Beverly Bird - In The Line Of Fire

“I’m not some damned baby-sitter.”

“Yes,” the second man said. “You are.”

“One week,” Jerome said. “He’ll be all over her like white on rice. Did you see the way he was eyeing her?”

“I’ll take that bet. How much?” Fisk asked.

“Twenty bucks.”

“Twenty and my diamond stud says she decks him when he tries.” Cia touched a finger to one of the many piercings in her left ear. “Molly’s tough.”

“She’s still a chick,” Lester said. “And he’s got the moves down. My Starter jacket says she wraps herself all over him when he finally gets around to it.”

“I’ll take that.”

“Right.”

“Yeah.”

High-fives were exchanged, then the subject of the conversation headed in their direction. The kids began to disperse.

“Whoa,” Danny said. But he had to pull his mind and his eyes off the door to address them. Molly French could make one hell of an exit when she had her dander up.

It might have been six years, but he knew a rattled woman when he saw one, Danny thought. He was inordinately pleased with himself for the achievement. Damned if he didn’t still have the knack.

He waved a hand in greeting at an older woman who came through the gym doors Molly had just flashed through, then he brought his attention back to the kids. “What were you guys just betting about?”

“Who says we were betting?” Lester challenged.

In response, Danny high-fived the air and touched a finger to the earring he didn’t have. He was gratified when they exchanged wary glances. “Been there, guys. So spit it out. What’s the bet?”

“Nothing,” Anita muttered. She was a pretty black girl who paled in comparison to Cia’s looks and she seemed to know it. Danny felt something in his heart go out to her.

“Nice tattoo you’ve got there,” he told her.

Her eyes shone with gratitude. She held up her wrist. An inked chain of ivy and roses encircled it. “You like it?”

“Wouldn’t want one, but, yeah, it looks good on you.”

“Thanks.”

“Where’d you get the kind of money to pay for something like that?”

Her eyes shut down. He’d known they would.

“None of your business, man,” Lester said, protecting her.

“Yeah, well, see, that’s where we’re going to have a problem.” Danny put the basketball on the floor and sat on it, resting his arms on his knees, looking up at them now. “I’m not going anywhere, and I’m going to keep asking questions.”

“Don’t mean we got to answer you,” Anita said.

“Nope. You don’t. But trust me, I’ll wear you down after a while.”

“Who are you?” Lester was getting agitated.

“My name’s Danny. I’m the guy the rec center hired to teach you kids the game of basketball.”

“Molly plays with us,” Cia said.

“Correct. Molly plays with you. I’m going to teach you basketball. There’s a difference.”

“What if we don’t want to learn?” Fisk asked, but Danny could tell he was curious.

“Just give me a couple of weeks, then you can decide.” He’d hook them. He was confident.

“What are you, some kind of do-gooder?” Lester demanded.

Yeah, these days he was, Danny thought. But that wasn’t the way to reach them. “Actually, I just came off six years of doing time.”

Eyes widened again in five identically stunned faces. For the first time, Danny looked around the whole gym and realized that they’d lost the skinny, quiet kid with the razor-short black hair. “Where’d that other boy go?”

“Bobby J.? Man, he’s like smoke. He’s here, he’s not here, you know?” Jerome said.

Danny did know. That kid was troubled, he thought again. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for him, not only here at the center, but on the streets, as well.

“Okay, here’s the deal.” He eyed Lester’s feet. “Tomorrow you all show up in gym shoes. No boots.”

“What if we don’t have none?” Jerome asked.

“Then give me your size, and you’ll have some by this time tomorrow.” Danny had a mental image of his remaining nine thousand dollars dwindling fast.

“What about us girls?” Cia asked.

“You’ll play, too.”

“Why would I want to play basketball?”

“Boys think it’s a contact sport.” He was delighted when she tossed back her purple-and-black hair and laughed.

Danny finally stood and picked up the basketball again. “Okay, one last question. What’s with the lady? Molly French? What’s her story?” As soon as the question left him, more high-fives were exchanged. Ah, so that was what the betting was about, he realized.

“You won’t like her, dude,” Lester said, heading for the door. “Leastwise not if you’re telling the truth ’bout doing time.”

“Why’s that?” But something in his gut shifted.

Cia giggled. “Molly’s a definite do-gooder. She’s a cop.”

Every good thing Danny had felt since leaving the parole office abruptly left him.

Molly made it in and out of her apartment, with her hair dried again and her uniform on, in less than half an hour. Record time, she thought. Which just went to show what a good head of steam could do for a woman.

She was really irritated about Danny Gates.

She landed back at the police station three and a half minutes before roll call. The task force cops gave her baleful looks. A couple of them were here, though neither Gannon, McCauley or Hasselman worked the four-to-midnight with her because they all had a healthy chunk of seniority. They got the plum shift, day work, eight-to-four.

Molly’s manna was another cop’s poison. While many of the others complained about working the swing shift, she was just glad to be home each night by 12:30. She had only just worked her way up to the four-to-midnight three months ago. Prior to that, she’d been on graveyard.

Beau Maguire shot a smirk in her direction as Molly slid into the vacant seat beside him. He was on the task force and putting in a lot of overtime these days. “The extra hours getting to you already, Officer?”

Molly made a pointed show of looking at her watch. Then she raised her hand when her sergeant called her name. “Bingo. Present and accounted for. And, I’m pleased to say, not a second behind schedule.”

“You need to work on that mouth of yours,” Beau said, scowling.

“So I’ve been told.” She smiled at him. “Maybe later.”

When roll call was finished, Molly shot to her feet. She already had her cell phone out of her trousers pocket when she got to the hallway. She tapped in Ron Glover’s office number with her thumb. When he wasn’t at the center, he worked as an accountant.

“What have you done?” she asked when Ron answered on the first ring.

“Molly?” He sounded, as he always did, vaguely befuddled. His voice was always hushed and hesitant, but he had a heart of gold. Ron had taken over the operation of the rec center nine years ago, and against all odds it was still open for the kids.

“There’s a man in my gym,” Molly said.

“Ah, him.”

Ah, him? “Did one of the Wainwrights or the Carsons make some major contribution to our bank account that I don’t know about?”

“Most of them won’t even accept my phone calls.” Ron sighed. “No, we’re still limping along on the same budget. I wish I could pay you…” He trailed off without finishing. Neither Molly, Fran nor Plank Hawkins—who ran a city-funded soup kitchen out of the center’s back room on Sundays—were compensated for their time.

So how had he found it in the coffers to pay Mr. Basketball with his smooth male grace and that crooked bad-boy grin? It just didn’t make sense, Molly thought. Something was wrong here.