Crapshoot

                             CHAPTER 1









"BMW 5 Series Grand Turismo."

         Peering over the azalea bushes lining Riverfront Park, a hoodie shrouding his shaven and tattooed head, dark beady eyes darting back and forth like a cat watching a ping pong match,  Rico lets out a long, low whistle and says. "Sitting out there all by its sweet lonesome."  If there was one thing Rico Martinez knew, it was cars. He didn't know much of anything else, but he knew cars. More importantly, he knew how much he could get for chopping one up.

         Tugging the draw strings of his hoodie taught to ward off the chill of the falling rain, Rico slips back under the cover of the moonless night to the open entrance of a gray cinder block restroom.

         "Cuzzzzz," Rico purrs, shaking the rain from his pencil thin arms. "That is one fine ride, one mighty fine ride."                    

         "It's a trap, man."  Eddie Tamayo mutters, all three hundred plus pounds sitting balled up tightly like a ball of yarn, back against the wall of the bathroom, head buried between his knees to stifle the putrid smell of stale urine, wanting to be as far away from Rico as possible. Wanting to be back at home working on his paintings or maybe curled up on the sofa with Marcella, smoking on dat purple shit, miles away from cousin Rico. But earlier, Aunt Rosa had called. Said Rico was late getting home from work, and he needed to go downtown and get him before the coming storm. Eddie wondered if she meant the rain or Rico. There was one thing Eddie was sure of, Rico Martinez was trouble. A trouble magnet. That's what Grandma Izel use to call him. "Trouble just has a way of latching on to the boy." She would always say.

"Yo. Why you always down with them negative vibes!" Rico snaps back. Cocking his head sideways towards the car Rico rubs the few strands of black hair on his chin. "I probably get a couple a bills for them 'caps alone, cuz. Let Ol' Blue chop up the rest. Maybe get that new X-Box 360 I been eying." Smiling ear to ear, he bends down and picks up a crowbar from next to Eddie. "It's a gift, cuz...nothing but a gift."

Lifting his head, Eddie grabs Rico firmly by the arm. "Yeah, it's a gift all right.  A free one to boot. They'll boot your ass right down the street to where they'll lock your skinny ass up. Again! And then I gotta fetch your Momma Rosa to come down and get your ass out. Again! Then she's gonna kick both our asses. Again!"

Rico flinches at the thought of getting backhanded from his Momma Rosa. He'd probably been in a hundreds fights in his short nineteen years of life and nobody ever hit him as hard as she did. Rico always thought that's what they meant by "tough love".

"Yo. Think about it, Cuz." Eddie goes on, pulling Rico closer, his stubby fingers digging deeper into the thin man's bicep. Whispering into his right ear, "Who parks a ride like that in the middle of this park, in the middle of the night. I'll tell you who, the five-oh does" Eddie draws a deep breath. "Can you smell it, cuz? Can you smell your ass being set up? It's there man. It's in the air."

Rico jerks his arm away. "Maybe it is, maybe it ain't. Maybe it's one of them pussy frat college boys trying to get busy with his serita!" he says, in a sarcastic Spanish accent.

"Fool!" Eddie struggles to rise. Towering over his shorter cousin, he shoves Rico out of his way with a flick of his wrist. Sticking his head out the bathroom entrance he points towards the car. "You seen that car move since we been here dumbshit?  Have you? No, you haven't. Now how you gonna be gettin busy if the car ain't moving?"

Rico's mouth contorts and one eye closes as the tumblers in his head try to unrust and formulate an answer. Finally giving up, he moves towards the bathroom entrance. "Makes no difference, cause I got a plan."

Eddie puts a hand on Rico's chest.  "A plan? You got a plan. How bout you tell me about your plan."

"Way I see it, there ain't no law against walking in the park. I'm just going to walk out there and casually ease myself by the car. Scope things out. See what's what. There ain't no law against that, fool."

"Bet there's a law against that, fool."

"What?"

"That crowbar you be toting."

Rico looks down at the crowbar like a scolded child then drops it to the floor. Clang! The sound of the crowbar hitting the brick floor reverberates loudly throughout the bathroom.

Eddie grins. "Well, cuz. If they didn't know you're coming, they do now."

