Beverly Bird - In The Line Of Fire

“Basketball isn’t the issue here.” She ground the words out and realized her jaw was tight.

“Tell that to Ron Glover.”

Ron Glover was the director of the rec center. Molly frowned. What had he said earlier? I work here. “Ron hired you to play basketball? We don’t have that kind of budget!”

“You’re telling me. The pay stinks.” He sauntered away from her to go after the basketball. None of the kids had made an effort to touch it. They were all gathered under the opposite net now, watching them.

This, she thought, was incredible. “He didn’t tell me he was hiring anyone.”

“Ron reports to you?”

“No, of course not. But he…we just…we pool our efforts around here. And he never mentioned this.”

He shot another basket unperturbed. “Don’t take it so hard. It all just came together on Friday.”

Molly went after him as he moved to catch the ball again. “Why? Why would he do something like this?”

“We had a meeting of the minds.” He started dribbling the ball in circles around her.

“What kind of meeting?”

“The kind that says that if we put together a team that’s even halfway good, if we teach these kids the basics, some of them might land on their high school team. One of them might get noticed by a college scout.” He stopped and pinned her with intense dark eyes. “Granted, that would require some raw and unconventional talent, but one of them could get out of here to someplace better, someplace where they might have a chance.”

Molly opened her mouth one more time and shut it again. She couldn’t argue with that.

She wanted the same thing for her kids. It was what she had been trying to do here herself these past two years, why she volunteered her time to the center—though her methods were different. She wanted each and every one of them to get out of the poverty, the drugs, the petty crime that could lead to treacherously bigger things.

Still, she felt she had a certain stake in being contrary, if only because he looked so good with that ball in his hands…and he knew it. “What do the rest of the kids get in this grand scheme of yours?”

“They get something to do for a few hours a day instead of hanging, on the streets.”

This time when he sent the ball swishing through the net, Molly lunged for it and caught it as it bounced to the floor. She gathered it against her chest. “They’re off the streets—sometimes—even without organized basketball. I keep them off the streets. I help them.”

“And how do you do that, pretty Molly French?”

Pretty? Her heart chugged even as she refused to react. “I get them jobs and I get state assistance for their families. I listen when they talk.”

“Admirable.” He started circling her again, clearly looking for a way to knock the ball from her arms.

She felt like prey. Molly pivoted with him, trying to keep him in front of her. “Basketball’s just…you know, something we horse around with here while we…while we…talk.”

“Not anymore.” His hand snaked out so quickly she barely saw him move. He knocked the ball straight down out of her grasp. The back of his arm nudged her breast. Molly lost her breath and took a quick step back. The basketball bounced on the floor between them, and he scooped it up with one broad hand, then he spun it on his index finger.

“Show-off,” she muttered.

“Yeah.” He grinned. “Maybe we ought to leave you in charge of jobs and state assistance. When it comes to the game, you’re…ah, a bit lacking, Molly. No offense intended.”

She flushed. “I rarely get worked up about something so trivial.”

“So what does work you up?” He grinned a devil’s grin, sizing her up with his eyes.

He was flirting with her. Molly definitely felt something working inside her now. It was a low, steady thrumming. She decided to change the subject. “So what are your qualifications for this, hot shot?”

“All-state my sophomore year.”

That would have been high school, she thought. “And the college scouts just gobbled you right up, didn’t they? That explains why you’re working for Ron now.”

A hardening came to his eyes. It happened as fast as his nifty hands could move. “I quit playing when I was a junior.”

“And now you’re here to impart all you learned in two short years.” That was always her problem, Molly thought. She never knew when to keep her mouth shut. “Aren’t we blessed.”

To her surprise he laughed. It was a deep sound, a little rough around the edges. It tickled her skin. He pocketed the basketball against his side and shook his head. “Thanks. I haven’t done that in a while.”

What? Laugh? That puzzled her, then her thoughts scattered again as he took a step toward her until his face was inches from hers.

“Guess what, Molly French? I think I like you.”

Her heart somersaulted. “My jury’s still out on you.”

He laughed again and rubbed his throat as though the reflex hurt him.

“I’m leaving now,” Molly decided.

“It’s pouring.” He gestured with the ball in the general direction of the barred window.

Molly saw rain battering the dirty glass, making tunnels in the brown-gray dust there.

“I’ve decided I don’t care.”

She hurried to the door and shot into the vestibule where she ran headfirst into Fran Celtenham, another volunteer whose contribution to the center was about as indefinable as Molly’s. Fran was in her sixties. She was a widow, a retired civil servant, who worked hard to organize the kids into doing occasional community-service projects. She also ran a bingo program on Monday nights—not just for the kids but for any Mission Creek family who cared to join in. Attendance was sporadic, but she never stopped trying.

“Ron hired a new guy,” Molly blurted without even greeting the woman.

“Yes, I know. On Friday.” Fran smiled at her benignly as she started to step past.

Molly caught her arm. “No, I mean, he hired him.” She held up her hand and rubbed her fingers together to show that money was changing hands. Then, finally, Fran’s words registered. “What do you mean you knew?”

“Ron told me.”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“You weren’t here on Friday.”

That was true. Molly rarely missed a day, but she’d had to testify in court on one of her arrests. “Everyone knew but me.”

Fran patted her on the shoulder before she continued into the gym. “Don’t take it so hard, sweetie.”

Exactly what Danny Gates had said, Molly thought. She stepped outside into the drenching downpour, disgruntled. In seconds her hair was flattened to her skull. She put her head down and trudged to her car.

She was halfway home before she realized that she’d hardly thought of Mickey or her birthday at all today.

The man standing in front of the long ebony desk practically vibrated with anger. “Are you out of your mind? You approve of this?”

“I think it’s a brilliant move.”

“Letting her on the task force?”

“Think about it. She was sticking her nose where it didn’t belong, anyway. She found Ed Bancroft. Think of the trouble we’d have on our hands if she’d gotten to him before his, ah, demise…if he had talked to her.”

The man was silent, but his eyes narrowed with consideration.

“We need her where we can control her and keep an eye on what she’s up to,” the second man said. “We can’t have her running around sleuthing on her own like that.”

“She’s smart. She has big-city experience. It’s a risk. I just don’t like it.”

The second man shrugged. “It’s a risk we’ve been instructed to take. We’ll minimize it by having her work the task force on her own hours. That’s your responsibility, to wear her out with her regular patrol duties so that her participation with the task force is limited. And have someone keep an eye on her when she’s in that war room. Try to have someone get close to her to keep track of what she’s thinking, what she’s decided she knows.”