https://www.amazon.com/dp/B078329CBD

 With Six You Get Wally

A John Bekker Mystery

by

Al Lamanda

Chapter One

A few weeks before my grandfather passed away, I visited him in the hospital. I was just a kid and didn’t know any better at the time, so when he called me at home before the family left for the hospital and asked me if I could smuggle in a pack of Camel cigarettes, some sipping whiskey and the Marilyn Monroe Playboy issue from nineteen fifty-two, I did as he asked.

The last year of his life, my grandfather came to live with us in the family home and occupied the spare bedroom on the first floor. I spent a great deal of time with him alone in his room, so I got to know his haunts and secrets pretty well.

One afternoon after school, early in his sickness, he spoke to me of many things. “Life,” he said, “is nothing but one long circle. Everything that’s been said will be said again. Everything that’s been done will be done again. Every mistake, repeated. Every lesson learned will be learned again. What happens today will have happened yesterday and will happen again tomorrow. Always remember that.”

I told him I would, even though I had no idea what he was talking about.

That day I visited him in the hospital was the last time I saw him alive. I had a four-ounce bottle of sipping whiskey hidden in my left pocket, the pack of cigarettes in the right and his prized Marilyn Monroe Playboy issue down the back of my pants.

Fifteen minutes prior to the end of visiting hours, my grandfather told the family he wanted some alone time with me, and they obliged him and left us alone. The second they filed into the hall and closed the door, my grandfather jumped out of bed and closed the white curtain to give us privacy.

“You bring what I asked for?” he asked, excitedly.

I produced cigarettes, whiskey and Marilyn.

“Good boy,” he said, and rubbed my hair.

He got back into bed and hid his smuggled goods under the covers.

“Remember what I told you,” he said. “Life ain’t nothing but one big circle of events that goes ’round and ’round.”

Two weeks later he was dead. He waited until he knew the time was at hand before he broke out his smuggled goods.

Nurses on duty at the desk rushed to his room when his monitors went blank and they found him smiling in his bed, lit cigarette in one hand, four-ounce whiskey bottle in the other and Marilyn Monroe on his chest.

My grandfather knew how to live and he knew how to die.

My grandfather’s words ran through my mind as I sat in the bank and talked to the loan officer about mortgage rates and loans.

Life ain’t nothing but one big circle.

Twenty-plus years ago, as I signed my life away when my wife, Carol, and I purchased a home, there was a knot in my chest and a lump in my throat. The loan officer explained I didn’t earn enough money to buy the home we actually wanted without a bigger down payment. I worked a second job, as did Carol, and we borrowed the rest from family and then we purchased the home where she was murdered in front of our five-year-old daughter.

All these years later, a loan officer at the bank told me that my forty-percent early-retirement pension wasn’t enough to purchase the home I wanted to buy to give Regan a decent place to live in. Not without a steady second income. As I was in forced retirement as a private investigator at the moment, I needed to upgrade my income or settle for less house.

We discussed emptying my savings account and that familiar lump in my throat and knot in my chest took my mind to my grandfather.

“Perhaps a less expensive home would allow you to make the payments without dipping too far into your savings?” the loan officer suggested.

“It would, but this home serves a very important purpose to me,” I said. “If I put one hundred thousand down, what does that do to the monthly payments on a twenty-year mortgage?”

The loan officer did some calculating on his computer.

I did some of my own. If I removed one hundred thousand from my savings, I would be left with seventy-five thousand, more than enough emergency money.

“It’s doable,” the loan officer said. “But there isn’t much left over every month in your pension check.”

“That would be my problem,” I said. “Your concern is that I make the payments every month, and if the bank can arrange to have the funds automatically transferred from my direct deposit account to the mortgage payment account then you don’t have any concern at all. Yes?”

The loan officer looked at me. “I can arrange that,” he finally said.

“Good.”

“When will you put the bid on the house?”

“As soon as I leave the bank with all the paperwork signed.”

The loan officer nodded. “I’ll get the papers,” he said.

*****

Karen Hill, associate vice-president of the Five Star Real Estate Agency, one of the largest agencies in the state, met me for coffee a block from the bank. I was already in a booth by the window, sipping away and reading the bank documents, when she showed up.

Around thirty-five, tall and blond, dressed in a miniskirted power suit, Karen slid into the booth opposite me and gave me her best real-estate-broker-smells-commission smile.

“You got it?” she said.

“Right here.”

“Let me see.”

I slid the documents across the table. While Karen read them, I ordered a coffee for her and a refill for me.

I sipped.

She read.

I sipped some more.

She read some more.

“Well?” I said when she lowered the documents.

“I can put the bid in today,” she said. “If you’d like?”

“Do it,” I said. “And call me later with the answer.”

*****

The house in question is a four-bedroom, two-bathroom home on the beach about a mile and a half from my trailer. It has a finished basement and attic and is the ideal place for Regan to live in, as the closest home to it is a hundred and fifty yards away.

While my daughter has grown by leaps and bounds in the past two years, she is still very much plagued by witnessing her mother’s murder and is far from where she needs to be at this point in her life. A lot of nosy neighbors are exactly what she doesn’t need.

When I left the beach trailer hours ago, Regan and Oz, my one and only neighbor on the beach, were seated in chairs and having a late breakfast.

By the time I drove my fourteen-year-old Marquis onto the beach and parked beside the Impala I’d bought Regan a few months ago, Oz was standing beside a pile of junk wearing a confused expression on his face.

I got out of the Marquis, removing the red tie I wore with my gray, pinstriped suit. “What’s going on here?” I asked.

“Regan be cleaning,” Oz said. He had a rich, baritone voice and often spoke in truncated sentences.

A rusted, dented toaster flew out the open door and landed at Oz’s feet.

“Cleaning what?” I asked.

“She said she … go ask her yourself,” Oz said. “I already been hit once in the noggin with a radio.”

“I own a radio?”

Oz looked at the busted portable radio in the pile beside his feet. “Not no more,” he said.

I stepped into the trailer, where my daughter, dressed in a tank top and shorts, was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the tiled kitchen floor.

“Regan, what’s this about?”

She paused in her scrubbing and looked up at me. “The mold on this floor is growing mold,” she said.

“It’s not that bad,” I said.

“I can make penicillin with what’s under my fingernails,” she said, and resumed scrubbing.

“How long will you be cleaning?”

