Justice Rain (Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Book 11) Read online

  It wasn’t bad, the sport, if you could call it that. There was a silly rule, how close you could stand to the net, something that would be designed for a little kids’ game, to keep them safe.

  But you moved around and started to sweat pretty good, and Karolina was conscientious about rotating you in with different partners . . . and after an hour and a half Chris had partnered with not only Waylon and McBride, but Dale too, the cop -- pretty nice guy . . . and there were a few interesting women as well . . . and everyone seemed to know each other from before, except for Chris, and by the end he could see how this could work out for people.

  Something else that unfolded was Karolina had a husband too, who showed up and helped her with the round robin and who someone said worked as a tennis pro over in Anthem. Chris was partnered with Waylon at that point and he made a comment and Waylon said, “Don’t worry about it there, partner. It ain’t how it looks.”

  Chris was thinking Gee, plenty of inside information here, even Waylon throwing out a nugget . . . so for argument’s sake, Karolina was available, Chris supposed, if you twisted things funny and didn’t over-analyze.

  When Chris had enough he retired to the little courtside bleachers they had, and there were two older women sitting there, not part of the round robin but plenty energetic.

  “I spotted you a couple times,” Chris said, “when I had to hit a low backhand and turn dramatically toward the next court.”

  “We weren’t on the next court,” the first one, Lucy, said.

  “You’re giving me a hard time,” Chris said. “Next, next court. We call that busting chops.”

  “My brother called it breaking something too,” the second one, Gertrude said.

  Chris said, “You know something, you gals have some spunk. Some overhead smashes going on out there on your court too -- filtering through to your post-match courtside demeanor . . . Shall we take a hot tub?” Chris was feeling kinda goofy, the exercise endorphins doing their job, and these gals were good sports. And Jeez, no spring chickens, they both had to be pushing 70.

  “Now you’re pulling our leg,” Lucy said, with a healthy smile. “But what did you have in mind?”

  “You never know . . .” Chris said, and it was good natured all around, and then McBride showed up and said, “Hey man, you acquitted yourself well out there. Let’s take a little tub.”

  “This guy dragged me into it,” Chris explained to the women. “Never tried it before.”

  “A built in excuse then,” Lucy said.

  “Really,” Gertrude said, and the women got up, a little stiff, Chris thinking he might have heard something pop, like a joint, but they adjusted fine and said good night.

  McBride said, “Have you met everyone?”

  “I guess.”

  “I saw you playing with Amy. How about Reba?”

  “Not sure. The one with the black tennis dress? Who kept telling herself, come on, and calling her own name?”

  “Navy blue dress, but yeah.”

  “Didn’t meet her. Was aware of her though.”

  “Anyways . . .” McBride said. “We’re gonna . . . get together, a few of us. You’re welcome to come.”

  “Ah,” Chris said, thinking what could this be. “But take a tub first, you mean?”

  “Nah, take a tub and . . . You know . . . you never know.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Unh-huh. We usually start off, the one behind the shuffleboard. You know where I’m talking?”

  “Not really, but I’ll find it, I guess.”

  “Good then,” McBride said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Like I say, you never do know.”

  The lights were on until 11 -- and that was a point of contention around here too, the opposite sentiment of the new court construction enthusiasm -- that the sport was too damn loud, and people had to blast the air conditioning in their units, whether they wanted to or not, to muffle the sound.

  It didn’t look loud, you had these flimsy lightweight paddles and the plastic ball, but there was likely some refined engineering involved in the chemical reaction when ball met paddle. No doubt there was an original marketer behind the pronounced pop. Even the ones who could barely play could achieve the jarring sound.

  But tonight once the round robin ended that was about it for all the courts, and Chris followed the remaining herd out the gate and went back and took a nice shower, and almost stuck on the terry-cloth robe that was hanging there, and called it a night . . . but what the hay, you better at least see what McBride was talking about.

