Royal Flush (The Jake Samson & Rosie Vicente Detective Series Book 6) (14 page)

“Yeah.”

He didn’t sound convincing. Maybe he was too scared to trust.

“Something else— I saw you giving money to Zack yesterday. What was that all about?”

“Loan.”

“He borrowed money from you? How much?”

“Just a couple hundred.”

Just. “Do you lend him money often?”

“I got it, I loan it.”

“And he knows you’ve got it.”

“Sure.”

He was sounding defensive, so I decided to let Zack’s sponging go for now and change the subject. His crap around the protest had left me feeling a little mean, so I said something I thought he might not like.

“You know, Royal, you’d better watch out if Leslie’s there. Floyd said she probably would be.”

“Watch out? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means she wants your body.”

He looked at me as if I’d just told him I had three wives and two husbands. He was shocked that I would say such a thing. “Don’t talk like that.”

“It’s true.”

He spat out the window.

“Don’t do that. You might hit the car.”

“Besides,” Rosie added, “it’s disgusting.”

He wiped his mouth. “How do you know? About Leslie, I mean.”

“She told me.”

“She told you?”

“Yes. And she says she doesn’t understand what you’re doing with a girl who isn’t a skin, a straight-edge like Deeanne.”

“Well, why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I think she wanted me to.”

“You going to do everything Leslie tells you to do?”

“I very much doubt it.”

Rosie laughed. “Glad to hear it, pal.”

I pulled into the Coliseum parking lot and began cruising the rows. The Command goons were close to where they said they’d be, in the F Section, at the big blue troop carrier. F Troop.

Karl was hunched in a faded red deck chair nursing a beer. He nodded at me. Pete Ebner and Leslie were working at the Weber, trying to get the charcoal to burn. Red was sitting behind the wheel of his truck listening to the radio. Oldies rock.

A row of bloody paper-wrapped bundles of meat was slung across the truck’s open tailgate, along with some packages of hot dogs and buns. Half a dozen ice chests were squatting underneath along with several grocery sacks spilling chip bags.

Hal and Helen were there. I figured they’d probably brought the chips.

No one was wearing a Confederate flag, thank God. And most of the tattoos were covered.

Floyd was waiting for us.

“Hey, there, Rosie! You all know Jase’s friend Rosie, right?”

A few mutters of “Yeah, sure,” even from the ones who hadn’t met her the night before.

“You going to want a burger, honey?”

Oh, boy. He’d graduated to endearments. Rosie was going to have to start thinking about blocking a pass.

“Sure. Medium rare. And Jason likes his the same way.” I could almost hear the strains of “My Guy” playing an accompaniment to that remark.

Floyd sagged a little but kept smiling. “Okay. Want a beer?”

“Little early for me, thanks.”

“Not for me,” I said, and accepted a Budweiser.

Royal said he’d eat hot dogs, thanks.

It occurred to me that there was something definitely wrong with Floyd’s smile. It didn’t include his eyes. I began to gnaw on the possibility that maybe he was flirting with Rosie for the same reason he’d befriended me. Because he didn’t trust either one of us and wanted to edge in closer, and not because he truly appreciated her beauty and charm.

I took a deck chair next to Karl’s. “So, Karl, tell me. What’s a vegetarian eat at something like this?”

Before he could answer Floyd roared, “Not a whole hell of a lot!”

Hal and Helen laughed loudly. Pete Ebner leered. Royal helped himself to a beer. The party was in full swing.

Would Gilly Johns show up? Alone? Why did I care? Why did I have the woman on my mind at all? And why, above all, was I arguing with myself? Why not just ask Floyd the question? I mean, I didn’t want to be taken by surprise.

“Is Gilly going to be here?”

“Don’t know. She keeps to herself a lot. Why, you want
her
too?” His eyes slid toward Rosie, and he was sounding a bit snappish.

Karl laughed. “Maybe he wants ’em all, Floyd. And maybe he gets what he wants. Not like you.”

Floyd ignored the crack. Had Floyd gone after Gilly and— I couldn’t help it, I was at the Coliseum— struck out? In any case, he and Karl were not best buddies, and Karl seemed to get a lot of fun out of making that clear to anyone who’d pay attention.

Karl jabbed again. “How’s the job hunt going, Floyd?” Floyd didn’t answer. “Floyd says he had a big job in construction. Foreman. But he lost it.”