Rico slaps the big man's hand away. "Like I said, cuzzzz." Laughing over hs shoulder as he disappears into the night. "There ain't no law against walking in the park."

Now being the smarter of the two Eddie figures he didn't want to be anywhere near Rico when the shit hit the ceiling, Reaching down and picks up the crowbar, tucks it under his black Raider windbreaker, zips up and lumbers off towards the Crockett Street Complex parking lot and the safety of his car.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Eddie catches a darting figure. Turning, he sees Rico, arms and legs flying every which way, barreling toward him like a scalded dog.

"What the..." Eddie starts.

Almost bowling Eddie over Rico flies by, eyes wild with terror as if they would pop right out of his head. "Run, Cuz! Run!" Rico screams as he passes, hightailing towards Pearl Street.

"Jesus Christ!" Eddie says. Quickly ripping open his jacket he takes the crowbar and hurls it towards the river, then takes off after Rico. "Trouble frickin magnet"













                                                 CHAPTER 2







         "One hundred eighty four thousand." I quietly whisper to myself, eyes glued to the television monitor over the pari-mutuel window. Simple mathematics, really.  Eight thousand to win on the four horse, at odds of, let's see, twenty three to one, comes to one hundred eighty four thousand dollars. God I love math. Contemplating my impending fortune, a Cheshire cat grin spreads wide across my face. Mortgage gone, credit cards paid, college for Matthew. Maybe even, should I dare think it, a second honeymoon with Mary Pat, you know, rekindle the old romantic flame. Of course, we'd have to get remarried. Might be a problem. Hey, but a least I'd have money. That would show her. Yes sir Mike Osborne, like a Phoenix rising from the ashes, your date with destiny has finally arrived.          

         The call came midweek from Tim Thibodeaux, a trainer I had befriended several months earlier when I called in some favors and got his son off on a minor possession beef. Since then Tim, being the somewhat generous soul he was, threw me tips on a horse every now and then. They always hit. Sometimes it pays to be cop.

         "I gotta horse running at Delta Downs next week, l'ami. She a sure shot." Tim spoke over the phone in his husky Cajun drawl. "Be running da nag cheap, but gave her Lasix and slapped da hood on her, now she run like frickin Secretariat! We gonna bump her up in class and get some big'o odds, boy you know. You need to be bettin' the cookie jar on her, l'ami."

         I had no cookie jar, but I had eight grand doing nothing in my 401K. Hey, when opportunity knocks don't slam the door in its face.

         "Three minutes, three minutes to post time." The voice of the track announcer echoes throughout the pavilion snapping me back to reality and my task at hand. What in Gods name is taking so long? Craning my neck, I look to the head of the line. An old man, bent with age, in a worn and furrowed coat stands hunched over at the window, his racing form spread out before him, handicapping his next selection. He's been there for an eternity. Why is this happening to me? A quick check of the odds. Twenty five to one. Cha-Ching, more money for me. Suddenly, a cold wave of apprehension floods my body. What if I get closed out? Frantically I look around at the other windows. The lines are ten deep. No place to go.

         "Two minutes, two minutes to post time."  The announcer's voice only feeds my panic. My pulse accelerates.  My stomach tightens into a ball. My hands shake. It's starting. As the panic overcomes me, I impetuously cry out loud "You old fart, you're killing me! Just fucking killing me!"

         The crowded pavilion goes deafly quite, hundreds of heads turn to me, I feel the bite of contempt in their eyes. Did I really say the out loud?  Embarrassed, I sheepishly look down at my program.

         "Oz, that you?" A shrill voice calls out loudly to my right. Feeling the hairs on my neck bristle, I glance over my shoulder, only to be greeted by the toothy grin of one Ronnie Spell two lines over, the diamond in his middle tooth glistening in the pavilion lights. I thought he was dead or at least in prison. Unfortunately, I was wrong on both counts.

         "Well if it ain't da Wizard of Oz. What you doing here? I thought they banned you from this place."

         Ignoring him, I turn back in line. Nothing happening. The old man is still holding court at the betting window. "I'd like to get a bet down on this race and maybe the first race tomorrow!" I yell now, not giving a damn who hears me. He doesn't budge.

