3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany (17 page)

“My Mom says we should be playing more of a triangle offense,” Wilma Whiner relays one of the many comments her mother had her memorize.

“What we need is to get a little confidence under our belts,” I continue.

“They’re not wearing belts, Dad,” my on-thin-ice assistant coach informs me. “Basketball uniforms are unflattering enough without adding accessories, especially ones with Morrie’s Bail Bonds written on the back of the shirts.”

“Maybe what the team needs is a nickname,” Marta, our oh-so-very-forward forward suggests. “Like the Girlgoyles, the Lady Vampires, or the Ladypaploozers?”

“The last name’s the best,” Kelly says. “It’s got ‘Losers’ already in it.”

“Listen team,” I load up on the sincerity. “Our goal today is simple. All we want to do is avoid the Slaughter Rule. We can’t win if we don’t get to the second half. So, let’s get there and see what happens.”

“You actually think they can win?” Kelly asks. “Dad, you’re losing it.”

I can’t take it any longer. I turn away from my team and look directly at my assistant coach. “Kelly, you’re fired. Your coaching career is over. Go sit in the bleachers and play with your cell phone.”

“Wow,” she says before she climbs up the bleacher benches. “Talk about a being a ‘sore loser’.”

The whistle blows for us to take the court. I bring the team around me, put down my hand, and the others stack theirs over mine. “All right now let’s hear a big cheer. On three, ‘Team’” I pause, “One, two, three …”

The team yells out, “On three, Team.”

Boy, do we need a lot of practice.

I do not consider myself a racist, and have never been accused of being a racist, but I have to say I do not believe it’s fair or equitable when the opposing team has four physically fit Black girls in their starting line-up. These girls are taller, quicker, more agile, and have more court savvy to burn than any of my Bailouts. And the one white girl they start must be at least nine feet tall. Our team only has one Black girl, Shemika, who would rather be attacking a rebus than catching a rebound. And she’s our best player.

One minute into the game I realize my hopes of us having second half play are futile. It’s a slaughter waiting for the rule to kick in. One girl can hit consistently from twenty feet out. One drives the lane like she owns it. And one girl is a swifter thief than most of the pickpockets I’ve arrested. We’re hopelessly outplayed, outgunned, and outmanned, or in this case outwomanned, in every phase of the game.

The only aspect of the game where we are in any way equal is the amount of noise being generated by our fans. They have five or six cheering parents, but we have Mrs. Whiner screaming loud enough to give everyone in the gym a coronary.

The clock hits 00:00 to end the first half and I feel a tidal wave of relief. First, for the end of the humiliating beating the team has taken and second, for the end of Mrs. Whiner’s diatribe of criticism, “Sherlock, you wouldn’t know a zone defense if one rebounded off your empty coaching head.”

It’s impossible to ignore her less than helpful critique of my coaching capabilities.

“Okay, girls, go give them a high five and tell them ‘we’ll get you next time,’” I tell the Bailouts.

The girls are as heartbroken and disappointed as I. Kaylyn’s crying, Allison has a tear in her eye, Care wears a hang-dog expression, but they’re feeling less than a quarter of the misery Mrs. Whiner is expressing at the moment. She’s carrying on like a second grade version of a Tiffany clone who didn’t get the biggest Prada purse for her birthday.

After the ceremonial handshakes, my players leave our bench and, in unison, immediately pick up their cell phones and start punching away on the screens. It’s not if you win or lose that counts, what’s important is the messages you received while you were away from your phone for the last twenty minutes.

It's almost noon, time to get the girls back to their mother’s house. I have to yell to get Kelly’s nose out of her cell phone, “Kelly, we’re leaving.”

By the time we make it to the Toyota, Care has pretty much forgotten the game; I wish I could say the same.

“Oh, Dad,” Kelly says to me as I unlock the car doors. “Mom wanted me to give you this before you took us back.” Kelly hands me an envelope.
Richard Sherlock
is written on the front in my ex-wife’s handwriting. Her use of my last name speaks volumes.

Since my divorce, my ex has taken to writing instead of speaking to me. She has the girls deliver me notes concerning money owed, late payments, weekly schedules, etc., etc., etc. It’s so important to have a positive, free-flowing, conversational relationship with your ex-spouse, especially when you're raising your kids in separate households.

I wish we had one.

“What’s this?” I ask Kelly.

Kelly shrugs her shoulders. “You got me,” she says and gives me that little crooked smile of hers.