“Until this entire place shines or I die of old age.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

I stepped around Regan, entered my bedroom, and changed into comfortable sweats and jogging shoes. When I returned to the kitchen, she was holding half of a pepper mill.

“What’s this?”

“It used to be a pepper grinder.”

“What is it now?”

“Broken.”

Regan tossed it outside, then lifted the bucket of water and poured it down the sink, and then glared at me.

“I’ll be outside,” I said.

Oz wore a smirk on his well-worn face when I stepped outside.

“She’s cleaning,” I said.

*****

I had a nice bonfire going and burgers on the grill by the time an exhausted Regan stepped out of the trailer and flopped into a chair next to Oz.

“End of phase one,” she said.

I glanced at Oz, who gave me his smirk again.

“What’s phase two?” I asked.

“Redecorate.”

“About that,” I said.

“We can’t keep living like this, Dad.”

“I know, but …”

“How am I supposed to take care of you in this rust bucket if …”

“Regan, listen a minute.”

“I thought my bedroom window was frosted glass until I wiped the dirt off of it,” Regan said.

From her hiding place under the trailer, Molly suddenly appeared and jumped on Regan’s lap.

“There you are,” Regan said to the tiny calico cat.

“Would you just listen for a second,” I said. “I agree with everything you just said.”

Stroking Molly, Regan raised an eyebrow at me. “You do?”

“Yes,” I said. “Just not here. I made an offer on that beach house we looked at …”

“Dad, that house cost …”

“I know what it costs,” I said. “And my offer was accepted this afternoon. The real-estate agent called while you were on your cleaning rampage.”

“The house we looked at on the beach with the big yard for Molly and the bedroom for Oz?”

“Yup.”

“How can we afford that?”

“I moved some money around,” I said. “We can afford it.”

“What’s this bedroom for Oz stuff?” Oz asked.

“You’re as much a part of the family as Molly,” Regan said. “We can’t leave you here all alone on the beach. You’re old. Something could happen. That’s why we looked at four-bedroom homes.”

“I right up there with the cat, huh,” Oz said. “And who you calling old, squirt?”

“Just go with it,” I told Oz.

“Can we show Oz?” Regan asked.

“I’m meeting the real-estate agent at the house at ten tomorrow morning,” I said.

“Can we bring Mark?” Regan said. “I’m sure he’ll be staying over a lot.”

“We’ll pick him up on the way.”

“Can we eat them burgers now?” Oz asked. “This old man needs his strength.”

Chapter Two

I drove Regan’s Impala to pick up Mark, Janet’s fifteen-year-old son. He is the closest thing to a brother Regan has, and is like a son to me. Even though my engagement to Janet came to a screeching halt several months ago, Mark remained close to me, to Regan, and even Oz.

Oz sat next to me, Regan in back with Molly on her lap. I looked for Clayton’s car when I pulled into the driveway of Janet’s suburban home. It wasn’t there.

I didn’t need to toot the horn as the front door opened and Mark, wearing a blue backpack, came rushing out to the car. From the kitchen window, Janet watched as he got into the back seat next to Regan.

“So what’s with the house?” Mark asked.

“It’s a place to live in, dummy,” Regan said.

I pulled out of the driveway and Janet disappeared from the kitchen window.

“I thought you had a place to live,” Mark asked.

“The giant tuna can doesn’t cut it anymore,” Regan said.

“I like the tuna can,” Mark said.

“That’s because you don’t live in it,” Regan said “What’s in the backpack?”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff? Stuff ain’t no country I ever heard of. Do they speak English in stuff?”

“Ha-ha,” Mark said. “You’ve been spending too much time with Uncle Jack.”

“Who wants pizza for lunch?” I said.

“Oh, thank God for Uncle Jack,” Mark said.

“Why?” Regan asked.

“Mom is on one of her diet kicks again,” Mark said. “I eat nuts for breakfast like I’m some kind of squirrel. How am I supposed to grow eating a bowl of nuts for breakfast?”

“Diet?” I said. “What for?”

“I don’t know,” Mark said. “The other day I heard her screaming in the bathroom about sagging, and when I asked her sagging what, she told me to mind my own business. Then she went out and bought nuts and fruit and tossed out all the ice cream, and went jogging.”

“Sounds serious,” Regan said.

“So, what kind of pizza are we getting?” Mark asked.

*****

Karen Hill met us at the front door with the key.

“This is Oz, my neighbor, my daughter, Regan, and my nephew, Mark,” I said.

“And Molly,” Regan said, as she held the cat in her arms.

“Well, shall we take a look at your new home?” Karen said and opened the door.

The moment we were through it, Molly jumped down from Regan’s arms and went exploring on her own. Void of furniture, the place appeared gigantic.

“Wow,” Mark said. “Which room is mine?”

While Karen led the gang on a guided tour of the house, I went to the backyard. It was divided into two sections. Half was fenced in; the other half had a path that led to the beach about a hundred yards away.

After a while, Karen joined me as I stood at the fence and looked at the ocean.

“How soon before we can move in?” I asked.

“Thirty days.”

“Can we do some fixing up?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Good.”

“So, Jack, are you free for … ?” Karen asked.

And the back door burst open and Regan, Mark and Molly came running out.

“This place is great,” Mark said.

“We settled on our rooms,” Regan said.

I looked at Oz. “Okay?”

Oz nodded. “I get the view of the beach.”

“I get the view of the front,” Mark said.

“Mine has a view of the beach and a walk-in closet for all the new clothes I’m going to buy,” Regan said.

“What did I get?” I said.

“You get a view of the kitchen,” Oz said.

I looked at Mark. His backpack was now flat. “What was in the backpack?” I asked.

“Something for Molly,” Mark said. “I got it for when she stays over with Regan, but I think she’d like it better here.”

We entered the house and in the otherwise barren kitchen, Molly was curled up in a tight ball in the cushy, fleece-lined cat bed on the hardwood floor.

“Well, let’s go for pizza then,” I said. “Karen, join us?”

“Why not.”

“Regan, better grab her before she gets too comfortable in that thing.”

*****

Rose’s Pizza Palace near the beach served a hell of a pizza. We ordered two, smothered with everything, and we ate in the backyard at a picnic table.

Karen ate her slice with a knife and fork. The rest of us were slobs, spilling grease on just about everything as we gobbled up several slices each.

“When is the closing?” I asked Karen as we walked back to the car.

“Two weeks, then another two weeks for processing.”

“Okay.”

I drove back to the house so Karen could retrieve her car. She leaned in my open window. “I’ll call you later,” she said.