         A short, squatty fellow in a pink fedora, his bifocals barely hanging on the tip of his nose, taps me on the shoulder and says. "Why don't you leave him alone?"

         "And why don't you shut the hell up!" I bark. He quickly backs away. Jesus, they're coming at me from all directions.

         "What you got homes?"  Ronnie Spell goes on loudly. "You got a hot one don't you, Oz."

         "You shut up too, punk!" I say, glaring back at Ronnie. "I got nothing, OK, nothing!"

         "Bullshit! You been over there figetin' like a ten year old you gots to pee. What you got cooking, boy?"

         Rubbing the beads of sweat from my forehead I turn away from Ronnie. Things are quickly spinning out of control. All of the sudden I feel naked and exposed. I want out. I want to hide, but there's no place to go. Why is God doing this to me?

         "Oz! How you gonna act. You better not be dissing me. You know I can cause you some mighty bad grief.  Now, we truly don't wanna go through that again, do we? Come on Oz, buddy, share da wealth."

         I inhale deeply, knowing Ronnie was right. He could cause me a lot of grief. Can I ever escape the mistakes of my past? Does it ever end? Deep inside I know the answer. Looking around, shielding my hand with my program I quickly flash four fingers across my chest.

         Ronnie looks down at his program and slowly chuckles. Shaking his head he says, "Same ol' Oz, always with the long shots. Boy, you never learn do you?"

         Now I flash him my middle finger.

         "That's going to cost you, Oz. Big time."

         He was probably right.

         The old man lives. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a weathered leather wallet. I can make out the initials P.O. engraved in large print across the front. Slowly removing two weathered dollar bills, he places his bet.

         "Halleluiah and pass the beans!" I say aloud unable to help myself.

         Collecting his single win ticket the old man slowly turns to me. I grab a nearby pole as I feel my legs go to jelly as our eyes meet. I know this man from somewhere. But where?  His aged skin molded into an almost permanent scowl. A lifetime of unhappiness is etched by every deep line and wrinkle on his face.  Standing there, our eyes locked, it's as if we are the only two people in the world. No words are spoken as he slowly he shuffles past me. His pensive eyes never leave me as he slowly disappears into the crowd.

"Hey Mouth, you gonna bet or what?"  Pink fedora man jabs me in the back.

         Collecting myself, I quickly step forward to the window. Leaning as far in as I can, I quietly whisper. "Eight thousand to win on the four."

         A plump, blue haired lady behind the counter, peers over her rhinestone lined bifocals, purses her lips and starts laughing so hard she snorts. "Thanks Hon', I needed that."

         Reaching deep into my pants pocket I pull out a roll of hundreds. Slapping it down in front of her, I command. "Like I said, Agnes. Eight grand, four horse to win."

         "Wow, Crapshoot. You tap into petty cash again?"

         "Funny, Agnes, funny." Pushing myself deeper into the teller window I get face to face. "And don't you ever call me Crapshoot, again!"

         "OK, Oz don't get your knickers out of whack." She takes the wad of cash and begins counting.

         "You don't have to count it Agnes. I'm a cop for Christ sake."

         "Yeah. But I know you, Hon."

         "One minute. One minute to post and the horses are heading to the starting gate." The PA blares.

         "Agnes, please!" 

         "Okay, Okay. Just hold your horses. Get it, Hon? Hold your horses?" Agnes snickers at her little pun. Punching some buttons in the tote machine before her, my financial future comes spilling out in the form of forty win tickets at two hundred dollars a pop.

         I quickly snatch the tickets. "Have a nice life, Agnes."

         "You too, Hon."

         Turning to make my escape, I bowl over pink fedora man, showering him in the beer he is holding.

         "Ladies and gentlemen, there he goes, the great and wonderful Wizard of Oz." Ronnie Spell, laughing loudly, announces to the crowd.

         Laugh now, punk. We'll see who's laughing in about ten minutes.          

         The crowd, thicker now, pushes and shoves as if trying to hold me back. Their faces look all to familiar. I reach the exit leading to track. Out of nowhere, the old man from the line appears, blocking my way.  Looking down to avoid eye contact, I dance from side to side to get around him, but he moves in tandem with me. Looking up our eyes meet.

         "Good luck, son." Is all he says and leaves.

