Breaking In

By Gary Cummings

As private detective Kyle Roach flees the scene of a house explosion in Wichita, Kansas, his tattered shirt resembling Miss Kentucky’s sash, he suspects the beautiful woman who has just hired him has been less than truthful. Stella Kapaneous, Washington D. C. socialite and wife of a multi-billionaire, has hired Kyle to arrange a meeting for her. Kyle walks into a trap meant for Stella and is nearly killed. Scared and confused, Stella begs Kyle to help her return to the protection of her husband back east. During the next four days Kyle will fight off agents from two continents, crash his beloved pickup into a motel room and steal four vehicles while protecting his client. And this is Kyle’s first case.

It’s not as if Kyle’s life needs turmoil. His week ended with the employer at his day job announcing Kyle’s pension had become a victim of cost cutting. He struggles daily with the loneliness of being divorced. The memory of his late father’s suicide lingers, and he wrestles with his own fleeting suicidal thoughts. Kyle fights on, surrounding himself with friends and immersing himself in sports, alcohol and a study of great thinkers from the past.

Rich and pampered, Stella doesn’t take well to life on the run, interfering with and second-guessing Kyle’s unorthodox methods of protecting her. When a pair of hit men draw close to the motel room in which they are hiding, Stella admits she’s pitched his 9mm into a parking lot trash can because, “... guns make me nervous.” Kyle ends up trading shots with the bad men, reeking of chicken nugget dipping sauce and having violated various littering ordinances.

Not satisfied with interfering with Kyle’s attempts to protect her, Stella interferes in his personal life. When his manic-depressant ex-wife drops back into Kyle’s life, Stella manages to insult her. Stella soon finds out that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned--and off her meds.

Though Kyle hasn’t a clue about dealing with women’s motives and emotions, his understanding of history helps him anticipate the actions of the men opposing him. Though not normally aggressive, he discovers he’s able to mete out violence in large doses to protect those in his care. He knows when to fight, when to lie and when to run.

Stella and Kyle settle into an uneasy alliance as they hurtle across the Midwest, running from hired killers, as well as the police. The two experience the clash of wealthy versus middle class, East Coast versus Middle America and cool sex appeal versus wanton wanting. Thoughts of abandoning his high maintenance client enter his mind throughout their flight. But, before their journey ends Kyle starts to understand that clients, and life, don’t always allow you to take the most logical path. Both can get you killed and all you can do is your best--and be ready with a smart-assed answer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Cummings
• Release date: Aug 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476046686

Book preview

Chapter One

Misfortune and twins hardly ever come singly. –Josh Billings

I had only one rule: no female clients. No exceptions. It shouldn’t have mattered how beautiful she was or if she wept while telling her story. A private detective should stick to his own code. Rules are rules. Only, technically I wasn’t a private detective. No office, no secretary and no license. So, I wasn’t really breaking my rule.

Stella had stifled a sob and whispered that she had nowhere else to turn. Her pleading eyes had glistened as she looked up into mine. A delicate hand forced a wad of hundreds into my paw. She’d told me it was an easy job. Go to a house after sundown, meet some guy and bring him for a meet with her. It had been a bad day up to this point for me. Maybe doing a good job for my client would make me feel better.

My client.

The words made me feel taller, made my chest expand, made me check my hair in the mirror. It was like the first time I had a real girlfriend in junior high school, not one who said, Eew,was that your tongue that went into my mouth? Oh, gross. I smiled as I thought of the crisp hundred dollar bills in my wallet keeping the ones and fives company.

As I waited for the sun to set, my enthusiasm began to curdle into anxiety. Why couldn’t I deliver Stella’s message while the sun was up? Does this person I’m supposed to meet not want to hear from her?

The house was only a couple of miles from my apartment so I walked. It was a middle-class neighborhood, not too many miles from where I grew up. I circled the block a couple of times to get a feel if someone was watching the place. A few kids were kicking a soccer ball back and forth two houses away. A shirtless man across the street hurried to finish mowing his lawn in the waning sunlight.