*****

Oz and I sipped coffee from our chairs in front of my trailer while Mark and Regan tossed a Frisbee down at the water.

“How you gonna pay for this new castle?” Oz asked.

“A hundred thousand down and a decent mortgage over twenty years.”

“Twenty years make you old as me,” Oz said. “Twenty years a long time.”

“I know, but my pension covers most of the monthly nut, so all I need is some part-time work,” I said.

“I thought you promised the kid you’d give it up.”

“I didn’t say that kind of work.”

Oz sipped coffee and gazed down at the ocean. “Walt tell you why the board rejected your reinstatement?”

“They said my age and time away from the job was the deciding factor.”

“Sound like a load of crap to me.”

“Walt is going to ask for an appeal.”

Walt was Captain Walter Grimes, and my one-time partner. We started out in the police academy together, made sergeant at the same time and remained very close friends ever since despite my many stumbling blocks.

“My pension from the post office be pretty good, you know,” Oz said.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I can pay my own way,” Oz said. “Help out with the bills and such. I got nothing else to spend it on since I quit drinking.”

“You’re as much my family as Regan,” I said.

“Don’t mean I live for free,” Oz said. “I don’t pay my share, I stay on the beach.”

“We’ll work it out,” I said.

Oz looked toward town where the beach ended and the municipal parking lot began. A car had entered the beach and was driving toward us on the sand.

“Somebody coming,” Oz said, squinting. “Is that Walt?”

“If it is, he went and bought a ninety-five-thousand-dollar Benz,” I said.

A few minutes later the Benz arrived and parked next to my Marquis. The door opened and Frank Kagan stepped out and looked at me.

“Bekker, it’s been a while,” he said.

“Want some coffee?” I said as he approached the trailer.

“Sure. I see you got some new chairs.”

While Kagan sat, I went inside for a cup, filled it and carried it out to him.

He sipped, then looked at me.

“I need your help,” he said.

Oz looked at me.

Down by the water, Regan and Mark looked at me.

I looked at Kagan.

Frank Kagan was mob boss Eddie Crist’s private attorney on civil matters. While he never represented Crist, or any other mobster, in criminal matters as far as I could tell, he knew where many a body was buried. So to speak.

“I’m out of the P.I. business, Frank,” I said. “Two months now and counting.”

“It’s not about investigating,” Kagan said. “And it pays really well for practically no work.”

“Let’s take a walk,” I said. “Oz, I’ll be right back.”

I stood and Kagan followed me as I walked down the beach out of earshot of Regan and Mark.

“I’m a full-time parent to Regan now, Frank,” I said. “I can’t afford to get involved in anything time-consuming or dangerous.”

“Who said anything about dangerous?”

“If it weren’t, it wouldn’t ‘pay really well,’ as you put it.”

“You were a cop and that was really dangerous; did it pay really well?”

I looked at Kagan. “Okay, tell me about it.”

“A straight-up baby-sitting job,” Kagan said.

“You mean bodyguarding job is what you mean.”

“Trust me, it’s baby-sitting.”

“Where, when and how much?”

“That doesn’t sound like you,” Kagan said. “Since when have you ever been motivated by money?”

“Since I bought a new house for me and Regan, and the mortgage is more than I’d like to think about.”

“Then come to my office at three tomorrow and hear me out, and meet the client,” Kagan said. “And that mortgage will all but disappear.”

“All right.”

I walked Kagan back to his car. Regan and Mark were with Oz now, and Regan said, “I remember you, Mr. Kagan. You’re a friend of Dad’s.”

“Yes,” Kagan said. “And I remember you, too.”

“I’ll see you at three, Frank,” I said.

After Kagan drove away, Regan said, “What did he want, Dad?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” I said. “I’ll find out tomorrow at three.”

“Come on, Regan, let’s take a walk and find some seashells,” Mark said.

They took off for the beach and I flopped into my chair next to Oz.

I could feel Oz’s stare and I looked at him.

“What?” I said.

“Frank Kagan is the mob lawyer,” Oz said.

“Was, and he only handled civil and personal cases.”

“For the mob.”

“All right, okay, for the mob,” I said. “His connection died with Crist.”

“You believe that?”

“No.”

“But you go see him anyway.”

“Apparently he needs a babysitter,” I said.

“A … to babysit who, the new godfather?”

“If the pay is as good as he says I might need an assistant.”

“How good and how much?”

“Never mind how much. Where do you want to take the kids for dinner?”

“Let them decide.”

“That’s never a good idea.”

My cell phone rang. I checked the number and pushed talk.

“I’m taking him to dinner with us and then I’ll run him home,” I said. “No later than nine o’clock.”

“I wasn’t calling about Mark, Jack,” Janet said. “School’s out and he’s fifteen now. He can spend time with his uncle if he wants.”

“Then what?” I said.

“We need to talk,” Janet said.

“About?”

“Don’t play stupid, Jack.”

“Who’s playing?”

Janet sighed heavily.

“Okay, what do we need to talk about?” I asked.

“Not on the phone. I’m sick of the phone. I’m on the day shift tomorrow. Can you and Regan stop by for dinner? We can talk privately afterward.”

“What time?”

“Seven thirty.”

“We’ll be there.”

I set the phone on the table beside my chair.

“I’m going home and change,” Oz said. “You pick the place for dinner or we be eating pizza again.”

Oz walked down the beach to his trailer. A shower and a change of clothes sounded pretty good to me and I was about to go into my trailer when my cell phone rang again.

I checked the call. It was Karen Hill.

“Nothing is wrong with the paperwork, I hope?” I said.

“No, everything is fine with that,” Karen said. “I was calling about something else, Jack.”

“And what would that be?”

“You strike me as a boob when it comes to women, Jack, so I thought I’d make the first move and ask you to dinner.”

“I appreciate the offer, but that’s not such a good idea right now,” I said. “I’m sort of ending a relationship that’s not quite over and … it’s just not a good idea.”

“Well, let me know when it’s over,” Karen said. “Maybe it will be a good idea then?”

“I will. Thanks.”

Regan and Mark returned to the trailer and my daughter kissed me on the cheek and sat in Oz’s chair.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Just someone who thinks I’m a boob.”

“That could be almost everybody,” Regan said. “I’m going in and take a shower and change for dinner.”

After Regan went inside, I looked at Mark. “What about you, do you need to change for dinner?”

