Skating Over the Line Read online

  The store was blissfully empty, so I didn’t have to recount last night’s adventure to the patrons. Still, I had to tell Lenny Bemis, the pharmacist. Lenny had graduated the year before I got to high school. The minute he got his pharmaceutical degree, he moved back into his mother’s basement and resumed his duties as president of the Indian Falls Star Wars Fan Club. Hearing about my strange evening was big excitement for Lenny.

  Pills in hand, I headed out of the store and back to the parking lot. As I rounded the corner, I heard my father’s voice yell, “Leave me alone.” He sounded scared. Stan was never scared.

  Feet flying, I raced into the parking lot. The big Spanish guy from the rink lot was back. And he’d brought friends—four of them.

  The guy who’d threatened me waved his arms in the air at my father. His face was so red, it looked ready to pop. The four shorter guys next to him were nodding. The shortest of them was holding some big metal object that looked like a torture device.

  Not sure what else to do, I charged.

  “Hey,” I yelled. “Leave him alone.”

  The five big men turned toward me. I stopped dead in my tracks. Okay, charging five angry guys hadn’t been one of my better ideas. Now I had their attention squarely on me.

  “What do you want?” I asked, trying not to sound terrified. On the inside, I really wished I were cowering under a bed.

  The big dude from the other night yelled something at me in Spanish. I shrugged and turned toward the other men for a translation. They all looked at me blankly. I guessed none of them habla’d English.

  The big dude said something again, put his hand in his pocket, and came out with a really long wire. The second guy pulled out some kind of wrench. The third and fourth pulled out other metal things and began waving them in the air at me. Then they all started yelling at once.

  Stan gave me a wild-eyed look. Then he turned and ran. It took a second for the gang in front of me to realize he had gone. With a shout, the shortest guy whacked the big guy in the arm and pointed down the street. The big guy yelled something else and the four little guys pounded the pavement after Stan.

  The big guy didn’t move. He stared at me in a way that made my spine tingle. It was hot as hell outside, so no one was roaming the streets. And none of the businesses was crazy enough to forgo air conditioning and open their windows. I realized no one would get here fast enough if I screamed for help.

  I clutched the bottle of pills and prepared to launch a surprise attack if the guy charged. But he shook his head and turned away from me, muttering something else I couldn’t understand. Then he raced after his compadres, leaving me alone and wondering what had just happened.

  For a second, I considered chasing after them. Then I came to my senses and called Sean. He answered after only one ring and asked how I was feeling. Sean was still in nice mode. I gave him a rundown on this morning’s events. Then I described the guys who had chased after my father and the direction they had all run in. Sean told me not to worry and disconnected.

  Chewing my bottom lip, I got in my car. Despite Sean’s self-assured tone, I was seriously disturbed. Stan was being chased by a small but angry mob. Sure, the guy had ditched me years ago, but I didn’t want him beaten like a piñata.

  I revved up my car’s engine, hit the gas, and followed in the direction my father had taken on foot.

  Nothing.

  No Stan. No bad guys. Just Sean’s cruiser coming up the street toward me. It was reassuring to know Sean had moved so quickly. I waved at Sean as our cars slowly passed. He waved back and shrugged. He hadn’t seen the guys, either.

  After driving up and down the streets for a while longer, I steered my car toward the rink. Pulling into the parking lot, I scanned the area for the angry quintet. None of them was here. Weird. Not that I wanted them here. Personally, I would have been happy if they decided to move to Greenland. But up until today, all their intimidation had been directed at me. First the wire dude, then the two guys looking for me but running into Pop, and, finally, the threatening note. The whole thing with Stan might have made sense had they not run after him. I, the object of their escalating intimidation, had been standing right in front of them and they’d left. Why?

  When I walked into the rink, all thoughts of the Spanish guys and my father’s plight flew out of my head. The place was going wild. A strange synthesized version of Bizet’s Carmen was pounding out of the speakers. A dozen kids were jumping up and down on the sidelines, screaming. Parents were trying to get their offspring under control, which only added to the chaos. And that was nothing compared to what was going on in the center of the rink.