Like a stubborn three-year-old fighting sleep, the sun gave up and dipped below the traffic and houses. The dark sky promised relief from the July heat, a promise that wouldn’t be fulfilled until close to dawn.

I crossed the lawn and walked toward the house. Dusty hard ground and patchy cowlick clumps of grass led to the sidewalk. No lights shone through the curtains. A bare bulb in the porch light socket was off. The streetlamp threw just enough light on the concrete steps for safe footing as I ascended them.

Something hit the left side of my head. Stunned but not hurt, I ducked and spun toward the street to face my attacker. Behind me an object, something, bounced lazily on the porch and I spun back again to confront it.

A soccer ball dribbled to the wall under the front window and ricocheted to a stop against the rail along the porch. I grabbed it and marched in the direction I’d seen the group of kids earlier, ready to deliver a lecture worthy of my late father. The group was not to be seen. Only one kid, probably the smallest of the group, stood before me, trembling.

Can we have our ball back, mister? he managed.

I had to smile. Where are the rest of your friends?

They’re across the street. Hiding. They said I had to go get the ball or I couldn’t play with them anymore.

I remembered being the youngest in the group when I was a boy. Back then, I had to answer for a couple of broken windows and some trampled flowerbeds to keep my status.

Here you go, I said and tossed him the ball. "You tell your friends that you’re tired of hanging around with a bunch of cowards. And you’re going hang around with some guys that want to play a real sport."

The kid took off, probably not hearing half of what I said, happy to have the ball and happier still to have passed the test.

I marched up the steps of the porch and rang the doorbell. A shaft of light from the helpful streetlight illuminated the gap between the curtain edge and the window, falling on an empty sofa. The light beamed undisturbed as I punched the doorbell again and followed with an impatient rapping on the door. A car passing behind me interfered with my efforts to listen for the vibrations inside the house should someone be hurrying to answer the door. A third ringing would be useless. Someone was supposed to be here and they’d hurry to the door if they had an appointment with Stella.

I’d certainly be in a hurry to meet her.

She said to go inside and wait if no one answered. I hoped the screen door was locked. It wasn’t. The desire to turn around and scan the area behind me nearly bested me, but nothing screams I’m a suspicious character about to enter a house without the knowledge of the owner like turning around. Maybe Stella owned the house.

I knew better.

Before reaching for the door I slipped on a pair of black gloves I’d brought. My fingers trembled as I twisted the knob. The gap between the door and the jamb slowly widened revealing a darkened interior. Before I'd taken a half a step inside something pulled me back. The little hook holding the spring onto the screen door had caught on my jeans. Easing the inside door closed again I took a step back onto the porch to free myself from the hook.

No sense tearing a perfectly good belt loop.

A blast like a dozen shotguns in Surround Sound discharged in the house. A burning wind spun me around and shoved me clear of the doorway. The inside door broke away from its hinges and sailed off the porch, taking the screen door as well.

The explosion had been delayed long enough that I should have been inside the house and evenly applied to the walls and ceiling. From my hands and knees I marveled at the wood, glass and Naugahyde that had chased the door into the front yard.

The belt loop was fine.

I ran through the new opening created in the railing that used to enclose the porch. Half blind from a stinging in my right eye I tried to negotiate the debris strewn ahead. My foot rolled over a lava lamp and I fell like platform shoe sales when disco died. I struggled to get up but my leg muscles which could propel me four miles on an evening’s jog failed me. A burning on my side forced me to turn onto my back.

Frantic short breaths through dust-lined lungs delivered enough oxygen to keep me thinking, but not thinking straight. I decided I needed an alibi. Wearing black gloves while floundering at the scene of a burning house could undermine the best alibi ever formulated. I stuffed my gloves inside the front of my pants. A period of time must have passed between my decision to stuff my gloves and the actual stuffing.

Sir, are your genitals injured? asked the paramedic looking down at me.

I wondered how long I’d been lying on the ground. No, I said, they just need a hug.

