“Sure. We can go across the park where my mom goes to feed the ducks.” Jimmy motioned with his head and started walking toward the freeway, keeping his hands in his pockets to stay warm.
Jason followed downhill toward the park.
Three bigger boys left the park and climbed the hill toward them. They all wore matching black t-shirts and camouflage cargo pants slung real low so their underwear showed. They were toughing the cold rain too. They stopped down there and watched, talking to each other, maybe planning something bad. They all looked much older, at least in high school, and they all had those tattoo bracelets around their wrists with those red and blue flames shooting up their arms. They all had real short hair like those Marine Corps pictures from mom’s scrapbook. “Maybe we should go back and wait for my mom.”
Jimmy said, “Too late already.”
Jason wasn’t scared, not really. Jimmy could lick anybody. His teeth chattered because of the cold.
“WHY YOU ALWAYS MAKE me call?” Lester sounded angry, chirping over Kirby’s office phone in his high pitched, South Central speak, right now doubting Kirby’s integrity, the little sleaze. If not for Omar and Loomis, Kirby would go down there and slap the little prick sideways.
Kirby said, “You’re not supposed to call me here. You know the deal.”
“The deal is, you lose, you pay. It ain’t complicated.”
“No! The deal is, I have a salary in my father’s company. I get paid once a month. That’s why, if I lose, I pay you at the beginning of the following month.” Kirby leaned back in his chair, having fun for the first time all week. Sitting behind this big desk somehow made him feel stronger, safer. Nobody pushed him around in here. “You’re not supposed to call my office.” That was the deal they’d made when John Potter's days had abruptly ended. Until now, it had been followed.
“No-no.” The little prick ground his teeth again. “You win, you come down and get paid. You lose, you suppose to come down and pay. That’s the way it’s suppose to be.”
Allison knocked softly and poked her hear in. “Someone’s here to see you about John Potter.”
Kirby held his breath and cocked an ear in her direction, waiting.
“He came all the way down from Reno.”
Kirby motioned for her to send him in and returned to Lester, “Look, we on for Sunday’s games?”
“When we gonna get paid?”
“If I lose, you’ll collect on the first of the month, like always.”
“You been layin’ off a lot o’ bread.” Lester clicked his tongue into the phone, what he did whenever he was thinking about it, better than grinding his teeth. “You better be good for it. I don’t wanna send Omar and Loomis on no visit . . . to your office.”
You little . . .
Allison ushered a short, slouchy man into his office and Kirby finished with Lester. “Look, I’ve got to go. Are we on?”
“You better be good for it.” Lester hung up and Kirby stood to take this puffy faced guy’s business card.
Richard (Dick) Wharton - Confiential Inquiries
The guy looked over fifty, not doing well. He sneered sideways and yanked out a plaid handkerchief, barely in time to catch his sneeze. He carefully unfolded the soggy handkerchief, looked for a clean spot, made his decision and blew his nose, a disgusting glob of muck. He shook his head and looked at Kirby through watery eyes. “You’ll have to excuse me.” He shook his head apologetically and examined the fresh load in his handkerchief. “I get these things twice a year, spring and fall, every year.” He carefully folded the soggy mess into the outside pocket of his wool tweed jacket and offered to shake hands.
No thank you.
Kirby sat and motioned to a chair opposite his desk.
Dick’s left hand went up, his red face wrinkled and he reached for his handkerchief, too late. The disgusting little slob sneezed all over Kirby’s antique desk.
Kirby tossed him a box of Kleenex, too slow again.
The Kleenex hit Dick's shoulder and landed on the floor.
“Thank you.” Dick's nose wrinkled, bending to pick up the Kleenex. He grabbed several tissues, filled them with muck and carefully examined the sticky looking mess. No telling what this guy thought he might find in there.
Kirby acted quickly. He stood, thrust his hands into his pockets and guided his waste basket around his desk with his foot. Having safely delivered the waste disposal unit, Kirby backed around his desk and both men sat. Kirby absently wiped his hands on his silk vest, wanting to toss this little sneezer out.
“What’s this all about?”
Wheezing, totally congested, Dick said, “I’ve been retained to locate John Jethro Potter.” His nose wrinkled, ready to blow, but the eminent explosion subsided. “Tax records show he worked here just a few years ago.” He bared his teeth, yanked out another clump of tissue, closed his eyes and sneezed into it. He folded the wad carefully, blew muck into it, spread it to examine it and finally dropped the mess into Kirby's waste disposal unit.
“How did you get access to his tax records?”
Dick’s eyes watered. His nose wrinkled. He blinked away tears. “Does that really matter?” One hand shot to his sneering, wrinkled face while the other reached for the Kleenex. The sneeze didn’t occur and his watery eyes waited for an answer. Then, without warning, he sneezed a glob of milky looking muck onto Kirby’s tribal Persian rug; a Tabriz. His bare hand caught a second sneeze, dripping through his fingers. He grabbed several tissues, cleaned his hands and wiped his face. He searched the wad of tissues for evidence. After a brief but thorough examination, the disgusting fellow grabbed more tissues and bent to clean the glob from Kirby’s carpet. He tossed the mess into the basket and pulled more tissues, blew his nose, examined it and tossed it in with the rest.
He pulled more tissues and cleaned the carpet a second time. “I’m awfully sorry