         Bursting through the doors to the track I am greeted by a cold, driving rain. Fingers of lighting streak across the evening sky. People push by me in a rush to escape the downpour. Adrenaline courses through my veins as I walk purposely toward the fence, win tickets firmly clasped in my right hand. A teeth chattering clap of thunder rings across the sky as the last of ten horses is loaded into the starting gate. The moment, my moment has arrived.

         Brrrng

         The starter bell rings, the gates fly open and nine of ten thoroughbreds vault from their post position. Nine jockeys wildly urging their steeds in a madding dash for the clubhouse turn. Nine out of ten.  

         My eyes never waver from post position four. For while the gate is open, the horse remains deathly still. In a frenzy, I rush to the starting gate, then stop dead in my tracks.

         Brrrrng

          And the starter bell sounds again.

         I get to the starting gate and lean over the fence, straining to see if there has been some malfunction. Is the horse is injured?  Is it's stuck? No, it's not that. It's the jockey. The jockey is pulling so tight on the reins as to contort the horses head sideways. And all the while she smiles at me. It is an evil smile indeed. But why, Mary Pat? Why?

         Brrrng

         And the bell sounds again.

         Turning, I look towards the starters stand. I see a man, his hand poised on the starter's button. But i'ts not a man? I squint. The driving rain stinging my eyes. No, it's a boy. I move closer. Slowly the figure materializes before me. My legs buckle. I drop to my knees in anguish, the twenty win tickets spill from my hands. "No..No it can't be!" I scream, looking towards the heavens. "Matthew how could you?"

         Brrrng

         And the bell sounds again.





                   

                                                           CHAPTER 3







Brrrng....

My eyes flare open. A paralyzing fear grips my body, feeling as though my skin has another hot skin on the outside of it. Like a big bag, it moves over my body and will not release me. I try to scream.  Nothing.  Sweat pours from me in buckets, my unclothed body clings to the sheets.  Pounding, my heart races like a runaway freight train. My breathing a struggle, short and shallow. I try to focus. My mind is a fog, a jumble, unable to separate the real world from dream world. Above me the blades of the ceiling fan slowly turn. Rain pelts hard against the window above my bed. Lightening illuminatse the walls. The crash of thunder seems to rivet me to reality. Summoning all my strength I force air deep into my lungs desperately trying to calm myself, all the while repeating in my mind.  It was only dream, only another dream.....

Brrng...

The sting of electricity courses throughout my body shocking me to the present, releasing me from fear's vise. I roll over and aimlessly paw at the nightstand, knocking over two empty Lone Star cans and my alarm clock in the process. Grabbing the receiver, I moan, "What?"

"Good morning, sunshine." Slowly, as the fog lifts from my head, I come to recognize the voice of Jimmy Montalbano, another of Beaumont's finest and, after this call, probably my ex- best friend on the force.

"What time is it?" I ask.

"About two o'clock." Jimmy's tone changes. "Are you all right? You sound like crap."

"AM or PM?"

"That would be in the AM good buddy." Jimmy remarks with a chuckle.

"I'm off duty."

"Now I know that, and you know that, but Capitan Lambchops, she don't know that and she's the one that counts. She called in and wants you down at Riverside Park."

"Riverside Park? What for?"

"A suicide." Jimmy answers.

"A what?" Not believing my ears.

"You heard right. Suicide.".

"I'm off duty." I slam down the receiver.

Sitting up now, I fish around in the pile of clothes that liter the bedroom floor, for the pair of jeans I wore last night. Picking them up I dig through the pockets looking for a pack of cigarettes. Finding nothing, I check my shirt and jacket with the same results. Damn it! I curse myself, remembering I tossed a half empty pack out the car window on the way back to my apartment last night.

Brrrng...

"What took you so long?" I say, answering the phone.

         "Buddy, buddy. Is that anyway to act? I'm only the messenger." Jimmy pleads. "Captain called in and asked for you by name. Needs you down at the park "quicker than a minnow can swim a dipper.""

         "What the hell does that mean?" I ask.

"Haven't a clue." Jimmy laughs.

         Knowing Jimmy's perchance for practical jokes I say. "I swear Montalbano, if this is one of your gags, I'll make to so you never have another child."

         "After nine bambinos, the wife will be happy to hear that."