The paramedic had a creepy thin line of hair inching from his sideburns to his chin like a determined column of black ants. He could check my side and arm because my shirt resembled Miss Kentucky’s sash. Blood soaked into the cloth with which he dabbed my scalp.

Police poked around the flaming house. They would poke me next.

I was-I was walking my dog when it happened, I said to the paramedic. Where’s Skippy? Skippy?

Fear and adrenalin replenished my weakened legs and I rolled over and got to my knees.

We’ll find your dog later, sir, the paramedic protested. You shouldn’t move.

I’m going to be sick.

He retreated to a puke-safe radius and shot a glance toward his partner who had been searching for other victims. The ground he gave up allowed me to sprint past him. I ran toward the EMS vehicles, hoping all the police officers had been deployed near the house. Through clenched teeth I growled to keep from screaming. My throbbing head felt like twenty pounds strapped onto my neck. Voices called out behind me as I negotiated a hard left at the street. Three houses down, a fenceless backyard and the darkness beyond invited me. An alley led to a drainage tunnel and I splashed through it while ripping off the tattered shirt.

Two long miles stretched between me and my apartment. Every time I tried to open my right eye, the pain forced me to close both for a moment. The headache had lessened which only focused more attention on my burning side. When I swiped the sweat from my face a mixture of perspiration and blood clung to my hand.

I sprinted up the stairs of my building. Three different styles of music escaped through other apartment doors as I neared mine. After fishing out the key from my pocket, I flung the door open, then kicked it shut, hurried to the sofa, grabbed a pillow and screamed into it. The pain didn’t dissipate or even lessen, and I screamed into the pillow again in frustration.

I grabbed two bottles of beer from the fridge, rolling one against my burns and pouring half the second down my throat, only to have it come back up all over the floor. Reaching for the phone on the counter I slipped in the newly rejected beer and fell to my knees. The phone scooted off the counter and hydroplaned through the recycled lager across the floor. From my knees I hit number three on speed dial.

Oh, Kyle, my sister answered. How nice of you to return my call. Three days late.

Ding, I need help. Please come over. I’m hurt.

You’re hurt? Dear God, I’ll get you to the hospital.

No, no hospital. I’m hiding, I managed to say.

You’re hiding? From the police?

Remembering the closest authority figures from which I’d just fled, I said, No, the paramedics.

Do they have jurisdiction?

My sister Ding’s brain works on a different level than mine. Adopted into our family at four-years-old after only having been exposed to Mandarin from her native China, she picked up English like a dark suit picks up cat hair. She cruised through middle school, toyed with high school and got her degree in three years. But occasionally there appeared a mammoth disconnect in her thinking.

Why are paramedics pursuing you? she asked.

Please help me, I said and hung up.

I awakened to find my sister glowering from a straight backed chair not two feet away from the couch. The puffiness under her eyes, the rolled up sleeves of her blouse and the faint stains on the knees of her slacks told me that while I had slept, she had not. Clad only in my underwear I thought about getting something to cover myself, but every movement hurt so I didn’t.

My one good eye took in the morning light that seeped around the window shade. A headache, different from last evening’s, enveloped me. I saw the bottle of Jack Daniels on the end table and I remembered.

Sort of.

The burning on my side had lessened from the night before due to a cream that covered it. The coffee table I had made from two car bumpers and covered with plexiglass held several tubes of lotion. Small pieces of bloody glass and wood littered an open newspaper next to the lotion. A bucket of weak, soapy water sat on the floor giving off a slight scent of Suave shampoo. I drug my fingers through my hair and found it damp.

Tell me this doesn’t have something to do with cock fighting, Ding said.

It doesn’t, I managed. I’ve only gone to one cock fight in my life and I’ll never go to another-

-you have no wife, no responsibility, she blustered on. And what do you do? You spend your money by betting on those darned chickens.