  Chapter 4

  It was a little tricky to locate spa number 4 in the Rancho Villas Phase 1, Chris thinking did I actually need to ask McBride directions . . . and he passed by it a couple times before perceiving some human noise and realizing it was wedged in there among these standing planted ferns behind the tall shed where you picked up your shuffleboard sticks and pucks, if you were so inclined.

  It was an interesting scene to walk in on and say hello to.

  You had 6 of them in there looking quite relaxed, the jets going strong, white water all over. Left to right were Waylon, Amy, the Reba gal who Chris hadn’t met, McBride, Dale the cop -- Jeez, him -- and rounding things off, the far end of the spa, one hand on the railing of the steps that fed into it, Karolina.

  What was going on currently, Chris wasn’t sure, though he figured it would be clarified soon enough.

  Karolina had her top off, some kind of gold lamee business, which was currently resting on the edge of the spa . . . and she was leaning against that same edge but arching her back a little extra.

  “Yo, man,” McBride said to Chris. “Good you could make it, find a slot.”

  That part alone would be interesting, since unlike the world-renowned 40-person spa over at the main aquatic complex, this was quite a bit more intimate, and Chris guessed it was designed for 4, along the lines of the back-yard jobs that people have in modest tract-home neighborhoods.

  So he squeezed in between Amy and Reba, why not, and Karolina sort of acknowledged him with a finger wave, and went back to what she was saying.

  The crux of the matter was, she’d had breast augmentation recently, and was throwing around a bunch of medical and anatomical terms.

  Chris listened for a minute, trying not to stare too much, but what else could you do really, she was evaluating and pointing and occasionally cupping her hands under one or both, and additionally raising them to apparently make some point.

  It didn’t sound like her procedure was this week or anything, that she’d had the increases for a few months at least, from a couple comments she made . . . but for whatever reason tonight was when she was showing them off exclusively and in detail for this little group. Chris speculated that perhaps one of the other women -- those being Amy and Reba -- was considering something similar, and Karolina was providing a little education.

  Who knows.

  They were admittedly a beautiful sight, but you weren’t going to be an ass and state the obvious -- were you?

  Waylon and McBride and Dale were exercising good manners in that regard, though just when Chris was giving them credit for it McBride spoke up. He said to Karolina, “Welp. Don’t take this wrong, but if you’d opted for the atom bomb sized option, there wouldn’t be room for all of us in here, I don’t suspect.”

  “Wait,” Dale said, “I was thinking the same thing, but I was biting my lip. The playing cards, you mean?”

  “You got it then, too,” McBride said.

  “I remember that deck,” Waylon said. “We devised a couple games around Atom Bomb. Kept it lively.”

  “What on earth,” Amy said, “are you adolescents talking about?”

  “I can guess,” Reba said. “It’s not rocket science.”

  “No doubt,” Karolina said, easing herself up and onto the edge, no re-restriction of her efforts necessary apparently, the gold lame top still laying there. “Who would like a beverage?”

  And everyone’s hand went up,
and Karolina opened something in the corner and pulled out wine coolers and handed them out -- and that part was a bit awkward in itself, her dangling above you while handing you yours.

  “For clarification purposes,” Dale said, “we don’t play that card game any more. In fact those things are probably collector’s items.”

  Chris knew the game himself but no need to add anything. It was a well-known deck of cards -- and yes, probably most popular with adolescent youths -- women on the faces of each card in various stages of bikini undress -- but the crowning jewel being a cartoonishly awesome gal nicknamed Atom Bomb.

  Chris was feeling a little light-headed with the wine cooler kicking in, mixed with the heat of the hot tub, and he typically avoided that type of refreshment, and his flavor had the weird name Fuzzy Navel. Waylon picked up on it said, “What? You’re thinking it over, partner?”

  “Sorry,” Chris said, “thinking what over?”

  “Showing up here. It’s pretty rough, ain’t it.”

  “Well,” Chris said, “you ever read the book Semi-Tough?”

  “I seen the movie,” Waylon said. “I know where you’re going.”

  “Where is he going?” Amy said.