Floyd couldn’t let that stand. “Politics, you son of a bitch. It was because of politics.”

Karl laughed. Floyd’s face was looking a little pink. I was thinking Karl better knock it off.

Ebner got the charcoal going to his satisfaction and grabbed a beer, taking it to an old convertible parked next to the truck. A Chevelle. Not in good shape like my Falcon. One more reason for him to hate me.

The car was a dusty and faded black with dents in the two near fenders. He swung open the door and sat in his own driver’s seat. Like Red. Their choice of semi-solitude probably said a lot about them both.

Floyd was tossing dogs and burgers onto the Weber. Karl announced to the world at large that he had to go take a leak and hiked off in the direction of the ballpark.

Leslie was standing close to Royal, talking very earnestly— something about a flight jacket she had seen somewhere. Something about the patches on it. Royal looked mildly interested, in the jacket anyway. She reached up and stroked his arm. He didn’t pull it back, but he shifted his body slightly so he was a couple more inches away from her. She moved in closer again. I joined them.

Leslie’s eyes looked me up and down quickly, dismissively, and turned back to their contemplation of Royal’s face.

“Food smells good, huh?” I included them both in this brilliant remark.

Royal nodded. Leslie sneered and ignored me, whining, “Royal, I’m restless. Why don’t we take a little walk?”

“Hey, good idea.” He really did seem to be glad she’d suggested it. Anything to escape from the group, I guessed. The kid was not holding up well in his role as snitch. It couldn’t be too wonderful spending all this time with people he was betraying— people who would just as soon kill him as look at him if they knew. Couldn’t have been a warm fuzzy feeling.

Of course, I was spending a lot of time with people I was betraying too. If you could use the word “betrayal” in a case like this.

The two teenagers stumbled off in their big bad boots and I mumbled something about “little boys’ room” and wandered off myself, just to see where Karl was really headed.

He hadn’t quite gotten all the way to where he’d said he was going. On my way to the toilet, I saw Karl standing near the row of public phones so I waved, smiled, and passed right by.

When I got back, Rosie was helping Floyd flip burgers. Ebner had gotten out of his car and was waiting beside Floyd, plate in hand, eyeing a pair of teenage girls who were sauntering by. They were giggling, and seemed to like his pretty blond attention. Little jerks didn’t even notice me.

Helen was putting chips in plastic bowls. Hal went to a nondescript gray Eighties sedan parked next to Ebner’s convertible and pulled out a radio, which he brought back and tuned to a country-and-western station.

Red swung around and stared out his window. When he saw who had turned on the competing sound he pouted, shut off his oldies, and got out of his truck.

“Okay, Hal. We’ll listen to your crappy music for a while.”

Hal smiled and nodded. Helen giggled.

Floyd was slipping the first burgers onto grilled buns when Karl came back, took a beer and a bag of tortilla chips from the truck, and eased his thin butt into his deck chair again.

He was watching Floyd in an odd, concentrated way.

“Hey, Floyd?”

“What, Karl?” The tone of voice said clearly, Leave me alone.

“Maybe you should skip lunch.”

“Why’s that?”

“Getting a belly.”

“Man needs a little flesh to look like a man, you scrawny runt.”

“You look like a fat man. No, you know what you look like? Act like one too?”

“Jesus Christ, Karl, slow down on the beer and back off before I have to shove a burger down your throat. Or a nice raw fist.” He handed Ebner a hamburger on a paper plate.

“What you look like, you look like a cop.”

Floyd just shook his head and continued to flip burgers and poke hot dogs. Ebner snickered and carried his food back to his car. He sat with the driver’s side door open, eating his burger and watching the two men.

Zack and Skink showed up and grunted their hellos.

Karl wouldn’t let up. “That wasn’t a compliment, Floyd.”

Floyd glanced at the smaller man and spat on the ground. Karl jumped up, spilling tortilla chips, and lurched right through them, crunching them underfoot. He grabbed Floyd’s burger-flipping arm.

“I said you’re fat, Floyd, and you look like a big, dumb cop.”

Floyd yanked his arm out of Karl’s hand and passed his spatula to Rosie.

“And I said, back off, runt. You’re too skinny and too drunk to hit.”

Red and the two boys laughed and drank beer, leaning against the truck.