She raged about the low-lifes who groom and fight chickens and the fools who regularly bet and get arrested with the fools. Ding didn’t understand that cockfighting had proved to be a safe spectator sport. I wanted to tell her that in all the chicken fights I’d ever heard about, I had never heard of a building exploding. But the burns were crying out for more lotion and it’s not wise to heap sarcasm on a caregiver when you’re in crisis. I blew a stream of air toward my burn and she hurried from her chair.

I fully expected the police to knock that door down, she continued as she squirted cool liquid from a bottle labeled in Chinese. I thought I’d get gunned down as an accomplice to a known chicken felon.

It was a woman.

Her mouth opened but no more words spilled out. She processed every bit of information and the words police, explosion and woman did not return a match. The phone rang.

It’s probably your private dick friend. He called a half dozen times last night.

I tried to run the events of the last twelve hours through my mind.

Chapter Two

Distrust your judgment the moment you can discern the shadow of a personal motive in it. –Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach

It started the night before. The A/C and stereo inside my two-year-old Dodge Ram pickup cranked out gloriously dangerous decibels two minutes after quitting time. I threaded through heavy Friday rush hour traffic coming out of the old industrial south central part of Wichita, Kansas. I caught the highway to take me to the small town of Rose Hill, where my best friend Staffy lived.

James L. Stafford had retired from the Wichita Police Department. Twenty years and out. Staffy built a small, thriving, private detective agency and enjoyed weekends and holidays off. He’d take me on an occasional job, usually surveillance for an insurance client. A couple of times I did something by myself for him. Staffy had turned into the brother I wished I'd had.

I had hoped Staffy’s daughter would be gone, maybe having her venom changed. Her pickup sat in the driveway next to her dad’s so I parked behind his pickup.

Hello, Repo Man.

Staffy’s daughter opened the door, turned her back on me and walked back to her chair in the living room. She carried a long necked bottle of beer at her side like a cave man dragging home a goose.

I don’t do that anymore, I said.

She curled her short legs around the cushion of the easy chair and flipped her long hair over the chair back. A sweet smile moved her eyeglasses up the bridge of her nose.

Because you ran out of working moms who missed a couple payments, no doubt. They don’t shoot at you.

I never took any jobs like that.

Yeah, the other pukes always snap up the good ones, don’t they? Dad’s in the back yard. Don’t leave the door open. She turned up the volume on the television. I had something cutting to say to her but I wanted to get back out into the heat. I slid the arcadia door open and felt welcome relief.

The wide brimmed straw hat, wife beater shirt and flowery shorts made the tall skinny man look like anything but a decorated officer of the law. Staffy dragged the garden hose so the sprinkler reached the far corner of the lawn. He doffed his hat and motioned to the table on the deck. A pitcher of iced tea and two glasses, one half full, waited.

I’ll let the grass drink some more then we’ll go inside, he said as he sat at the table. "You got my message? I have to tell you, I’ve not run across a case like this before. But I don’t think you should get involved. I’m not getting involved."

I lost my retirement.

He stopped pouring in mid stream.

They split us up in two groups, I said, and told us if our age and years of service don’t add up to sixty-five, we lose. I thought they were closing the plant. They were just closing their books. To me.

Seventeen years after eking out enough high school credits to graduate I still showed up six days a week at the interim job that I took until I figured out my life’s plan. Welding on tractors and combines doesn’t make you rich, not where I worked anyway, but it paid bills and left you with a little something to put in the bank. Two days before our annual two-week plant shutdown they decided about half of us wouldn’t ever see any retirement benefits. The employee benefits handbook laid it out, right in the front of the book. Now they needed to rewrite that book. And rename it.

I’m the best welder they’ve got, I said, slapping at a fly buzzing the table. Hell, they even told me I am. If we get a hot job that’s got to go out yesterday, they pull me off what I’m doing and put me on it. Where does that leave me now? ‘Thanks for the all hard work, Kyle, but we’re going to treat you like you’re a new guy.’ Makes me wish I didn’t do such a good job for them.