“What for?” Mark asked. “I eat with my mouth, not my clothes.”

“You know something, I agree with you.”

Chapter Three

I awoke early the next morning mostly because I’m a terrible sleeper. I got out of bed and listened to my bones crack as I walked to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee.

Age is just a number, I told myself as my knees snapped, crackled and popped on the way to the bathroom. A number that doesn’t reverse, my lower back reminded me as I changed into gray sweats and jogging shoes.

I returned to the kitchen, filled a mug with coffee, and went outside to take my chair and watch the sunrise over the ocean.

I craved a cigarette I couldn’t have because I made a promise to Regan that I would quit for good.

Going on thirty days now and the urge to light up with coffee was as powerful as ever. One puff and I’d be back on the nicotine express train. However, as I’d been sober going on nineteen months now, I knew what it took to stay nicotine free.

Willpower.

That and a daughter that has the uncanny ability to pop up the moment a cigarette is lit and scold me like the dominant lion when a cub gets out of hand.

I finished my coffee, stood up and walked down to the beach. I touched my toes and my knees sounded exactly like my knuckles when I cracked them. I stretched for a bit more and then took off jogging along the water.

It took a mile for my body to warm up and all cracking of bones to cease. I ran another two miles and then reversed direction and headed back to the trailer. I was covered in sweat when I stopped alongside the trailer where my little homemade gym is set up. Elevated pushup bars, one hundred-twenty-pound heavy bag, pull-up bar stand, weighted jump ropes, speed bag.

I grabbed the jump rope. Each handle weighed one pound. I jumped for five minutes or so, switching off from forward to backward, and ended with a mad Rocky-like flurry.

I hung the jump rope back on its hook, dropped to the pushup bars, and did as many reps as my arms, shoulders and chest would allow. I rolled over, rested for a few minutes and then repeated the process.

I stood and wiped sweat out of my eyes, grabbed the pull-up bars and cranked out a few sets of wide-grip pull-ups, reversed the grip and ended with chin-ups. I rested a few minutes and did it again.

More sweat wiping and then I slipped on the heavy-bag gloves and pounded the bag non-stop for about thirty minutes. I ended the workout with the speed bag, working it until my shoulders were on fire and my forearms gave out.

Regan was at the tiny kitchen table with Molly on her lap and mug of coffee in her hand. I filled my mug and took a seat.

“You’re up,” I said.

“Who can sleep with World War Three going on out there?”

“I was thinking of putting a home gym in the basement,” I said. “Less noise.”

“There is a God, and he is kind,” Regan said.

“I have a three o’clock appointment today.”

“I know.”

“I’ll ask Oz to …”

“I’ll be fine, Dad,” Regan said.

“I know, but …”

“You can’t keep a leash around my waist forever, Dad.”

I sipped coffee and nodded.

“Maybe you might want to get together with Oz and start shopping for some new furniture for the house,” I said. “We are going to need some, you know.”

“I can open my trust fund and …”

“The old man isn’t quite ready for the poor house just yet,” I said. “The last two cases I worked I deposited the money in my checkbook and it’s just sitting there. We might as well put it to good use.”

“I’ll get ahold of Oz and we’ll do some homework on my laptop and then I’ll work on a budget while you’re gone,” Regan said.

“Good.”

*****

I wore a gray suit minus a tie to Kagan’s plushy office located downtown. His receptionist ushered me into his office and asked if we wanted some coffee for our meeting.

Kagan told her yes and she closed the door.

“Have a seat, Jack,” Kagan said.

I took a leather chair facing the desk.

“So what’s this all about, Frank?” I asked.

“I handle a great deal of civil cases for the general public, wills and inheritance disputes, things like that,” Kagan said. “Since Crist died, I’ve stayed away from any mob-related civil cases and I’ve been busier than ever.”

“How nice,” I said. “Is that what you asked me here for, to listen to your new resumé and client list?”

The door opened and the receptionist ushered in two mugs of coffee. She set them on the desk and closed the door behind her.

“I just wanted to let you know our business has nothing to do with the mob or anything criminal,” Kagan said. “It’s strictly a civil matter and totally legitimate.”

I lifted my mug and took a sip. “I’m listening.”

“Ever drink Sample iced tea?”

“Not if I can help it. Why?”

“They make thirty-four flavors and it’s sold around the world,” Kagan said. “Richard Sample, founder and owner of the company, died a billionaire and left his entire estate to his six children. His wife passed away before him. However, the fortune was not divided up equally among the six heirs.”

“Unless I’m one of the lucky six, why do I care, Frank?” I asked.

“Would you just listen, Bekker?”

I sipped and waited.

“Five of the heirs, two sons and three daughters, turned out just fine,” Kagan said. “Normal, well-adjusted members of the company as officers and family people. The sixth is the rotten apple.”

“Ah, and said rotten apple is your client?”

“Not exactly. His father is.”

“You said he was dead.”

“He is, but his last will and testament isn’t.”

“Maybe you might want to start making some sense here, Frank,” I said.

“Wally Sample is the sixth heir and the family outcast,” Kagan said. “However, his father was not without love for this loser and put a clause in his will that when Wally turns forty he is to be given a lump cash settlement of ten million dollars and a full partnership in the company equal to his five siblings.”

“Why?”

“Like I said, his father wasn’t without love for his …”

“I mean, why did he wait until he turns forty?” I said.

“Oh,” Kagan said. “Well, Wally has a little bit of a problem.”

“How little?”

“He is a degenerate gambler. He bets on anything and everything, and his father knew that and kept him away from the family fortune until the time he felt Wally was responsible enough to handle money.”

“Only he’s not,” I said.

“Far from it. In fact, he’s worse than ever.”

“And you want me to do what about it?” I asked.

“Here is the deal, Jack,” Kagan said. “In thirty days, Wally Sample turns forty, and on his birthday he will inherit ten million dollars and become an equal partner in the company if he can prove to a court-appointed psychiatrist that he hasn’t gambled for thirty days prior to the hearing.”

“So stick his loser ass in Gamblers Anonymous and let them deal with him,” I said.

“He wouldn’t last one day before he jumped the wall.”

“And now it becomes clear,” I said. “You want me to wet-nurse him for thirty days so he can collect his inheritance, so he can turn around and just blow it all in Vegas or whatever.”

