavens who read and critiqued these offerings. Many editors offered suggestions and then took a chance to bring these stories before the public. To all of them, I offer thanks and gratitude.

  FOREWORD

  These eight stories and one sample chapter represent the fictional life of Val Lyon, a woman who has been with me for more than two decades in one way or another. Val began as a secondary character in a novel I started while living in Hawaii. When I moved to Texas I brought the novel with me and entered it into a workshop led by Joe R. Lansdale and Lewis Shiner.

  Lansdale and Shiner hated the story, hated the main character, but they liked Val. They told me to write the story in Val's point of view, first person, if possible. I wasn't happy with that at first, but I recognized the essence of their advice—take risks. A writer needs to step outside his or her comfort zone. So I took their advice and gave voice to Val. I believe it was the best thing I did.

  That first book has never been published and I don't expect it ever will be. I don't even know if there is copy of it in existence. It wasn't a good book, but it was good practice. I went on to write Pilikia Is My Business., which LTDBooks published in 2001. Before Pilikia was published, however, I tried my hand at short stories.

  As Val had been an athlete, I decided to bring sports into these stories. They weren't intended to be sports stories in the sense that they portrayed the drama, glory and heart-ache of sports. Rather, sports figured as a backdrop to the main topics of murder, lust, greed and adultery.

  The one constant in these stories is Val's determination to win, to prevail against tough odds. That determination is her dominant characteristic. I call it her Game Face, the spirit of competition and determination to win against any opponent, even Death.

  Drop Dead Zone was the first story to be published. It appeared in Mystery Buff Magazine in February 1998. The story grew out of a lively conversation following my first skydive during which a jumper, who is now my daughter-in-law, Laura, said I needed to write a story about it. Drop Dead Zone was nominated for a Derringer Award by the Short Mystery Fiction Society.

  Wahine O Ka Hoe was actually my first story that was accepted for publication. It appeared in Murderous Intent Mystery Magazine in spring 1998, a month after Drop Dead Zone. The inspiration for this story came from an article in Sports Illustrated about the Wahine O Ke Kai, the open-ocean canoe race between Molokai and Oahu.

  Kill Leader appeared in the inaugural edition of Anthony Neil Smith's Plots With Guns in 1999. This was my first attempt at a hard-boiled story. It has since been published as an audio story in Sniplits and included in the Sniplits' anthology, Killer Fiction. The story takes place at a professional beach volleyball tournament.

  Home Wreckers, my second hard-boiled effort, was published in Bob Foster's Nefarious—Tales of Mystery. It, too, appeared in 1999 in the inaugural edition. That was a great year for inaugurations. Nefarious has had an up and down history, so this story has probably had the fewest number of readers. I'm pleased to be able to introduce Home Wreckers to new readers. It features Val trying to solve the murder of a star woman professional basketball player.

  The Big Dance With Death came out in FUTURES in June 2001 after passing through three editors, each of whom had different ideas for the story. In fact, I had written it before any of the other stories. It brings Val back to her alma mater for the NCAA women's basketball tournament.

  Teed Off was published in Michael Bracken's Fedora, Private Eyes and Tough Guys in 2001. When Michael put out the call for submissions, I jumped at it. How could anybody pass up the chance to be in a volume with that title? It is the most hard-boiled of all my stories and is the only short story that includes Val's sidekick, Moon Ito. The violence in this story is the most explicit of anything I have written. The sport in this story is golf, but the theme is retribution. Teed Off received an honorable mention in Otto Penzler and James Ellroy's Best American Mystery Stories, 2002.

  Horns was written and accepted for another Michael Bracken anthology, Sex, Lies and Private Eyes, which, after years of changing publication dates, was finally canceled. I sent it over to The Thrilling Detective where editor Gerald So picked it up and published it in 2009. The title, Horns, is a play on words. The story takes place at the Makawao Rodeo, but is really about sex as specified for inclusion in Bracken's anthology.

  I'm happy to present Ripper for the first time. This story had its genesis when I heard the story about the young surfer who lost an arm to a shark. At the time, I was thinking about doing a surfing story. After all, Val operates in Hawaii and has a connection to sports. How could I not do a story about Hawaii's gift to the sporting world? So here, first time in publication, is Ripper.

  The first chapter of Pilikia Is My Business is here to complete the Val Lyon saga.

  David L. Shackelford of Austin drew the cover and interior art for these stories. He also drew the cover for the Ilium Books edition of Pilikia. You can find out more about David's art at https://www.idrawbooks.com.

  TEED OFF

  Glenn Floeck moved down concourse C of Honolulu International Airport as though he expected everybody to get out of his way. Most people did. Not so much because he was Glenn Floeck, whom few people recognized, but because he strode in the wake of a black man the size of a Lincoln Towncar. The black man hefted a golf bag carrier over his shoulder as though it were a middle schooler's book bag.