  A dozen women dressed in hot-pink spandex, silver elbow pads, and silver-pink-and-black-striped helmets were zipping around the rink on speed skates. One chick, who looked more like a linebacker than a lady, flung out her arm and clotheslined the girl trying to pass her. That girl went flying face-first into the wall. Another one skated around a couple of high school students. Then she made a beeline for the linebacker. She squatted on her skates, stuck out her leg, and tripped the linebacker, sending her skidding to a halt right on her ass. Meanwhile, in the center of the rink, George was blowing his whistle so hard, it looked like his head was going to explode from the pressure. Only no one could hear him.

  I scrambled through the sideline mayhem and into the sound booth just as one of the spandex gang was shoved toward the sidelines. One moment she was on the rink, the next minute her face was smashed into the glass window. Right in front of me. She slid out of view, leaving a wet lip print behind.

  Yuck.

  Before another skater put her lips on my glass, I killed the power on the stereo. Then, grabbing the microphone, I hit the On switch.

  “Open skate is at noon. Any skaters who are not here for private or group lessons will leave the floor immediately. Or I will call the cops.” I didn’t think Sean could take the insane speed skaters single-handedly, but he had a gun. That counted for something.

  My announcement worked. The pink ladies whizzed off the floor, leaving George looking dazed and confused in the middle of the rink. After exiting the booth, I reassured the parents that class would begin immediately. That handled, I turned and faced roller skating’s answer to the Dirty Dozen.

  “Thank you for clearing the floor.”

  The linebacker chick pulled off her helmet and shook out a large mane of streaky blond hair. “Are you in charge?”

  I nodded.

  The woman held out a callused hand. “I’m Typhoon Mary, captain of EstroGenocide.”

  I had no idea what to say to that. I just smiled and let her shake my hand.

  Mary shook it hard, then grinned, revealing two gold caps on her bottom front teeth. “This is a great rink. Our team has been looking for a new home since our home rink asked us to relocate. Yours would be perfect.”

  “Perfect for what?”

  “Roller derby.” The women behind Mary nodded their Technicolor helmeted heads. I must have looked at her blankly, because she added, “It’s a sport. Team against team. Each team needs a home rink to practice and hold meets in. We’d like it to be yours.”

  Okay, I knew what roller derby was. Sort of. At least I’d seen Hollywood’s take on the sport. Yet full-contact sports on hardwood floors wasn’t something that appealed to me. Contrary to recent events, I liked my health. Normally, I didn’t do much to jeopardize it. Roller derby looked like a good way to get dumped by your health insurance provider—fast.

  “This rink has always been focused on artistic and family skating.” My professional translation of “No way in hell.”

  Mary nodded. “Roller derby is a great way to bring in new clientele. Rinks that have derby teams have seen their profits rise significantly. More people means more lessons and more concession sales. Concession items sell big during derby meets. Something about watching violence builds up an appetite.”

  Maybe it was the pain pills, but Typhoon Mary was making sense. The new owner
s would no doubt appreciate a profitable addition to the balance sheet. Still, I had one question. “If you are so great for business, why did your last rink dump you?”

  “There was a personal conflict.”

  “You didn’t get along with the owner?”

  Mary threw back her head and laughed. It was a deep, throaty sound, one that could bring in serious cash in the phone-sex business. “Actually, Kandie Sutra got along great with the owner. His wife found out and made him choose between the team and a divorce. Guess he decided losing us wasn’t as bad as losing half his stuff.”

  Made sense.

  “Look.” Mary gave me a no-nonsense look and propped one hand on her hip. “We need a rink to skate out of. We’ll pay our practice fees on time and cover any damage that might happen. The big stunts we use for exhibitions are staged, so that rarely happens. But the best stunts sometimes go awry. It doesn’t matter how much you practice. I tried explaining that to your manager, but the kid didn’t want to listen.”

  “You talked to Max?”