“That is not my concern or yours,” Kagan said. “Richard Sample was one of my first clients when I started out nearly forty years ago in New York. I wrote the will some twenty-five years ago. He had it revised, not by me, to include the clause for his son Wally prior to Wally turning twenty-one. I became aware of this change after Richard died ten years ago. I would like to honor the commitment I made to him and follow through on this as any good attorney would.”

“If I take this on, and I say if, what’s my compensation?” I said.

“Two and a half percent of his inheritance.”

I did the math in my head.

“Three percent, plus expense money for the month up front.”

Kagan looked at me.

“In writing before I leave your office.”

Kagan opened a drawer, removed a folded document and slid it to me.

“Fill in the three percent,” he said. “Twenty thousand for expenses should cover it. There is more if you need it.”

I used his pen to sign my name and fill in three-percent compensation.

Kagan picked up his phone, waited a moment and then said, “Bring Mr. Sample into my office, please.”

A few moments later the door opened and the receptionist led Wally Sample into the office.

He stood about five feet six inches tall and was shaped like a pear inside his cheap suit. His hair was long and shaggy and mousy brown. His beard was scraggly. Blue eyes hid behind thick glasses. He looked at me and licked his lips.

“Mr. Sample, this is John Bekker, the man I told you about,” Kagan said.

“Everybody says I have a problem,” Wally said. “I don’t have a problem. I have a system that I’m trying to perfect and when I do I plan to empty Vegas as if the whole town went on Weight Watchers to prove my point to the world.”

“That will be enough, Wally,” Kagan said.

“The world has a problem, not me,” Wally said.

“That will be enough, Wally. Sit,” Kagan said.

“The world,” Wally said. “Is the problem.”

“Sit,” Kagan commanded.

Wally sat next to me. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a stack of scratch tickets three inches thick.

Kagan gave the signed agreement to his receptionist. “Make a copy of this for Mr. Bekker,” he said.

She snatched the paper and glared at Kagan. “Next time you babysit him,” she said and stormed off.

I looked at Wally. He was scratching a ticket with a quarter.

“Am I on the clock?” I said to Kagan.

“Yes.”

I grabbed the stack of scratch tickets from Wally’s hand.

“Hey, those are my …”

“Not anymore, scratch boy,” I said. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Wherever I say go for the next thirty days.”

“Mr. Kagan, this isn’t …” Wally said.

“Do you want your inheritance?” Kagan asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Then shut up and go with Mr. Bekker.”

I stood and yanked Wally to his feet.

“I’ll be in touch, Frank,” I said and shoved Wally toward the door.

In the hallway, the receptionist all but threw my copy at me.

“Asshole,” she said under her breath.

*****

“Is this piece of crap your car?” Wally said as we walked to the Marquis.

I’d parked in the office building lot beside Kagan’s Benz.

“It isn’t locked,” I said. “Get in.”

“I’ve seen homeless people sleeping in better cars at the city dump.”

“In,” I said. “Now.”

Wally opened his door. By the time I went around to the driver’s side, Wally had produced another stack of scratch tickets.

I reached over and grabbed the stack of scratchies from his hand.

“Hey, those are my …”

I stuck them in my pocket and started the car.

“In thirty-one days you can do what you want,” I said. “You can scratch tickets or your rear end to your little heart’s content. Until then, you do what I want and only what I want. Are we clear?”

“You need a better car,” Wally said. “It’s embarrassing for me being seen in a car like this.”

“I need you to shut up and behave yourself,” I said. “And those snazzy clothes of yours aren’t exactly GQ material.”

I pulled out of the lot and headed for home. Ten minutes into the hour-long drive, Wally started to rock back and forth in his seat.

“Take it easy, Wally,” I said.

“Let me have just one,” he said.

“If I give you one you’ll want more. It’s like eating potato chips.”

“I promise I won’t.”

“We both know that’s a lie,” I said. “Now just relax and try not to think about it.”

Wally fell silent and concentrated on his rocking, but ten minutes later he let out a loud yelp, jumped from his seat and hopped into the back, and disappeared on the floor.

“Wally?” I said.

I couldn’t see him, but I could hear him moving around on the floor.

“Wally?” I said again, louder.

“What?”

“You’re on the floor of the back seat of my car; what do you mean ‘what’?” I said.

“It’s comfortable back here,” Wally said.

I steered to the curb and put the car in park, and then opened my door and got out. I yanked open the back door. Wally was on his belly, rubbing scratch tickets with a quarter.

“Oh for …” I said, grabbed Wally by his long shank of hair and pulled him out of the car.

“Hey, that hurts,” Wally yelped.

“Give them to me,” I said. “Right now.”

Reluctantly, Wally handed over the stack of scratch tickets.

“All of them,” I said.

“That is …” Wally said.

I stuck my hand into his left jacket pocket, pulled out a stack of scratch tickets and waved it in his face.

“All of them,” I said.

“Come on, Mr. … ?”

“Bekker.”

“Come on Mr. Bekker; leave me a crumb or two.”

“I will turn you upside down and shake you like a piggy bank until all your pockets are empty.”

“All right,” Wally said and started unloading.

By the time he was done I had somewhere between two hundred and fifty and three hundred tickets, not counting the first and second stacks.

“Now get in and be quiet until I tell you to talk,” I said.

Wally started for the rear seat.

“Up front,” I said. “I’m not your damn chauffeur. And put on the seatbelt.”

Sulking, Wally sat in front and we arrived at the beach forty-five minutes later. As I turned onto the sand, Wally looked at me.

“Are we going swimming?”

“No.”

I drove to my trailer and parked beside Regan’s Impala. She and Oz were out front at the table with Regan’s laptop in front of them.

I got out, went around, opened Wally’s door and pulled him out by his jacket.

“We’re here,” I said.

Regan and Oz stared at me.

“Here?” Wally said. “Where is here?”

“Your home for the next thirty days,” I said.

“This shithole?” Wally said. “I’m used to better accommodations.”

Regan and Oz stared at Wally.

“Never mind shithole,” I said. “Plant your ass in that chair over there and don’t move until I come back.”

I walked past the table and Regan said, “Dad?”

“I’ll be right out,” I said.

“This gonna be good,” I heard Oz tell Regan. “He go to a meeting and come back with a real life Smurf.”

“Smurfs are blue, Oz,” I heard Regan say.

I went to my bedroom and changed into a lime-colored warm-up suit and jogging shoes, stopped in the kitchen for a mug of coffee, and joined the gang outside.

Oz and Regan were looking at her laptop. Wally was scratching tickets with a dime.