         I hang up the phone.

         Half asleep I drag myself into the bathroom, splash a few handfuls of cold water on my face, then lean closer to the mirror. Through blood red eyes I come face to face with reality.  A quickly receding hairline, bags under my eyes that could hold bowling balls, and a good start to a second chin. Wasn't I once was quite an athlete. Three star letterman in high school, six pack abs and not an ounce of fat. Now the only six pack I know about comes in cans.  Looking down I can barely see my toes, much less ever think of touching them. For someone who just turned forty three, I sure resemble fifty something. What has happened to me?

         I grab a pair of jeans from the floor and throw on a sweatshirt. Grabbing my badge and gun I head out the door, promising myself that starting tomorrow I am going to get back in shape. By the time I get to the garage I am already laughing at that little lie.













































































                                                 CHAPTER 4













         

         With the prospects of a long and extremely boring night before me, I pull into the corner Sak and Pak, power slam a Red Bull and take a 32 oz. black coffee for the road, resisting all the while the urge to grab a pack of Marlboro Red's.  Maybe I can keep my promise this time. Jumping back into my 1965 Blue Mustang Fastback, one of the three things Mary Pat let me keep from the divorce, I sail onto the interstate heading east towards downtown Beaumont. Turning the wipers off, as the once pouring rain is now nothing more than a fine mist forming circular rainbows on the highway lights,  I slip in a Sinatra CD, punch the buttons until I hear "Witchcraft", then lower the volume to a soft croon. Reaching into my jacket I take out my cell phone and speed dial the first name on the list. After eight rings a groggy voice mumbles a barely audible hello on the other end.

"Paul." I say. "This is Michael O, sorry to call at this hour but..."

"Who's calling?

"I said this is Michael O and I'm sorry..."

"Oh, Michael, of course." Paul H, his British accent much clearer now, cuts me off in mid-sentence. "No cause to apologize, that's what we sponsor chaps are for. Is everything alright?"

Paul H, eleven years my senior, has been my sponsor ever since my first Gamblers Anonymous meeting six odd years ago. Actually six years, three months and twenty three days ago to be exact. A good and decent man, whose only weakness was risky bets on commodity futures which resulted in his squandering his family fortune. He was one of a hand full of people I can truly call friend and yet I don't know the man's last name. From multi-millionaire to elementary school teacher would for many be devastating, but as Paul H said "It truly saved my soul."

"I had another dream."

"I see," Paul says. "Like the others?

"Yes"

"Well as we discussed in group Michael, until you rid yourself of your guilt these dreams will continue."

"I know, but this one was worse."

"How so?"

"I was at the horse races."

"That is new, is it not? All the others dreams were in casinos, were they not? I seem to recall you had a rather traumatic episode at the track some years back."

The great thing about talking to Paul was he remembers everything I had told him about my past and can quickly put things into prospective.

"Was your ex-wife in this dream?" Paul continued.

"She was a jockey."

"A jockey, oh my dear boy."  I hear Paul trying to stifle a snicker. "Sorry. Well at least she wasn't a horse. And your father."

"Same as always" I take a sip of coffee and go on. "Dressed in the same ragged jacket. Same billfold. Hardly says a word, just all that mournful staring."

"So tell me about it.  How was this dream worse?"

"Matthew was in it." I hear my voice shaking now.

"Pray tell, who Matthew is."

"My son."

"Right. Your son, I almost forgot you had one." I can hear the concern in Paul's voice. "And this was the first time?"

"First time?"

"That Matthew was in your dream?"

"Yes."

After a short pause, Paul says. "Dear me. A new addition to the cast. Given that this occurred at the horse track it is something we should discuss presently. I can dress right quickly and we can meet for a coffee."

"I appreciate the offer, but I..."

I hear Paul fumbling around on the other end of the phone as he says." I will not take no for an answer."

... on the job right now." Finishing my thought, as I ease the car over to the downtown exit.          

"At this hour? Nothing drastic I hope."

With a cynical chuckle I say, "It's a suicide."

"Suicide.  A little below you pay grade."

"Ours is not to wonder why, ours is just to do or die"

"Oh my, quoting Lord Tennyson. The hour must be late. "Please give me a shout after school tomorrow and maybe we can get together for dinner and talk."