Yeah, makes a person feel that way, Staffy said. But doing a good job makes a man feel good about his work and I know you couldn’t do less than your best no matter how crumby they treat you.

Staffy listened and cursed with me, moving the sprinkler twice before we headed inside.

They’re not bound by law, he said. That’s the tough part.

We settled at the kitchen table and opened a couple of beers.

It’s like a contract, I said. ’You don’t steal too many tools, and they need to fulfill their part of the bargain. It’s like a verbal agreement.

Man named Samuel Goldfish said, ‘A verbal agreement isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.’

Goldfish?

A glove salesman. He changed his name to Goldwyn and made some movies, Staffy said.

Tell me about the woman and the job.

Staffy looked past me, smiled and then pursed his lips.

She came by the office today, he said. Stella, that was her name. She asked me to meet with a man and bring him to meet with her. I got her to admit that the man wasn't her husband. Said her husband wouldn't be happy if she knew she was meeting him. Damn, she’s a knockout, though.

Botox, rang out in two octaves from the living room.

Staffy laughed. If it's not a 'domestic' it's damned close.

Staffy never took domestic cases and when I became a licensed private investigator I wouldn’t either.

So you turned her down? I asked.

Yes. I gave her the names of a couple of PI’s in town who do good work.

He leaned toward me like a conspirator. I told her to call me back if she couldn't find anyone. I had an associate that might want to talk with her, he whispered.

Associate? I conspired back.

Staffy pointed at me.

Are you guys whispering? Staffy's daughter hollered.

Lost in thought, I replied.

Repo Man, if you're thinking, you are lost.

I wouldn’t mind seeing her, I said. "You know, just to see what’s on her mind. Maybe I can make her another satisfied A-1 Investigations customer."

Staffy’s daughter came in on a beer run.

You couldn’t satisfy her with Brad Pitt on a stick, she said.

There wasn’t stunned silence, it was more like tranquilized. She got her beer, smiled the syrupy smile again and looked down her nose at me, this time literally.

Be nice, Staffy said.

Trying, she said, pointing the remote toward the living room and following it.

I got a message on my machine from my ex, I said.

Hearing from an ex is never, ever good, Staffy said quietly, though not quietly enough.

Hey, watch it. My mother is an ex, you know, Staffy’s daughter boomed over Li’l Kim.

I pointed toward the living room. Has she got this placed bugged?

Staffy shrugged. Listen, you need to unwind a little. Drink a little beer, watch a little TV, crash on our couch tonight. Forget about the retirement thing.

A music video blared from the other room while I spun a bottle cap on the table. My recently deceased retirement gnawed at me. I didn’t expect to be a welder forever, but I enjoyed the work and had made some close friends.

Hey, Staffy said. Trinidad and Mayorga are fighting tonight.

Mayorga is gonna kick his ass, came from the living room.

You want to double the bet? Staffy hollered back.

No, I gotta think about your retirement, Dad.

I didn’t understand the reason for Staffy’s reddening face at first. When I did, I pretended I didn’t catch the comment about retirement.

Sound like a plan? The big fight, a little beer?

Staffy's cellphone rang. He checked the caller ID, lifted his eyebrows at me and walked into the utility room. With his daughter’s antennae he’d need a lead-lined room for complete privacy. He returned in a few minutes.

Hey, kid, he said to me, how about a ballgame tonight?

What about the fight on TV? I asked.

Dad, Staffy's daughter shouted. Is this about the woman? She's going to get someone killed.

We're just going to talk with her, Staffy said getting up from the table.

It took me a minute to catch onto the conversation.

Kyle, Staffy said. You coming?

Sure, I said. What can happen?

Staffy filled me in on the way out the door. We'd meet the woman at the minor league baseball stadium in Wichita in thirty minutes. I started to get in his truck but on the spur of the moment decided I’d take my vehicle.

It had been some time since I’d been around an attractive woman whose interest in me lasted longer than the time it took me to slip a few dollars inside the elastic of her dancing clothes. Any woman so beautiful that Staffy would see twice in one day had to be someone special. He’d turned down her case earlier today and I would turn it down tonight. After I looked her up and down a few times.