“For crying out … Oz, don’t you see this?” I said.

“See what?”

“He’s ...” I said and grabbed the tickets from Wally’s hand, “scratching scratch tickets.”

“So what?” Oz said.

“Yeah, so what?” Wally said.

I pointed to Wally. “You shut up.”

“Dad, who is this guy?” Regan asked.

“Yeah, who is this guy?” Oz said.

I sat in my chair and sipped coffee. If ever there was a time to light up a cigarette this was it. Instead I took a deep breath and said, “Okay, remember the visit from Frank Kagan?”

“The mob lawyer,” Oz said.

“He’s not a … would you just listen?” I said.

*****

“I thought I was messed up,” Regan said after I concluded my tale of woe on the meeting with Kagan.

“He’s not that bad,” I said.

“He looking in his shoe,” Oz said.

I turned. Wally had his shoes off and was removing scratch tickets from under the removable insoles.

I snatched the tickets and set them in front of Oz.

“You keep them,” I said.

I stood and went to my car, opened the door and glove box, and returned with a six-inch-high pile of scratch tickets and dumped them on the table.

“And these, too,” I said.

“Can I have some?” Regan asked.

“I don’t care what you do with them so long as they disappear from my sight,” I said.

Oz gathered the tickets in both hands and stood up. “Come on, girl, let’s go down the road and leave these two to discuss their important matters in private.”

Regan stood and fell into step beside Oz. “You got a quarter?” she said.

I waited until they were inside Oz’s trailer and then I said, “Okay, Wally … strip.”

“Strip what?”

“Your clothes,” I said. “Take them off until you’re down to your birthday suit.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have any clean clothes.”

“Where do you live?”

“Riverdale.”

“New York Riverdale?”

“I didn’t know there was another.”

“Wally, how did you wind up at Kagan’s office?”

“I took the train.”

I glared at him, but he seemed oblivious.

“Why? I mean why now?”

“I’m well aware of my father’s will,” Wally said. “I went to see Mr. Kagan because, like he told you, I turn forty in one month.”

“Did you know about the part where you must pass a psych exam?”

“No.”

“Do you realize what happens if you don’t pass?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any money on you?”

Wally stood up, rifled through his pockets and produced thirteen dollars rolled in a crinkled ball covered in lint.

“I had more but I bought …”

“Scratch tickets, yeah I know,” I said. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Where?”

“The mall,” I said. “I have expense money and you need some clothes.”

“Wait a minute,” Wally said. “Where am I supposed to sleep for the next month?”

“Let’s climb one mountain at a time, Wally,” I said.

Wally looked around at the flat beach. “What … ?”

“Figure of speech, Wally,” I said and walked to my car.

Chapter Four

On the rare occasion that I buy athletic clothing, it’s usually from the sports clothing store at the mall. They carried every brand of every type of athletic wear on the market and could fit just about any body type and size.

Except for Wally Sample.

His pear-shaped body, sunken chest, twig-like legs and bulbous stomach sent the salespeople running for cover behind clothing racks.

I took matters into my own hands and mixed and matched three sets of warm-up suits, six tee shirts, a dozen pairs of athletic briefs, the same amount of socks and two pairs of jogging shoes.

We left the mall with Wally wearing a teal-colored warm-up suit, black jogging shoes and a blue tee shirt, all of which made a six-hundred-dollar dent in Kagan’s expense check.

“Can we hit the food court?” Wally said. “I’m kind of hungry.”

“If you hurry,” I said. “We need to get back and get you settled.”

We entered the food court and set the shopping bags on a table.

“Grab two coffees,” I said.

“My money is in my pants,” Wally said. “In one of those bags.”

I gave him a ten-dollar bill and he walked to the Coffee Hut.

As soon as Wally was out of sight, I pulled out my cell phone and called Janet. She was still at work, but answered the call anyway.

“Jack, I’m still on duty,” she said.

“I know, I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t think I can make it tonight. I have a job and I don’t think it would be a good idea at this time.”

“What kind of job?” Janet said, coldly.

“Something for a lawyer.”

“Something?”

“Let’s just leave it at that, okay?”

“How long is this something going to last?”

“A month at least.”

After a short pause, Janet said, “Is this about Clayton? I want to …”

“No, it’s not about … look, I have to go,” I said. “If I can I’ll call you later.”

“Jack, wait …”

I ended the call and placed the phone in my jacket pocket just as Wally arrived with two containers of coffee.

“Can we get something to eat?” Wally said. “I haven’t had …”

“When we get home,” I said.

“Do you live in that thing?” Wally said. “With the girl and old man?”

“The girl is my daughter and the old man is … never mind,” I said. “Look, I need some background info here.”

“On what?”

“On you.”

“Like what?”

“Are you married?”

“I was, but she left me like eight years ago. I’m not sure why.”

I thought I knew why, but I kept it to myself.

“Do you work at all?”

“If you mean a job, the answer is no.”

“What do you live on?”

“I receive an allowance of sixty thousand a year from my father’s company, and the home in Riverdale was my parents’ original home. It’s paid for and the taxes are paid for out of my father’s estate.”

“Education? Did you go to college?”

“I went to MIT.”

“MIT in Boston?”

Wally nodded.

“That’s the hardest technical college in the country to get into.”

“I was always good with numbers. The idea was I would graduate and run the logistics department at Sample.”

“Would graduate?”

“In my third year I was expelled.”

“Why?”

“I was using MIT resources to create a program that would allow me to count cards at a Vegas table,” Wally said. “It was beautiful. I was close to completion when they caught me and tossed me out.”

“Your father couldn’t … ?”

“It was my fifth offense,” Wally said. “I was caught designing a program to beat the lottery, and another one to …”

“I get it.”

“I can beat them, you know. The bastards.”

“That’s not the point,” I said. “In your present state of mind you would never pass a psychiatric evaluation. You stand to lose your inheritance unless you can convince them you’re addiction free.”

“It’s a hobby,” Wally said. “They would penalize a man for his hobby?”

“Collecting stamps or butterflies is a hobby,” I said. “Walking around with three hundred scratch tickets in your pockets and shoes is an addiction. Come on, let’s go.”

“Can I use the bathroom first? This coffee.”

“It’s right over there,” I said and pointed to the hallway between the pizza joint and Chinese take-out place.

Wally stood and walked across the food court to the hallway. I watched him open the men’s-room door and disappear as the door closed.