"Bangers and mash." I say, knowing his love for this British staple.

"Oh, dear boy, you do know the way to a man's heart." Paul laughs, then just as quickly changes his tone. "Seriously Oz, if you have any issues, don't hesitate to call me at whatever hour."

"I appreciate that my...." Turning into Riverfront Park I feel my coffee slips from my hand dousing me and the seat, as my jaw hits the ground like a cartoon character. Maybe the night won't be so boring after all.



































         

                                          CHAPTER 5









I would have to make my apologies to Paul tomorrow for hanging up on him so abruptly, but the sight of a CNN truck in the parking lot of Riverfront Park in Beaumont, Texas, late on a Friday night, is to say the least shocking. I park the Mustang and do a quick dig through the glove compartment. Bad news. No smokes. I do, however, find a few old napkins from Burger King to clean the spilt coffee from the car seat and the front of my sweatshirt.

I push my way through the mob of curiosity seekers that have gravitated over from the Crockett Street Entertainment Complex. Punkers, hip hoppers, cowboys, grunge heads, college preppies it resembles an audition cast for the Village People.

"Bite me!" Someone yells from behind me.

I stop dead in my tracks and turn to see a college kid in preppie khaki shorts and a pink, beer stained Polo shirt and, by the semi crossed eyed glazed over eyes, obviously high or drunk. "What did you say?"

"I said bite me, asswipe?" He laughs and gets in my face.

Without batting an eye I grab his wrist and turn it inside out, dropping Mr. Polo shirt to his knees. He yelps in pain. Two of his fellow preppies step forward like they're going to do something, but stop them with a flash of my badge. 

"Officer." I call over to a patrolman. "This piece of shit reeks of marijuana. Take him, and his two buddies over there, down to the station and do a complete and through body search." I hand him the kids arm. "And officer, when I say complete, I mean complete." If ol' Oz ain't having fun, nobody's having fun.

Now Riverfront Park is nothing more than a narrow strip of land no more than a hundred feet wide and about four times as long squeezed between the muddy waters of the Neches River and the Beaumont Civic Center. Dotted with several covered picnic tables, some worn out playground equipment and, of all things, an active railroad spur running through the middle of it, it is not the sort of place one takes the kids on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

I bum a smoke and a light from a head to toe tattooed covered kid, then duck under the yellow tape. Before me the action unfolds like a scene from a play. Off to my right the supporting cast. The newsies. Cameramen and reporters busily setting up vigil ready to watch the drama unfold. I spot the CNN reporter but do not recognize her from TV, so I am guessing she must be out of Houston. I do, however, immediately recognize the reporter from our local station Channel 5 standing off to her right. He was the A-hole who fancied himself the next Bob Woodward when he did a story questioning the BPD about hiring me. I heard he was recently divorced. Seems someone apparently tipped off his wife about his late nights at the station and a certain female intern.                    

Directly in front of me about fifty yards away and close to the river is center stage. Generators, with their constant grinding, power incondesant portable lights that illuminate night into day. Shadowy figures pass back and forth behind a white screen that surrounds the crime scene. Behind it I make out the silhouette of a car.

Stage left of that two EMS responders mull around their ambulance with nothing but time on their hands, waiting to claim the body. Further to my left  about a hundred feet away, is a small, covered pavilion and, judging by the crowd of uniforms and suits,  is where I'll find my boss, Captain Lamb or Lambchops as Jimmy and I like to call her. But not to her face. As of right now she could wait, of more interest to me were the two unsavory looking characters sitting on the ground handcuffed to a picnic tables. A patrolman babysits nearby.

Now every detective has his or hers own style. Mine has always been to work from the outside in and from the bottom up. One thing I have learned in my twenty years of law enforcement is that when you jump in with both feet, you usually drown. I wave the patrolman over.

I glance at his nameplate.  "So, Officer Neil. A whole lot a hubbub for a suicide."

"Yes, sir."

I nod towards the picnic table. "Those two over there. Talk to me about them."

"My partner and I are watching the Complex. We pulled DUI  lookout tonight. Anyway, out of nowhere we see them two high tailing it down Pearl Street. The skinny one out front, screaming like a banshee, the big guy huffing and puffing behind. Figure the bigs one chasing him. Maybe a deal gone bad. Something. So we pick them up."

