“In passing.”
Sherbet paused. If I listened closely enough I could hear his mustache lifting and falling with each breath. “In your expert opinion, Knighthorse, is there anywhere in particular we should look once we get there?”
“If I were conducting the search, I would focus on the garage. Of course, that’s just my expert opinion.”
“Of course,” he said. “Anything else?”
“I figure if he siphoned the gas, he would need a hose, and if he stole the water jugs, he would need somewhere to stash them.”
“Like a bag?”
“Would be my guess.”
Chapter Forty-four
Sanchez, Jesus and I were at a Baskin Robbins near Anaheim Stadium, or whatever the stadium is called these days. I had printed out three free child scoop coupons from the internet, courtesy of a major web page celebrating its fifth anniversary. We waited twenty minutes in line along with dozens of other customers, each holding similarly printed coupons. Sanchez folded his up and put it in his pocket. I think he was embarrassed. I didn’t care. Free ice cream!
Afterward, sitting at a heavily dented metallic table, Sanchez examined his child scoop of rocky road, holding the cone daintily between his thumb and forefinger. “We spent twenty minutes in line for this?”
“Yeah,” I said, “Isn’t it great?”
Sanchez snorted.
Jesus said, “I think it’s cool.”
“Good kid,” I said. “Besides, beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I’m not a beggar,” said Sanchez. “I happen to have a real job with a steady income.”
“Steady income is overrated. Where’s the adventure?”
Sanchez shook his head. “The kid moved.”
“Which kid?”
“The last kid on the list.”
“But we saw him just last week at church.”
“Yeah, well, now he lives in Florida with his grandparents.”
I looked at Jesus, who was just finishing off his single mint and chip child scoop. “So you ran him out of town,” I said to him.
Jesus shrugged. He was concentrating on the last of his ice cream. “I still owe him. He can run but he can’t hide.”
I said to Sanchez, “Are we buying plane tickets to Florida?”
“No. We’re going to let this one slide.”
“Big of you,” I said.
“I still owe him,” said Jesus.
“Not so big of him,” I said.
“Hey, I’m only twelve.”
“And what have you learned from all of this?” I asked.
Jesus shrugged, and started crunching on the waffle cone. I had finished mine in precisely three bites, as had Sanchez, who dropped his big hand on his kid’s shoulders. “Answer him.”
“One girlfriend at a time,” said Jesus. He sounded as if this were a terrible punishment.
I said, “You do realize there are some guys who go their entire junior high and high school years without having a single girlfriend?”
“I know. I feel sorry for them.” Jesus looked at me, grinning. “I mean, I feel sorry for you.”
I looked at Sanchez. “You told him?”
“Hey, I was trying to make the same point. You just happened to come up.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, I used you because the kid happens to look up to you,” said Sanchez. “Why, I’ll never know.”
Jesus said, “You really never had a single girlfriend?”
“Girls are trouble,” I said. “Besides, I had plenty in college.”
“But I think girls are fun-”
“Not too much fun,” said Sanchez, looking at his kid.
“No, dad.”
“I was busy in high school,” I said.
“What could be more important than girls?”
“Football.”
“I played football in high school, too,” said Sanchez, shrugging. “And I had girlfriends. No big deal.”
“I took football seriously.”
“So did I.”
“I wanted to play in the pros,” I said. “I had a plan. Girls would just get in the way.”
“But that’s the idea,” said Sanchez. “Girls are made to get in the way. Sometimes it’s nice when they get in the way.”
“Right on, dad,” said Jesus. He raised his hand. “High five.”
Sanchez left him hanging. “But you made an exception for Cindy.”
I said, “Cindy just happened to be the most special girl in the world.”
“I think Cindy’s hot,” said Jesus, and Sanchez elbowed his kid hard enough to nearly knock him out of his seat.
“So do I,” I said. “So do I.”
Chapter Forty-five
I was in my office with my feet up on my antique mahogany desk, careful of the gold-tooled leather top, re- reading Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra, when two things happened simultaneously: Jarred appeared in my office doorway pointing a rifle at my forehead, and my desk phone started ringing.
I did what any rational human being would in the presence of a ringing phone. I answered it.
Sherbet was on the other line. “We’re outside Jarred’s condo. He never showed.”
“No shit,” I said.
Jarred kicked the door shut behind him and stepped deeper into my office. He quickly scanned the office, keeping the rifle on me. It was an old fashioned Colt. 22. The kind one would find in a place like Rawhide, which is probably where Jarred got it.
Sherbet asked, “Any idea where he might be?”
“A fairly good one,” I said.
“Then where is he?”
“Take a guess.”
Jarred was walking around the desk, keeping the rifle on my face.
“He’s with you,” Sherbet said.
“Good guess.”
“You need help?”
“Probably not.”
“But it wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
“If you insist,” I said.
“I’ll send a car around.”