We waited at the stadium next to a souvenir stand in the shadow of a support beam. A few people passed carrying refreshments or dragging kids to the bathroom. Lilac perfume drifted on the breeze to where we stood.

Then I saw her.

Ten yards away she looked like a merger between Cosmopolitan and Fitness magazines. Nature smoothed beauty over her five feet, four inches and scraped the rest away to be thrown on computer geeks and botanists. Brown hair touched her forehead and spilled plentifully to her shoulders. The white knit blouse followed the curves and disappeared into the waist of her blue jeans.

I moved around the beam and startled her. Her brown eyes jumped wide for a second.

Oh, she said. A look of concern crossed her face until she saw Staffy. Mr. Stafford, I'm so glad to see you again.

Mrs. Henderson, this is- Staffy began.

Stanley Collins, I said, extending my hand. A private detective by that name had declared bankruptcy and left town a few months ago. If Mrs. Henderson checked the phonebook she'd still find a Stanley Collins listed. It seemed like great fun to make up a different persona while talking to such an attractive woman. I felt like a twelve-year- old again making crank telephone calls.

I bet nobody this good looking was on the other end of the phone line back then.

The National Anthem played over the loud speaker. Staffy pulled a paper out of his pocket. Mrs. Henderson, I suggest you wait until Monday and contact these detectives. I don’t know them as well as I do the men I recommended to you earlier today but they are all bonded and have a current license.

Please, Mr. Stafford, she said, I need someone tonight. I've come a long way and if we don't meet this man, well, some very important plans are going to be ruined.

As she pled for Staffy's help she became flustered and had to restart her sentences in order to make sense. Her words caught in her throat with each strident plea for Staffy’s help. Her voice had lowered in volume but increased in pitch. When people walked near us carrying refreshments or souvenirs she stopped in mid-sentence until they passed.

I shifted from one leg to another, ashamed now for the prank I'd played in pretending to be a bogus private detective. Couldn’t Staffy see that his rule about domestic cases didn’t apply in this poor woman’s situation? She hadn’t mentioned a cheating spouse or a husband forking over rent money to a bookie. Stella had said she’d come a long way to meet someone. I could remember times I’d been lost in a strange city.

Stella’s eyes glistened as she finished her heart rendering plea. With arms folded across his chest Staffy offered regret and sympathy but again politely refused to offer his assistance. My incredulous stare caught his eye and he glanced my way for a second.

James, I said to him, maybe if we sat down somewhere with Mrs. Henderson and listen in detail, you might change your mind.

He lifted his eyebrows and turned to me as if I’d spoken in a foreign language. Stella turned to me.

Do you think you might be able to help me, Mr. Collins? she asked with surprising strength.

"Yes, Stanley, Staffy said, do you think you can help Mrs. Henderson?"

James, I said, I don't want to take away a potential client. I only think that you should give her a chance.

I hadn’t taken part in such formal speech since learning introductions in Spanish class in high school.

James, te presento a Stella. Stella, este es mi amigo James.

Stella touched my hand, giving me her full attention.

Stanley, Staffy said while one tear rolled down Stella’s cheek, I think Mrs. Henderson would like to hire you. Before I could look away from Stella a fading voice said, Good luck to you both.

Stella and I watched Staffy walk toward the exit and disappear.

We bought the tickets, she said. might as well get our money’s worth. Shall we go into the arena?

It sounded like Stella had never been to a ballpark in her life. I motioned to the nearest ramp. She nearly stepped in front of a troop of kids snatching nachos from a beleaguered dad and I grabbed her arm before they bumped into her.

You made me spill the cokes, kids, he said, oblivious to us.

Being a gentleman I allowed her to walk up the narrow ramp in front of me and I tried not to stare at her figure. She reminded me of fine German engineering and their related machinations. I remembered a car I loved in my teen years and had wrecked. By the time she reached the top of the ramp I had forgotten her real name and my pretend name.