  “Young kid, about so tall?” She held up her hand slightly over her head. “Dark hair?”

  “Sounds like Max. He didn’t like the idea of roller derby here?” Max was a guy who liked action. From what I’d seen, roller derby had plenty to spare. Heck, he could even make a movie about it. What was the problem?

  Mary shrugged. “He got into it at first. Until I explained about the stunts. Then he got all holier than thou, saying my team shouldn’t be doing stunts if we couldn’t control them. Then he stormed away. I thought if he saw us in action, he’d understand, but he didn’t stick around for the show.”

  Huh. “Max will come around. He’s young and a little excitable, but he’s a good guy.” I looked out at the class of students on the rink and sighed. “Did you have a chance to talk to George? He’d have to be on board.”

  “The hottie teaching the class?”

  I checked twice to make sure George hadn’t morphed into Brad Pitt. Nope. George was still George. “George is the rink’s primary private teacher,” I explained.

  Mary nodded. “He told me. Said he wouldn’t mind drumming up some new students and maybe being part of an exhibition match. He can’t be a real part of the team, considering he’s not a woman.”

  I’d always thought the rink was in danger of losing George to the Ice Capades or something equally as exciting. If roller derby would keep him here, I was willing to give it a go.

  “Okay. The rink might be changing owners soon, but I, for one, would be happy to have your team call the Toe Stop home.”

  The team let out a cheer and started doing some kind of shoulder-slapping ritual. Meanwhile, I wondered if I would come to regret the decision. Derby might mean money, but with names like Typhoon Mary and Kandie Sutra, there was bound to be drama. Lots of it. At least I’d be around for only the first few weeks. Then the new owner would inherit whatever windfalls and disasters EstroGenocide would bring.

  Mary agreed to stop by the office after lunch to book practice time and explain the special floor they’d use for meets. She then skated off with the team toward the women’s rest room.

  George was giving his class a five-minute bathroom break. All the excitement must have shaken up their bladders. So I verified that he was okay with roller derby taking up residence at the rink. He gave me a cheesy smile and a thumbs-up while his eyes took on a faraway, glassy appearance. Something told me George was dreaming of glory in pink spandex and false eyelashes.

  When George regained focus, I asked, “Have you seen Max?”

  George dropped the smile and scowled. “He was twenty minutes late this morning and looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. Then when the roller derby team tried to explain their sport, he stomped out in a huff. If you ask me, the kid isn’t management material.”

  Maybe not, but I needed him. And he wasn’t answering his cell phone.

  I left George in charge of scheduling practice times with Estro-Genocide and headed out to look for Max. I figured that maybe in the process of searching, I’d run into my father. Not knowing where he’d run off to or if he was safe was eating at me.

  My first stop was Something’s Brewing. Max’s father might know where he’d gone off to, and I could get a shot of caffeine. Multitasking at its finest.

  Sinbad was behind the counter as I strolled in the door. He gave me a tired smile and began pouring skim milk in a stainless-steel pitcher.

  “A large cinnamon latte, right, Rebecca?”

  “You got it,” I said as a tug of small-town belonging made my throat tighten. No one in any of the Chicago coffee shops ever remembered my drink of choice, let alone my name. I’d thought I liked the anonymity of the city. No one knowing your business was a good thing, right? Sinbad handed me an oatmeal cookie on the house while I waited for the espresso to brew. Oatmeal cookies were another one of my favorites. Munching, I decided privacy was overrated.

  “My son likes working for you,” Sinbad yelled over the buzz of steaming milk. “I hope he does a good job.”

  I polished off the last bite of cookie and brushed crumbs off my hands. “So far so good. Although, he left work this morning before I got there and didn’t leave a note saying where he’d gone. Do you have any ideas?”

  Sinbad frowned. “Max must have gone home to shower and change. Every day this week he has come to work with me in the morning. Then, just before he leaves for his job with you, he makes coffee to take to the rink. Today, he was still asleep when I needed to leave. So his mother brought him here this morning. He did not look presentable for his management position.” He poured four shots of espresso into my large cup and reached for the steamed milk. “I tell him you must always look the part of a manager, but he does not listen.”