  “All kinds of action depicted,” McBride said. “Pro football guys and groupies.”

  “Did that happen to you then?” Reba said to Waylon.

  “Sure, why not,” Waylon said. “What I was getting at, buddy of mine, played with Houston Oilers, he was one of the influences on that movie.”

  “Gosh, really?” Amy said.

  “Which character was that?” Dale said.

  “That defensive backs coach, where the cops and then the fire department have to show up at the team hotel in Minneapolis. You remember that scene?”

  “That was pretty clever,” McBride said.

  “That was on my buddy, in real life. With him, it happened in Cleveland.”

  This was getting awfully confusing and Chris wasn’t sure he was buying this guy . . . though he had checked the online NFL database after meeting Waylon this morning, and son of a gun, yep, there he was, more or less like he said . . . the 8 years in the NFL, mostly listed as a backup quarterback, though one season they had him as a punter as well . . . and yep, not much game action, a grand total of 32 passes attempted with 14 completions for 136 yards and no touchdowns and 1 interception. They also credited him with 7 career tackles, so Jeez, the guy must have played special teams a couple times, which is the real mccoy, so there you do have to give him credit.

  The timeline though didn’t ring true, his buddy’s exploits versus when the book was one reason, though Waylon had mentioned the Houston Oilers and that was a while back, before they moved to Tennessee.

  Not worth challenging the guy on, that’s for sure, and Chris said to Karolina, feeling reasonably loose now with the booze hitting the extremities, “So do you sit around like this, after pickleball-pro-ing? Typically?”

  They all glanced at Chris for a second, no big deal really, and Karolina said, “I’ve told the story, and the others are comfortable with it. But for your benefit . . . I spent a summer in Estonia. I won’t expect you to know where that is . . . Suffice it to say, the culture embraced the veracity of the human form. Ever since, I’ve been relaxed with mine.”

  “Ah,” Chris said. “It liberated you then. The experience.”

  “You might say that. Is there a problem?”

  “You mean they sat around over there in hot tubs too,” he said, “comparing the handiwork of plastic surgeons?”

  “No one has compared anything,” Reba said.

  “Well Waylon did stand up that time and show his private scar,” Amy said.

  “I forgot about that,” Reba said, “though we’ve seen it anyway.”

  Whatever that meant. Holy Smokes.

  Chris said, “But either way, Estonia liberated you, is what you’re saying?” He wondered also, could her trace accent be fake, or even Estonia-influenced, but more likely she was from a country near Estonia that wasn’t as liberating?

  “Jeffrey here,” Karolina was announcing to the others, “feels he’s too good to take lessons.”

  “I didn’t mean I was too good,” Chris started.

  “I hear you to a degree, in that regard,” Dale said. “I mean like in any sport, the foundation is active competition.”

  “Is that so?” Karolina said.

  “No that came out wrong,” Dale said. “There’s always a need for a professional.”

  “Along those lines,” Chris said, “your husband’s a tennis pro? Seemed like a good guy.”

  There was a little silence, it didn’t last long, and Karolina said, “He is.”

  “Jeez,” Chris said. “I was anticipating this complicated explanation . . . that I could stick in a novel someday, or something. All’s you do, you agree with me.”

  “Well stick this in your novel,” she said, giving him the finger loud and clear, the foam from the spa dripping off her right hand.

  “Karey,” McBride said, and her eyes met his that certain way, where it was pretty clear they were friendly, beyond the pickleball courts. “Take it easy,” he said. “No biggie.”

  “My fault,” Chris said. “I do that. It’s a flaw.”

  “It may be,” Amy said. “I’m not saying you need it, but perhaps some therapy can help.”

  “Figure out why,” Reba said, nodding.

  “The man may be looking for a little attention,” Waylon said. “Don’t crucify him.”

  “Really,” McBride said. “We all are. We just dip into different bags of tricks.”

  Dale said, “That’s why I went into Law Enforcement. Or so my one-and-done therapist told me.”

  “How did that work?” Reba said.