  The man stopped at the end of the concourse, forcing the flow of arriving passengers behind him to eddy around. Floeck stopped beside him, choking off the flow even more. He struck a pose, chin in the air, like he was waiting for strobes to flash. With his strong, chiseled features and sculpted body, he could have been a daytime soap star. He scanned the crowd, eye-sweeping every attractive woman. His eyes lighted on me as I approached.

  I had on a plain white blouse and a slim gray skirt that gave me a nice silhouette. Floeck seemed to like the look. He took the complete inventory from my Ray-Bans to my pumps and then, in case he had missed something, he took it again.

  I said, "Mr. Floeck, I'm your driver."

  His face registered surprise and interest. "I expected a guy named Ito."

  "Ito sent me. If there's a problem, you can check with him. My name's Lyon."

  He tried the name on. "Lyon. Is there a first name?"

  "Ms. Lyon."

  He tried a different approach. "I'm a first name guy," he said smoothly. "I'm Glenn."

  "Pleased
to meet you, Glenn." I turned to the black man, who'd remained impassive throughout the exchange. "You must be Odd Job."

  He didn't say anything. His scar said it all. The scar ran from his left eyebrow, across the bridge of his nose to a spot below his right cheekbone.

  Floeck said, "My man here is Frodo Baggins."

  "Really," I said. "I had no idea Hobbits came in jumbo size."

  When he scowled, the big man's scar became a diagonal furrow. His look could have chilled a beer keg.

  Floeck fell in beside me as we headed to the baggage area. "I specifically instructed Ito to meet us at the gate."

  "Sorry," I said. "My knife wouldn't pass security."

  He fell back a half step. I could feel his eyes searching me. "You're carrying a knife?"

  "On my thigh," I said. While he made another visual inspection I added, "It cuts better when it's warm."

  By the time we had the bags and reached the limo, I'd said "no" three times to drinks and dinner with Glenn Floeck. We put the bags in the trunk and Floeck settled in back. Baggins climbed in front. The car sank on its shocks as the big man sat. He carried a briefcase that had come through baggage claim.

  The limo had a fully stocked bar, a TV and, per Floeck's request, a recent issue of every golfing magazine published in North America. Golf was Floeck's business. He had built a job as proshop manager into an empire of golf shops, known as Teed Up. Before I was behind the wheel, Floeck had a drink and a mag; before we were out of the airport, he was on the phone.

  "Is he checking me out with Ito?" I asked the Hobbit.

  Hobbit said nothing. He opened the briefcase on his lap, took out a Glock and two clips. He checked a clip and inserted it into the gun. He put the gun back in the case and closed it.

  In the mirror, I saw Floeck close his flip phone. He came on the intercom. He said, "Ito says your name's Val and underneath the attitude is a soft pussy. He says you're the best he has."

  "Hope he remembers that at performance review time."

  "Do you always carry a knife, honey?"

  "It's Ms. Lyon and sometimes I carry a gun."

  "Why?"

  "Because I'm not on a first name basis and 'honey' isn't close."

  "I meant why do you carry a gun?"

  "It works better than a restraining order."

  Baggins cracked a smile for the first time. "Man knows restraining orders."

  * * * * *

  Glenn Floeck had three restraining orders out on him. One ex-wife, a former girlfriend, and a woman he'd simply taken a fancy to. There had been a fourth order, issued on behalf of Lorraine Masaki, but that order had ended with Lorraine's plunge from a Las Vegas hotel balcony.

  "I know she didn't commit suicide," said Gordon Masaki.

  Masaki, Lorraine's brother found my name in the phone book under "Private Investigator." We first met in the living room of his home at the end of Palolo Valley two months before Floeck's visit to the Islands.

  He said, "She had a career, a life. Me, I couldn't climb out on a balcony if I wanted to."

  In fact, getting out of a chair was a struggle for him, the result of progressive nerve and muscle damage he'd brought back from the Gulf War along with some ribbons and medals. The ribbons and medals were mounted in frames and displayed on end tables with photos of Gordon in sand camos and a variety of weaponry. He looked robust and formidable in the photos. There were also photos of a very pretty young woman in a cheerleader's outfit and other photos of the same woman in a cap and gown. The photos appeared to have been taken about ten years apart.

  "Lorraine?"

  "Yes. I was so proud of her when she graduated. Took her eight years, working full time. Had a great offer right after graduation. Travel, advancement, everything she wanted."

  I watched his eyes as he talked. His body may have been an uncooperative husk, but his eyes were full of life. When he talked about his sister they were a well of love and caring.

  I said, "What do you think happened?"

  Masaki said, "I think the son of a bitch killed her."

  "What son of a bitch?"

  "Glenn Floeck."

  "Is he a boyfriend?"

  "He's an animal. He's harassed her for months. I know he did it." The conviction rang in his voice. Of course that didn't make him right.

  Masaki struggled laboriously out of his chair. "I saved her letters and emails." He tottered out of the room on aluminum crutches, returning with a file folder.

  The contents told a story of a job that was going well, traveling to new places, meeting new people. One of those people was Glenn Floeck whom she met at a leisure expo in San Diego. It began with some casual dinner dates.