  “He wore a very nice suit yesterday,” I offered with a smile.

  The news didn’t please Sinbad. In fact, his frown deepened. “I made him. Managers wear suits. I tell him he will only get the respect that comes with his position when he earns it.”

  A suit at the Toe Stop was more likely to earn you a hot dog upside the head than any kind of acknowledgment of authority. But I wasn’t about to tell Sinbad that. He might not give me any more free cookies. Besides, Max was an adult. He’d fight this battle himself.

  However, remembering my promise to Max, I assured Sinbad that Max was doing a fabulous job no matter what he wore to work.

  Sighing, Sinbad made change for a twenty and passed over my latte. “I appreciate your kind words, Rebecca, but I know my son. I hope you will have patience. He needs to grow up and learn life is not like the movies he dreams of.”

  “I could never replace Max,” I said emphatically. It was true—no one else would take the job.

  I headed out, with Sinbad trailing behind me, giving pointers on dealing with his kid while I pretended to listen. Suddenly, a black car with shiny hubcaps and a black cloth top went whizzing by. The driver was going way over the speed limit. The car had come and gone before I could make out how many people were in it. More than two. It could have been the men threatening me and my family.

  I turned to ask Sinbad if he had gotten a better look. He looked as if he’d been socked in the gut. His mouth was slack, and his eyes were bulging.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, putting my hand on his arm to steady him.

  “Call the sheriff,” he said with a croak.

  I was more inclined to call Doc Truman. Sinbad looked like he was having a heart attack. “Why the sheriff?”

  He took a step forward, pointed down the street, and yelled, “That was my car. Someone has stolen my car.”

  Nineteen

  My fingers hit Sean’s number on speed dial. Calling him multiple times a day was becoming a habit. I didn’t even cringe while waiting for him to pick up.

  I got Sinbad seated inside and sucking down a glass of water. Then I hightailed it to the tiny parking lot behind the store to make sure the car wasn’t where Sinbad parked it every day. No car. Jus
t a small wet mark on the ground. The perps had probably let the air conditioning rev up before peeling out. The car was black and the sun was really hot. That’s what I would have done.

  Back inside, I paced the hardwood floor, waiting for Sean to arrive. Five minutes later, he strolled in the door, eating a croissant.

  Sinbad stood up and shook his fist in the air. “My car has been stolen, and you stopped for breakfast? Do you know what I paid for that car?”

  Everyone in Indian Falls knew what Sinbad had paid for it. He’d gotten a very good deal on a special edition Impala at Jake’s Car Emporium. Jake had ordered the car for his father, but his dad racked up his third DUI charge the day the car came in. Needless to say, Jake’s dad lost his license. Jake was stuck with the car for months, until Sinbad made him an offer he wanted to refuse but couldn’t. Three weeks ago, Jake had been telling everyone in the county how Sinbad had cheated him. Sinbad happily told them by how much.

  Sean didn’t rise to Sinbad’s bait. He just flipped open his cop book and asked, “When was the last time you saw your car?”

  “At six-thirty, when I got to work.” Sinbad’s skin reddened. He began to pace the hardwood floor. “I parked my vehicle out back, like always, and some dirty thief came and stole it while I was earning an honest living.”

  One could have argued that charging four dollars for a cup of coffee was far from honest, but this probably wasn’t the time.

  “Who did you see in the shop today?” Sean asked while scribbling in his book. “Anyone who might be holding a grudge?”

  The question didn’t sit well with Sinbad. He huffed and pointed a callused finger at Sean. “I run a reputable business. No one has a reason to feel disserviced here.”

  I decided to wade into the fray. “Sean wasn’t implying your customers would be unhappy with your service.” I waited for Sean to agree with me. The look on his face said I’d be waiting until pigs took wing and hell had a snowstorm. Great. “Could there be someone who has a personal problem with you? Maybe someone who sold you the car?”