Karl really surprised me when he swung at Floyd. He connected too, hard on the jaw. Floyd took a couple of faltering steps back, then jumped on the little guy, knocking him to the ground and pounding on his chest and face until blood spurted from his nose. Karl pounded back on Floyd, his mouth open and a weird screeching war cry pouring out.

People from nearby cars began rushing toward us. Someone yelled, “Fight!” Helen pushed past Rosie, who was enjoying the mayhem, pulled the meat off the grill and piled it on plates, then she and Hal moved the grill itself away from the action. The whole maneuver looked almost rehearsed. Those two geeks were efficient. Not one hunk of meat other than Karl hit the ground. Karl was getting mashed, and nobody was stopping Floyd. I was about to break the newcomer’s code of let-’em-work-it-out when Ebner hauled himself up out of his car and approached the two, writhing, locked together on the ground.

“ ’Nough, Floyd.” He said it loud enough to be heard over Karl’s eardrum-splitting screeches. Floyd gave Karl one more blow, an open-handed slap to the face, and got up.

“Runt.”

Floyd’s jaw was red and was going to be nicely bruised. Hal and Helen helped Karl to his feet and sat him down in his deck chair. Helen picked up the fallen bag of chips and put it back in his lap.

She went to one of the ice chests and got some cubes, wrapping them in paper towels and handing one makeshift ice pack to Karl, who held it to his nose, and another to Floyd for his jaw.

Everyone in our party was now acting like nothing had happened. Red, Ebner, and the two boys were standing around, drinking beer, laughing, talking. Helen was putting more chips in bowls. Hal poured soda and handed out beer. Karl sat staring at the ground— some of his blood was clearly visible in the dust— and icing his face.

Floyd touched his jaw with ice for about five seconds, then tossed it in the garbage and retrieved the half-cooked meat that Helen had rescued. I helped him put it back on the grill.

The crowd attracted by the brawl dispersed, probably disappointed at the dull aftermath. The place felt like a bed after bad sex. Messy, with the odor of spent emotion and spilled fluids. And like something was definitely over.

When Royal and Leslie came back half an hour later, they both looked at Karl, But Royal’s eyes slid away from him quickly.

Leslie wasn’t so reticent. Or compassionate.

“What happened to you, Karl?”

“Nothing. Fell on my ass.”

“Yeah? Is your ass bleeding too?” She laughed, meanly, went to the truck, shoved some raw meat to the side, and hoisted herself up on the tailgate, stubby little legs swinging.

Floyd turned a burger. “That was medium rare, Jason?”

“Uh-huh. You guys fight like that often?”

“Not often.”

For the duration of the party no one else even mentioned what had happened, as if it were bad manners to talk about a fight afterwards. Food was served, drinks flowed, and finally, it was time for the ball game. We trooped into the Coliseum and found our seats, ready to see the A’s trounce the Twins.

I was sitting between Floyd and Royal. Karl was right below us.

Leslie had managed to squeeze in next to Royal, who didn’t seem to mind all that much. I guess that kind of attention is flattering to a teenage boy. To anyone, actually— except Rosie when it came from Floyd.

The game was mostly slow. I kept wondering who some of those people out on the field were and why so many of them had the wrong names. Where was Steinbach? Where the hell was Tony La Russa and his animal rights? Didn’t baseball players use to stay with the same teams all their working lives? Or was that just a trick of middle-aged memory?

The Twins won.

Everyone wanted to go back to Thor’s after the game. I had better plans and begged off, saying I had to go home and make dinner for my dad.

“Hey, I got an idea,” Floyd said. “How about you and me and Rosie, we get some takeout, bring it home for your pop?”

This guy was definitely checking us out. I thought fast and stole Rosie’s unused crazy mother. I took him aside.

“Listen, Floyd, about my father. See, I haven’t exactly told you all the truth about him.” That was for sure. He was healthy and obnoxious and living in Chicago with my stepmother, the yenta. “He’s not just sick. Well, he is sick, his heart, but he’s also, well, he’s also…” I waved a hand vaguely in the direction of my head.

He nodded slowly. “Crazy, huh? Well, that’s okay.”

“No, see, he really can’t have company. It kind of, um, sets him off.”

“Oh. Okay.” I couldn’t tell whether he believed me or not. “Well, see you tomorrow then?”

“Sure. Tomorrow.”

Leslie offered to drive Royal, and he accepted the offer.

Maybe Artie wouldn’t have to worry about this boyfriend much longer.