I pointed to rows of empty box seats near the field of play.

I’m afraid of being hit by the ball. Let's go behind the net, she said.

So, she’s not perfect.

She'd acted frail and helpless only minutes before and now she carried herself with confidence, even deciding where we'd sit. Something primal had forced me to offer my help and I had begun to regret it. Staffy might have had the right idea in not taking her case.

Never underestimate the damned damsel-in-distress factor.

We plodded up steps past dozens of empty bleachers and stopped five rows below the top of the stadium. Heat seeped over the wall and lingered around us. We could have been spared a few degrees of Kansas summer heat had she agreed on the seats I suggested.

The seriousness of taking on a client began to hit home. Staffy’s advice to her about finding another private detective on Monday had been sound and I purposed to tell her the same thing. I hadn't made a commitment to her and, technically, I hadn’t deceived her.

Then why do I feel guilty?

I glanced toward the field. The scoreboard down the left field line showed Wichita was trailing with two men on and one out. She waited to speak until my eyes returned to her.

I need to meet a man, she began. Tonight. I don't want to go to the house where he is, but I want you to go in my place and bring him to me. If no one answers your knock, go in and wait. The door will be unlocked.

Damn, her eyes are as big as Brazil nuts.

You'll have my cellphone number, she said and I'll make arrangements for the meeting when you call.

She’d stopped talking for a moment and I saw my chance to tell her I wasn’t interested, but my dry throat chuffed.

How can she look this cool on such a miserable night?

Cheers erupted in the stadium and instinctively I tried to look at the field but discovered that unlocking from her gaze now would take a major league effort, one I hadn’t the energy or inclination to muster.

She grabbed a handful of her hair and lifted it off her neck to allow a sudden breeze to cool her, then let the hair fall down again. The humidity had wilted and frazzled a dozen hairdos I’d seen since entering the stadium but Stella’s looked stylist fresh.

She can’t be this perfect. I bet she has pointed ears under her hair. And big, fat lobes.

Assisted by a fresh swallow of saliva, I started to tell her I’d changed my mind about taking her on as a client. Before I began to speak, a droplet of perspiration rolled down her cheek. It disappeared under her jaw, zipped back into view and sank into the depression directly below her throat.

It’s on south Woodland Street, you know, not far from Eastborough, she continued. Of course I’ll give you some money now and the rest later.

Tentatively the droplet left the depression then sailed down her breastbone. A shiny reef of perspiration near the top of her blouse hindered its path. The public address system squelched and Stella jumped, freeing the droplet. It plummeted into the valley between her breasts.

So, do we have a deal?

I’m in! I said as the crowd roared over a bases clearing double.

We shook hands. I felt paper in my hand as she withdrew hers. She walked down the steps without another word. I looked at what she slipped into my hand. Five one-hundred dollar bills and a paper with a cellphone number.

Okay, I’ve got something to do tonight. What’ll I do with the rest of my vacation?

* * * * *

Did you hear me? Ding asked, bringing me out of my reverie. It’s probably your private dick friend calling, she said as she handed me the phone.

Hello?

Hello, Skippy. It was Staffy’s daughter.

Oh, no. Was it on the news? I asked.

If the police search the ‘stupid’ and ‘non-creative’ data bases, they’ll find you in both and haul your ass to jail for sure. Oh, here’s Dad.

Kyle, are you alright, buddy? Staffy asked.

It was a set up, I blurted. She tried to have me killed. I ran off with part of the front door imbedded in my ass. I don’t get it. Maybe my ex hired her.

I told Staffy what happened and where. He had me repeat everything I could remember from my meeting with her.

Kid, I think somebody was trying to kill her. She called me when she found Stanley’s phone was disconnected. I talked to her a while ago. She’s scared.

"Bull shit. She was lying from the start. Told me it was Woodland Street and she gave me directions to Woodlawn Street. Only about a ten-mile difference. If you talk to her again, tell her