  “We had a chief back then,” Dale said. “He’d served in Viet Nam. Right or wrong, he was a proponent of getting checked out not just physically obviously, but mentally before you came aboard.”

  “Don’t they test you for that shit automatically?” Waylon said. “Like what if you were already a sociopath, some guy carrying a grudge against society?”

  “No, that they do,” Dale said. “A battery of psychological tests. Absolutely. But this chief, he wanted us under therapy -- the one-time deal anyway -- so we’d understand why we wanted to be cops.”

  “That sounds a bit thin,” Karolina said, and dang, Chris didn’t mean to dwell on it, but there was nothing thin about what she continued to present to the group.

  “What’s thin about it?” McBride was saying. “They want the man to know what he’s getting into.”

  “Explore himself internally,” Waylon said. “His motives. Makes sense.”

  “Anyhow,” Amy said, “so what was your one-and-done therapist’s blockbuster conclusion?”

  “Why I joined the force?” Dale said. “Not a conclusion, no written summary from the guy or anything . . . but he hinted that I liked -- and maybe had a need -- to get physical with people.”

  “Well yeah, we don’t mind,” Reba said, and most of them laughed, and this mostly confirmed to Chris that more was in the works here than just the hot tub and wine cooler activity.

  Dale said, “No, I’m serious. I think the guy was convinced I was gonna, like crack a few heads with the baton, every other shift.”

  “Have you?” Amy said.

  “Of course not,” Dale said. “What do you think I am?”

  “Speaking of which,” Karolina said, “Dale, can we fully relax? The incident?”

  “We can, is my understanding,” he said. “They’re looking at a guy downtown, not a john or pimp or anything, simple previous relationship with the poor woman.” Chris assumed downtown meant Phoenix, and again, you hoped this guy Dale wasn’t overly close to the various situations down there, though this kind of information no doubt filtered across his department too, out in Gilbert.

  “But,” McBride said, “as I was telling Jeff here, the guy handling it didn’t inspire a lot of confidence.”
r />   “No,” Dale said, “that’s the thing. Eclipse can be stubborn. It’s their call if they want to bring in the county. I know who you’re talking about. We play poker once in a while, at the guy’s house.”

  “The one with the $300 a month water bill,” Chris said.

  Dale laughed. “That’s a bargain down here.”

  “Just like Karolina’s pickleball lessons,” Chris said. “And yes, I am going to sign up for one. What’s your schedule Saturday? It’s my day off from my demanding job.”

  “In that case,” Karolina said, getting out again, and the others seeming to as well, “what’s your schedule the rest of tonight?”

  “You’re back in her good graces, that means,” Waylon said.

  “That’d be fine, we don’t mind,” Amy said to Chris.

  “We don’t,” Reba said.

  “Oh,” Chris said, and it took a few minutes, everyone toweling off, grabbing their stuff, and following McBride and Waylon -- on the various connecting footpaths of the Rancho Villas, and then into the brown-shingled section called Residential 7, Oyster’s Nest -- and it was Waylon in the end who pulled out his key and said to come on in.

  Chapter 5

  Waylon’s condo was cozy. Ground floor, no view, but more spacious than Chris’s, and definitely a bachelor pad job, set up for social action.

  There were framed pictures on the wall, football stuff, Waylon not over-doing it, one or two from each stage apparently -- pop warner ball, high school, college, and the pro gig.

  As Chris moved up close to the photos and followed them back down the hall, it was a bit more extensive than he thought. Maybe over-doing was still the wrong word but it was closer to that now, more postings, more detail. And Gee, and the end of the hall there, the guy had not one extra bedroom but two.

  So a 3 bedroom. Pretty sweet actually. Chris hadn’t even paid attention to what those might run, either renting them or buying one of the suckers. Thinking about it of course, the minimum annual salary in the NFL you’d assume would be close to half a mil.

  So the guy hangs on for close to a decade, meaning that figure likely increased pretty nicely, incrementally, what with the players’ union and collective bargaining legalese you were reading about every couple years when they threatened to go on strike.