"And"

"Turns out they're cousins. Rico Martinez and Eddie Tamayo. Once we corrall them, the skinny one, that's Martinez, he starts bawling like a baby. Kept spouting off how "he didn't have nothing to do with nothing."

"Do with what?" I ask

"Exactly."  Officer Neil goes on. "When we finally settle him down, he tells us about this body in a car down at the park. Blood splashed all over the window. Well apparently that's news to the big one, because he starts swearing how he don't know anything about a body. Now I got them going at me in both directions. So I say what the hell. We slap on the cuffs and take a drive down here. Along the way the skinny one cops that he was looking to boost the car. Seen it sitting in the park. That's how he stumbled across the body."

"You believe them?"

"Yeah, pretty much checks out.  We found the crowbar the big guy tossed about fifty feet over there." Neil points towards the river. "Ran their sheet. Nothing on the Tamayo. Petty crap on Martinez."

"So who's in the car?"

"Not a clue, Detective. Not much left of him, his face that is. No wallet, no note. Just him and a gun. So we called it in." Officer Neil stops and nods towards the pavilion. "Uhh. I think someone wants you."

I look over and see Captain Lambchops gesturing for me to come over.

"Thanks Neil." I say shaking his hand.

"Funny thing about all this, Detective?" Neil finishes up.

"What's that?"

"We call it in. The suits come down. Then about fifteen minutes later the FBI shows up."

"The FBI?"

































                                       CHAPTER 6





There are many things I hate in this world. Root canal comes to mind. Non-crispy bacon, shopping at Walmart on a Saturday, how my ex-wife always had to know what I was doing, are a few others. But what I truly hate, what really makes my skin crawl, is having anything to do with my ex-employer. The Federal Bureau of Investigation.

But curiosity, being what curiosity is, gets the best of me and, against any common sense the good lord gave me, I ignore the Captain's wishes and wander over to the crime scene. Poking my head behind the screen I see the car. It is a green BMW, with some Italian name I can't pronounce, its top covered and taped with a clear plastic tarp. White fingerprint powder residue is visible on all the door handles and the trunk. Through the tinted back window I make just make out the silhouette of the victim, his head, or what's left of it, leaning against the driver side door. A couple of CSI's scurry around like two field mice after a harvest push. A tech snaps pictures as if paparazzi at Hollywood preview. Evidence bags tagged, sealed and ready for collection litter a plastic folding table. I watch this, all the while thinking. This looks more like a murder investigation than suicide. A man is leaning in, butt side out, the passenger side door of the car. The large, gold letters on the back of his windbreaker read FBI.

"Well, I'll be damn..If it ain't O'l Crapshoot." I look across the hood of the car where a young, blond, body builder type with no neck is grinning at me ear to ear" ...or should I say Beaumont Police Detective Osborne?" What are the odds? Whoops...sorry...my bad....guessing that's not politically correct."

"Fuck." I mumble under my breath. "Why me?"

Special Agent Stan Wolfrom. How could I forget him? He joined the Bureau about the same time all my shit hit the ceiling. Back then I quickly fingered him back then as a brash, cocky, mouthy brat. Happy to see he didn't disappoint.

I quickly remember an odd quirk about Agent Wolfrom. "Pulchritudinous, Agent Wolfrom. Pulchritudinous."

Wolfrom eyes narrow, glaring at me, unsure if he should thank me or hit me. Finally he gives up. "Fuck you to, Crapshoot!"

You see back Agent Wolfrom's vocabulary was quite limited and if you threw a big word, any word at all with more than four syllables, it seemed to overload his limited mental capacity. Better yet, it shut him up.

"I thought I was the only one who still did that." I hear a husky chuckle come from inside the car. A white haired man who closely resembles Morgan Freeman, only shorter and fatter, rises up from the passenger side door of the car. Removing a pair of latex gloves, he extends a hand. "You know I still can't believe he falls for that shit."

"What did Ol' Mr. Barnum say. "There's one born every minute."" I take his hand.