I took my coffee and Wally’s shopping bags with me and left the food court and entered the parking lot. I turned left and walked along the sidewalk to the bathroom windows. One of the windows opened just enough for Wally to squeeze out and fall on his face by my feet.

He looked up at me.

“So, are you ready then?” I said.

Chapter Five

Oz and Regan were seated at the table in front of the trailer when I parked the Marquis beside the Impala.

Regan dashed from the table to me with a scratch ticket in her hand.

“I won five hundred dollars,” she said. “Oz won two-fifty.”

“Then you can pay for dinner,” I said.

“Technically, I won,” Wally said. “See, I purchased the …”

“Shut up, Wally, and have a seat,” I said. “Regan, you, too.”

I stood while Wally and Regan took chairs.

“Regan, have you and Oz found anything you like furniture-wise?”

“We’re whittling it down,” Regan said.

“Good. Your project for the next thirty days is to furnish the entire house,” I said. “You and Oz. That goes for my room, too. Okay?”

“Dad, the money …”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I have the funds in my checkbook.”

“I pay for my own stuff,” Oz said.

“Fine.”

“It’s only right.”

“I said fine,” I said.

“Ain’t no free lunch in life,” Oz said.

“Next time we go to lunch, you can pay for it,” I said. “Now, can we … ?”

“That was an allegory,” Oz said. “I wasn’t talking about a real lunch.”

“I know.”

“Those tickets were mine,” Wally said.

I glared at Wally. “Say one more word and I’ll staple your lips together.”

“Dad, he has a point,” Regan said.

“No, he doesn’t,” I said. “Now listen to me a minute. I’ve agreed to help Mr. Sample with …”

“Who?” Oz asked.

“Mr. Sample. Wally. Weren’t you listening earlier?”

“Earlier you said his name is Wally,” Oz said. “Nobody said nothing about Sample.”

I glared at Oz.

“Dad, what are you trying to say?” Regan asked.

“I explained to you before that I’ve agreed to help Wally with his problem so he can collect his inheritance,” I said. “The only way this can work is if I don’t let him out of my sight and that means he sleeps in the trailer.”

“Dad, he’s a slob,” Regan said. “I mean, look at the guy. Even in new clothes he’s a total slob.”

“But I’m a deep thinker,” Wally said. “Einstein never combed his hair.”

“Wally, shut up,” I said. “Oz, can Regan use your spare bedroom for a few weeks?”

“Yes, please,” Regan snapped. “Oz, I beg of you.”

“Will you do the cooking?” Oz said.

“The cooking, cleaning and I’ll even mend your socks so long as I don’t have to bunk with Mr. Deep Thinker here.”

“Deal.”

“Good. In the meantime you and Oz can spend your days furnishing the new house,” I said. “I figure in two weeks after the closing you and Oz can move in and do some fixer-upping.”

“Can I paint my room?” Regan asked.

“It’s your room.”

“Can we get something to eat now?” Wally asked.

“Why not? My daughter is buying,” I said.

*****

I drove the Impala to the steak house near the mall. We feasted on steak and salad and, despite scratch-ticket winnings, I footed the bill using Kagan’s expense money and we were back at the trailer by eight thirty.

Wally, silent for most of the dinner, was sweating, mumbling under his breath and rocking on the drive back to the beach.

“Dad, Wally is sort of having a fit,” Regan said.

“I know the feeling, Wally,” I said. “Believe me, I do. Tomorrow we’ll keep busy to take your mind off things.”

Seated beside me, Regan turned around and looked at Wally.

“He’s drooling on himself, Dad,” she said.

“And me,” Oz said. “Cut that out, boy, you ain’t no English bulldog.”

I pulled the Impala onto the beach.

“I gonna hit this boy in the nose with a rolled-up newspaper he don’t quit drooling on me,” Oz said.

“We’ll be home in five minutes, Wally,” I said. “A hot shower, a good night’s sleep and a fresh start in the morning will help a lot.”

“A front-row seat at a blackjack table would help,” Wally said. “That’s what would help.”

“In thirty-one days you can do …” I said.

“Dad, somebody is at the trailer,” Regan said. “There’s a car parked next to yours, and the lights are on.”

“I see it,” I said. “That’s Janet’s car.”

“This should be good,” Oz said. “Wally and the ex.”

“Never mind ‘this should be …’,” I said.

“Is somebody sick?” Wally said. “She looks like a nurse.”

I parked beside Janet’s sedan. Janet was seated at the card table with a mug of coffee.

Except for Wally, we got out of the car and walked to the table.

“I still have a key,” Janet said. “I made coffee.”

“I need to get my stuff together,” Regan said and ducked into the trailer.

“I’ll wait and give her a hand,” Oz said.

“Jack, what’s going on around here?” Janet asked.

“This is Wally Sample,” I said, unaware that he was still in the car.

Janet stared at me.

“Wally still be in the car drooling,” Oz said.

I turned around. “Oh, for … Wally, get out here. Now.”

Slowly the car door opened, and Wally crept out and walked to me.

Janet stared at Wally. “What’s this?”

“This be Wally,” Oz said.

Regan suddenly appeared with a small suitcase in one hand and Molly in the other. “Let’s go,” she said. “That show about duck calls is on.”

“The what?” Oz said.

“Never mind. Do you have popcorn?”

Oz took the suitcase and they walked down the beach to Oz’s trailer.

“Jack, what is … ?” Janet said.

“Do you have any scratch tickets?” Wally said to Janet.

“Any what? Jack, who is this person?”

“Wally Sample. Wally, this is Janet.”

“Why are you dressed like a nurse?” Wally asked.

“Because I am a nurse,” Janet said. “Jack, we need to talk.”

I looked at Wally. “Go inside and get comfortable,” I said. “I’ll bring in the shopping bags later.”

Wally walked to the door of the trailer and paused.

“What do you mean by comfortable?” he asked.

“Relax,” I said.

“Oh, okay.”

“And Wally, don’t try jumping out the window,” I said. “I’ll see you and I don’t want to have to tie you up. You might drown in your own drool.”

Wally nodded and entered the trailer.

“Why would he jump out the window?” Janet asked.

“He … I need some coffee first,” I said.

I went inside and filled a mug with coffee, and then returned to Janet and took my chair at the table.

“So this is why you broke our date?” Janet said.

“He’s my … the job I told you about concerns him and his family-owned company.”

“What company is that, Jack?”

“Sample Iced Tea.”

