Verelli had to have followed me. I wondered briefly if he was the culprit in the blue Escort, but I dismissed that quickly. Men like Verelli didn’t drive Escorts, and even if he was going to kill me, he’d hire someone professional to do it. I’d worked with professionals, and the guy in the car wasn’t one.
Dear God and Buddha, how many people did I have tailing me? I was going to need a parade permit if this kept up.
And if Verelli had followed me to my doctor’s appointment, had he also followed me to Seventh Sense? I toyed with the phone, debating whether or not to call Mira and warn her. I finally decided against it. Mira was a she-wolf in a den, fierce when provoked, and Dee… Well, rumor had it that Dee had played middle linebacker on her high school football team. I don’t know if it was true, but I believe she could have if she wanted. The ladies could take care of themselves. If I hadn’t been so pissed, I might have even felt sorry for Verelli.
In fact, I had gone past mildly annoyed and straight into freaking livid. It was one thing to be a pain in my ass, but it was entirely another to start accosting my friends and associates-especially those who had no idea what I did in my secret life. Mr. Verelli and I were going to have a long and intimate conversation about boundaries and personal space.
The only outlet for my anger at the moment was exercise, and I headed out to the backyard for my usual morning workout. I wasn’t sure if my katas counted as “gentle exercise,” and you will notice that I didn’t ask the good doctor. Ignorance is bliss. I went through them as best I could while favoring my right leg, and I convinced myself it did feel a bit better. I just needed to limber up some. That was it.
I attempted to meditate afterward, but my mind kept wandering in other directions. I lingered under the nagging suspicion that I was in the doghouse with Mira, and even if I wasn’t, I probably ought to be. She should be home resting, not chasing Anna around the store. Not for the first time, I wondered if I should so easily take her at her word.
Maybe I’d get her something, too, while I was out shopping tomorrow. I had no idea what, though, and asking her seemed counter to my purpose. The puzzle of that, on top of my sheer pissed-off-edness at Verelli, kept me from concentrating, and in the end I gave up, frustrated.
Thankfully, Axel was a no-show for our usual morning discussion. I didn’t think I could stand his smug jibes, and I’d probably end up doing or saying something rash. I wasn’t sure if I was more pissed at him for… well, for being himself… or at myself, for being surprised by it.
I burned off the last of my anger in a rather enthusiastic mopping of the kitchen floor, erasing the last traces of grape jelly, and I even hummed a little as I made my way toward Marty’s house to meet the guys at the agreed-upon hour.
As much as I love my truck, she’s only a two-seater, and until I could get the rear-end damage assessed, I didn’t want to drive her too much, anyway. So we piled into Will’s brand-new cherry red PT Cruiser for the ride to the ball game. Being the shortest, Marty got stuffed into the back and didn’t even complain.
The highway was jammed with carloads of fans, and I had to wonder that none of those people had to be at work on a weekday afternoon. Somewhere, there were a lot of businesses with employees playing hooky. But that was the great thing about summer; the great thing about baseball. Everyone was a kid again, and it was okay.
The parking lot shimmered with reflected heat, and the truly hot days wouldn’t even hit for months yet. The smell of baked asphalt mingled with the aroma of grease from the deep fryers, and I inhaled deeply, grinning ear to ear despite myself.
A few years ago, someone had come up with the brilliant idea of making ballpark food healthier. They tried offering veggie burgers, salads, and fresh fruit. It was a spectacular failure. People came to ball games for the hot dogs, the cotton candy, the popcorn, grease-coated French fries and nachos with reconstituted cheese, huge cups of lukewarm beer-sweet bliss. I was a firm believer that all food consumed inside a stadium was automatically absolved of all caloric sin.
My buddies and I made an interesting trio: short, stocky Marty with his shaved head and ragged jean shorts (no kilt today) and the white tank top that displayed his fully tattooed arms; lanky me in my cargo shorts and a T-shirt (witty saying of the day: IF YOU WERE ME, YOU’D BE THIS COOL, TOO), ponytail hanging out from under my ball cap; Will, whose brown hair was as thick and curly as Mira’s and twice as long, slightly overweight and squinting at the world behind his glasses.
If we looked strange, no one noticed. We walked into the stadium next to men and women in business suits who had obviously come straight from their nine-to-five office jobs. There were families with kids, couples on dates, and elderly men with a Little Leaguer in their hearts. Variety was the spice of life, and the game was the great unifier.
It didn’t matter that none of us knew any of the others. It wasn’t important that our hometown boys had a really poor showing last year. We were here to cheer them on regardless. That’s baseball.
Although it was early, and a weekday, the stadium filled up nicely. I waved and grinned to a few people I knew in our section, fellow season-ticket holders. After a while, you got to know the people in your section, like neighbors from down the block. You may not know their names, but their faces were familiar and welcome sights, friendships renewed each spring and missed come fall.
I flopped into my seat and propped my sore leg up on the one in front of me. If someone came to sit there, I’d take it down, of course, but until then it felt better up. If the guys noticed I’d been limping my way up the concourse, they hadn’t said anything. That meant they either hadn’t noticed at all, or they had, and they were worried. I wasn’t sure which I preferred.
Kansas City was just heading back to the dugout after their warm-up, and the buzz in the crowd escalated when Arizona took the field. I could see people craning their necks to see if Nelson Kidd was in the bull pen. He would be, of course. Any coach would be insane not to play him when he was so hot.
It was almost physically painful to watch the excited faces around me. If they only knew what their hero had done. Ah well, it wasn’t their fault, and even if anyone would have believed me, I wouldn’t have told them. Sometimes, people just need heroes.
“Dude, you okay?” Will nudged my arm, frowning. “You look constipated.”
“Shut up, asshole.” I swatted him and did my best to drag my brain out of work thoughts. “Get me a beer.”
“On it.” Yeah, they’d noticed my leg. There was no way Will would have agreed to fetch if they thought I was fully functional. For a few brief moments, I debated going to get my own beer, just for pride’s sake, but good sense won out for a change.
We settled with beers and some nachos of dubious quality right as the game started. I managed not to grimace when I stood up for the national anthem. As the innings started ticking by, I completely forgot my sore leg, and demon contracts, and soulless pitchers.
By some miracle, we were winning in the fifth inning (3-2) with runners on first and second when the hot dog vendor wandered through the section, giving the usual “Hot dogs, getchyer hot dogs here!” chant. I’m not sure what made me look over, seeing as how I didn’t want a hot dog. But look I did, and the vendor met my eyes.
He looked to be fiftyish, potbellied, with dark hair and a spindly mustache. The deep tan of his skin spoke of something exotic in his heritage, be it Hispanic or something else. He grinned at me, flashing a gold front tooth, and his eyes gleamed red for a split second.
My stomach dropped to somewhere around my feet. “Oh hell.”
17
The hot dog vendor ambled up the stairs, carefree as all get out, still hawking his wares. I scrambled over Marty to follow him, committing alcohol abuse in the process.