Special Agent Blake Simmons had been with the FBI for twenty odd years when I joined the Bureau and we had worked more than our share of cases together. He was a stand-up guy. One who would always give you a fair shake. I knew this from experience. Our friendship back in the day probably cost him a promotion or two. "Jesus Christ, Blake. They still got you around. Figured you'd be retired. Be at the lake fishing every day."

"Can't. Wife's got an expensive habit called shopping." He takes out a pack of Doublemint takes a stick then offers me one.

"No thanks. Wouldn't happen to have a smoke on you?"

"Gave that up years ago. Perhaps you haven't you heard. That shit will kill you."

"So will being born." I motion towards the open door of the car. "Mind?"

I stick my head in the car and feel my stomach curl. I don't care how many times you've seen it, but the sight of someone's brains splattered all over the inside of a car is something no one ever gets used to. This one, by far, is the worst.  Blood, bone and gray brain matter coat almost every inch of the diver side window and door. The left side of the man's face is gone. What remains resembles looks a chopped up piece of raw liver. I pull back out of the car. "Geezz..what the hell did he use? A bazooka?"

"Almost." Agent Wolfrom picks up a clear evidence bag from the table and holds it up in the air. "A Colt 45-70 Peacemaker. Don't make them anymore. Collector's item."

"Kind of overkill." I say looking at the biggest pistol I have ever seen in my life.

"You could say that. Damn bullets as big as your thumb." Wolfrom goes on.

Looking at Blake I ask. "So tell me. Why's the FBI down here on a Friday night looking at my suicide?"

"Ian Steward."

"Who?"

"Jesus Christ, Crapshoot!" Wolfrom pops off. "Maybe if you read a newspaper instead of the Daily Racing Form you would be a little more in touch with current events."

"One, two, three...." I silently begin the counting technique they taught me in group.

"Stan, shut the fuck up." Blake snaps. Looking back at me he continues. "To be honest when the call came in from DC I had no idea who he was."

"DC? As in Washington?" Things are getting interesting

"Your people ID'd him from that bazooka you called it. Ian Steward's fathers name is etched in the grip. Like Stan said. It's a collector's item. Once they make the ID we get the call."

"Who the fuck is Ian Steward?" I ask again.

"Ian Steward, that's who's in the car, Einstein. Jesus Christ, the man was born here and you don't even know him?" Wolfrom says walking over from the other side of the car. "He is, or was, the Deputy Assistant Chief of Staff to the President, Crapshoot. That's President of the United Sates."

"...four, five, six...."

"And that's why we're here." Blake smiles. "Bet you're glad to see us."

"One of you at least." I answer glaring at Wolfrom. "So are the Fed's running with this?" I ask hopefully.

"I bet you'd like that." Blake grins. "No it's all local. We're here simply to offer our assistance and keep the higher ups tuned in."

"So tune me in."

Blake takes out a notepad. "Don't know a whole lot right now. He'd been in town since yesterday. Was staying at his mother's out in Calder Place. Your people are there now. Father's deceased. Like I said we ID'd him from the gun. Left the mothers house around four. Didn't say where he was going. Last time anyone saw him alive."

"I can't believe this. Why are we even talking to this piece of shit?  Wolfrom starts. "He was dirty then, and he's probably dirty now. Look at him, busted down to running suicides." He moves closer to me. "So how'd that happen, Crapshot. What'd you do? Skim a little cream of the top? Maybe come up a little lite on a drug bust?"

"....seven, eight......." Fuck it. I get right up into Wolfrom's face. "You call me Crapshoot one more time and..."

I feel the sharp pinch of a hand on my shoulder.  "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please.  Last time I checked cockfighting was against the law in this state. We gotta problem, detective?"

"No, Captain." By the strong stench of cheap perfume I know who it is before I look.  I step away from Wolfrom.

Barely passing five feet tall with freckled face, red hair and the accompanying temper to match, Captain Linda Lamb and I have always had one of those love hate relationships. She loves to bust my balls, and I hate it. With energy to spare she reminds me of that bunny in the battery commercial. Personally I think she takes caffeine interveinously.

"Good. Gentlemen, I'm really not into all this marking your territory crap, so let's just see if we can't all get along."

We all nod our heads like scolded step children.

"Good." Lambchops looks at me. "Why don't we let these gentlemen do whatever they have to do. Detective Osborne, walk with me.