“Sample Iced Tea,” Janet said. “I love Sample Iced Tea. I drink it all the time. The raspberry cream is delicious. What does that drooling goofball have to do with anything?”

“I really can’t go into it,” I said. “He’s a client and that entitles him to privacy.”

“I didn’t come here to discuss Wally Sample, anyway,” Janet said. “I wanted to talk to you about us.”

Wally stuck his head out the door. “Where is your computer?”

“I don’t own one,” I said.

“That laptop?”

“My daughter’s and she probably took it with her.”

“Can I … ?”

“No. Now go inside and relax.”

Wally disappeared.

“Jack, are you listening to me?” Janet said.

“Yes.”

“Can we walk down to the beach and talk privately?”

“I don’t want to leave Wally alone where I can’t see or hear him.”

“Is he going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight?”

“It’s … complicated.”

Janet sipped her coffee.

I sipped my coffee.

Wally poked his head out the door again.

“Which bedroom is mine?” he said.

“See the bedroom with the pink curtains and bedspread and stuffed animals on it? That one isn’t mine,” I said.

“Oh, okay,” Wally said and disappeared.

“Jack, please,” Janet said.

Wally appeared again. “So the other room is yours?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Okay,” Wally said and disappeared again.

Janet glared at me.

“I told you I’d be tied up for a month,” I said.

“This can’t wait a month.”

“Then say what it is you want to say.”

Janet took another sip from her cup.

“Clayton wants to get married again,” she said. “He feels we’re more mature and better suited to make it work a second time.”

I drank some coffee and set the mug down on the table.

“And you said?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Why not?”

“I wanted to discuss it with you first.”

“Do you want to know how I feel about it?” I said.

“For one thing.”

“I don’t really know or like Clayton all that much,” I said. “He stepped up when you were in the hospital and took care of Mark, but Mark is his son so that’s what he’s supposed to do. But I’m not marrying Clayton, so how I feel about him one way or the other really doesn’t matter.”

“How do you feel about me?”

“How I feel about you hasn’t changed. How I feel about myself has.”

“I don’t … what does that mean exactly?”

“I’m not some puppy to be brought home and molded into the kind of dog you want me to be,” I said. “I’m a flawed individual who happens to be pretty good at being a cop even if I’m not one anymore. I’m not nine-to-five, dinner-at-six, take-out-the-trash-on-Wednesday-and-Saturday material. I have to live with me first and I can’t live a lie. Not anymore.”

“I was doing that, wasn’t I?” Janet said. “Molding you into the kind of man I wanted you to be and not who you really are.”

“If it means anything, the man you want me to be is probably the better man,” I said. “Just not the real one.”

“I understand, Jack.”

“After this job is done I may or may not ever work another,” I said. “But if I do or don’t, the choice is mine alone. It’s no different than if you decide to quit being a nurse.”

Janet nodded. “I guess I’ll go home now.”

“There is something you should know,” I said. “I bought that house on the beach we looked at. The closing is in two weeks.”

“I see,” Janet said. “I guess there is no more to say, then.”

“Not tonight, anyway.”

Janet stood and I walked her to her car.

“I wasn’t that bad, was I?” she said as she got behind the wheel.

“If it wasn’t for you I probably wouldn’t have gotten or stayed sober,” I said. “You were probably the best thing that happened to me in twenty years.”

“Thank you for that.”

I returned to my chair and watched her drive off the beach.

When she was gone I took my mug inside and found Wally at the kitchen table playing blackjack with himself and scribbling in a notebook.

I sat. “What are you doing?”

“Working on one of my systems,” Wally said. “See, there’s five decks in a dealer’s …”

“Go to bed right now,” I said.

“I’m not tired,” Wally said. “I’m used to late hours.”

“Let me rephrase that,” I said. “Go to bed right now or I’ll break both your arms and legs and you’ll sit out the next month in a wheelchair.”

Wally looked at me. “Are you serious?”

“Want to find out?”

“No.”

“Then go into the bedroom, close the door and try to get some sleep.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to say good night to my daughter and then hit the bed myself,” I said.

Wally stood, nodded, walked into Regan’s bedroom and closed the door.

I took the deck of cards, stood over the trash bin by the sink and ripped them into pieces. Then I stepped outside and walked around to the side of the trailer and stood in the dark. The moon was bright and high and I could see the lights of town in the distance.

Wally must have figured five minutes to walk to Oz’s trailer, five to say goodnight and five to walk back, because by my watch five minutes passed before he came rolling out Regan’s bedroom window.

He hit the beach and started running toward town.

The thing about running on sand is that it’s much more tiring than running on the road or grass, especially if you’re in terrible shape like Wally. The half mile to town must have seemed like a marathon to him because after a hundred yards he stopped, placed his hands on his knees and sucked wind.

After a minute or so, he continued on, ran another fifty yards and stopped to rest again. He looked toward town and started running again. He made about a hundred yards before he fell to his knees and gasped for air.

I went to my car and drove to Wally. I parked beside him and opened the passenger door.

“Get in,” I said.

“I … can’t … my … I need to …” Wally sputtered.

“Get in or I’ll tie you to the rear bumper and drag you back like a buck deer.”

Wally slowly stood, then flopped into the car and closed the door.

I made a U-turn and drove back to the trailer. “Inside. Go,” I snapped.

Wally got out and slunk into the trailer. I walked around the side to my makeshift gym and opened the large box where I store kettlebells and extra chains for the heavy bag. I grabbed a four-foot-long chain and a forty-pound kettlebell and carried them inside.

I set them on the table while I went to my bedroom to fetch a pair of handcuffs, then carried ball and chain into Regan’s bedroom, where Wally sat on the bed with his head between his legs.

“Oh, man,” Wally said.

“Wally?” I said quietly.

Wally looked at the kettlebell. “What the hell is that? You’re not going to hit me now, are you?”

“That’s a tempting offer, but no,” I said. “Give me your right leg.”

“What?”

“Your right leg, stick it out.”

Wally extended his right leg. I snapped one handcuff around his skinny ankle, then threaded the chain through the handle in the kettlebell and cuffed the second loop through the chain.

“There,” I said. “Now anywhere you go that forty-pound kettlebell goes with you. So get some sleep and we’ll start on your program in the morning.”

“What program?”

“Diet and exercise.”

I left the room and closed the door.

“What are you … what diet? What exercise?” Wally called after me. “I have food allergies. Hey, wait.”

“Good night, Wally,” I said, and entered my bedroom and slammed the door.