  "He pursued her from the start," Masaki said. "He wore her down until she went out with him."

  "Was she afraid of him?"

  "Not at first. That came after she tried to break it off. He wouldn't have it."

  Almost overnight his attitude went from friendly but insistent to ugly and threatening. There were phone calls. She changed her number, but he learned her new one. She altered her travel plans at the last minute, but he still managed to find her.

  "Lorraine had a new car," said Gordon. "A Miata. Really proud of it. The bastard trashed it. He smashed the windows, slashed the top and upholstery, and scratched, 'You're mine' in the paint."

  "Could she prove Floeck did it?"

  "Hunh uh. He was too smart for that, but she did get a judge to issue a restraining order."

  "Did it work?"

  "If it did, we wouldn't be talking. Will you take the case? I have a good trust fund. I can pay whatever it takes."

  "Look, Mr. Masaki, suppose I take the case and it still looks like suicide?"

  "The son of a bitch killed her. I know he did."

  "But if I can't prove it?"

  "Even if she did jump, Floeck broke her and drove her to it."

  "You can't be sure, Mr. Masaki."

  "I'll always be sure."

  * * * * *

  I flew to the mainland on Masaki's dime. The plane was a wide-body packed knee-to-seatback with revelers on a gambling junket. I seemed to be the only one traveling on business.

  The Las Vegas detective who caught the Masaki case was a heavy-jowled man named Stalworth. An unopened deck of cigarettes lay on his desk next to a plastic tray of nicotine gum. Stalworth popped two squares of gum out of the tray.

  "One of these doesn't do it for me," he said. He put both of them in his mouth. "Buy me time before the next craving."

  He retrieved a folder from a nearby file cabinet and cleared an area of desk surface. "Lorraine Masaki, the girl who went skydiving."

  "She was twenty-seven."

  "Huh?"

  "She wasn't a girl."

  He gave me a sideways glance. "She hit like a bag of tomatoes. You sure you want to see this?"

  I didn't but I had to cover all the bases for my client. He laid the photo on the clean portion of the desk. I looked at it and wished I hadn't. Thought about the cheerleader and the graduate.

  "Any reason to think she was pushed?"

  "You have something I should know about?"

  "There's a former boyfriend named Glenn Floeck. She had a restraining order on him."

  Stalworth popped another nicotine dose in his mouth. He gave the deck of smokes a long look. "We checked Floeck. He was with a woman at the time it happened." Stalworth must have caught some surprise on my face because he said, "You didn't know he was here did you?"

  "That didn't raise a flag?"

  "It raised a flag all right. The woman stuck to her story and the bodyguard, Baggins, backed him up."

  "Why does he need a bodyguard?"

  "The easy answer is a lot of people would like to see something bad happen to an asshole like Floeck. You ask me, though, I think it's more for show. Everybody wishes the worst for him, but nobody cares enough to do it."

  "So this guy Baggins isn't for real?"

  "Oh he's the real deal. A classic
case of underemployment working for Floeck."

  "My client is convinced Floeck was involved."

  Stalworth tossed the empty gum tray in the wastebasket. "Your client is wrong."

  "She was afraid of him."

  "She wasn't the only one." He gave out a heavy sigh. "I hate scum who prey on women. I'd like to shove his balls down his throat. Pardon my French." He sighed again. "We can't put Floeck in the room at that time or any time. We can't put anybody in the room with her, for that matter."

  "Forensics got nothing?" I asked.

  "Nada," he said. "Zip."

  "Was she on the ground long before you reached the scene?"

  "She landed in a parking lot that didn't have much traffic that time of night. Somebody heard a scream, but nobody saw her dive. It took us a while to find out which balcony she jumped from. She didn't take her purse, so all we had was the trajectory to work with."

  "So, anybody in the room had time to get away."

  "If anybody was in the room."

  "You searched the floor, above and below?"

  "We did our job." There was an unspoken challenge in his voice.

  I made nice. "I'm not saying you didn't. My client came back from the Gulf with a bunch of ribbons and a permanent disability the government denies. His sis is all he had. He's sure she was murdered. I'm just looking for a way to make him right for once."

  Stalworth's fingers inched towards the cigarettes. "Forget murder. You want a reason to take back to your client? Try the pills. They were in her purse."

  "What kind of pills?"

  "Antidepressants." His fingers made the cigs. He spat out the gum and ripped the cellophane.

  * * * * *

  Floeck's alibi was a part-time realtor with a lot of mileage for her years. The police report gave her age as 31 but her coke-creased face and Tequila-basted voice added another decade. She was feeding slot machines from a bucket of coins in Casino Xanadu when I caught up to her. The Xanadu happened to be next door to Lorraine's hotel.

  "Yeah," she said. "Glenn was here with me that night. I told that to the police." She dropped a coin in the slot and pulled. Lights from the machine played across her face in red and green flashes.

  "Where was the bodyguard?"