“Yeah, right, Kelly.”

The note is short, sweet, and to the point. “What?” I drop the note to my side. “I can’t take you kids this weekend; it’s your mother’s weekend.” I’m not screaming, but I am pretty loud. “Where is your mother?”

“She’s on the lake,” Care says.

“On the lake? What lake?”

“Michigan, I guess,” Kelly explains.

“She went sailing,” Care says.

“Sailing? Your mother hates water almost as much as she hates me.”

“She’s with the Commodore,” Care says.

“Commodore? What’s a commodore?”

“Mom’s new boyfriend,” Care says. “He’s got a boat.”

Kelly explains, “He said we could go with them, but when we found out there was no place to charge our cell phones on the boat we didn’t want to go.”

“What?” I can’t believe this. “I have to work all weekend. I’m on a case.”

“We can help,” Care says.

“No, you can’t. It’s too dangerous.”

“Or you can take us to the mall, give us a lot of money, and we can shop while you go off and investigate,” Kelly suggests.

“Why didn’t your mother tell me this two days ago?”

“Maybe it slipped her mind,” Care says.

“I don’t think so.”

My ex-wife has stuck it to me again. I feel like a well-used voodoo doll.

“Get in the car.”

“Dad,” Care says climbing into the front passenger seat. “Can we go to McDonald’s? I’m really hungry after all that exercise.”

“No.”

“Can we go to Taco Bell?”

“No. How many times do I have to tell you? Fast food is bad for you.”

“Evidently, a lot more,” Kelly says.

“You’ll eat what I have at home to eat.” I lay down the law.

“Oh God,” Kelly says. “Not that turkey meatloaf. If we eat that we could die.”

“You know, Kelly,” I’m almost screaming again. “I already fired you once today. One more negative comment and you’ll have one foot in the orphanage.”

It’s quiet for a few moments while I pull out of the school gym’s parking area. I’m steaming and the kids know I’m steaming. My mood bothers Care a lot more than Kelly. “I thought you said you wanted to spend more time with us,” Care says sheepishly.

“It’s not that I don’t want to see you more,” I try to remain calm. “It’s just that I have to work and make a living to pay for everything. And my schedule is hardly nine to five.”

Kelly says, “Ya know, if Mom marries the Commodore, you won’t have to pay alimony anymore.”

“How would you know that, Kelly?” I ask.

“I’m smart. I pick up things.”

“If your mother ever does marry again, I’m sure she’ll set the date for the day after my final alimony check clears.”

CHAPTER 12

I’m usually pretty good about noticing anything out of the ordinary, but my ex-wife has got me so ticked off I am completely oblivious to who else is parked near my building. The three of us get out of the car, the girls are still bitching about the lunch offerings inside, and I’m met one on one with a familiar face.

“Memba me?” the Thug asks.

“Oh jeesh,” I say and quickly look to my left to see Mr. Ponytail in the driver’s seat of the infamous Cadillac limo. “What are you doing here?”

“Time ta take a nother ride.” Thug’s got that same ugly black suit on. Who wears a suit on Saturday except maybe attendees of formal funerals? His head is bare.

“Didn’t have time to get another hat?” I ask.

“No, but tanks for askin’. Now, get in da car. Time ta go.”

“No,” I tell him emphatically. “It’s time for lunch.”

“Who’s your friend, Dad?” Care asks.

“He’s not my friend.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Kelly asks.

“No.”

I move towards the front door of my building, but I’m stopped by a bulk of thug.

“Sumbuddy wanna chat wit you, Sherlock,” the Thug says.

“I’m not in a very talkative mood.”

“Den get inta one.” The Thug bumps me with his belly.

“No, thank you.”

“Youse goin’ wit us.”

“No, I’m not. I’m busy being a parent right now.”

The Thug turns slightly to the right and lifts his coat to reveal he still wears a Glock behind his back.

I try to whisper. “The last time we did this I got shot at. I will not put my kids in that situation.”

“No,” he says. “I got shot at. Youse was a innocent bystander.”

“I didn’t feel too innocent.”

“Dat was an unfortunate, but dat won’t happen again,” he assures me.

“What’s going on, Dad?” Care asks, sensing something is wrong.

“We’s goin’ for a ride,” the Thug tells Care and Kelly.

I have no choice. I best do my best not to alarm the kids. “You’ve always wanted to ride in a limo, haven’t you?” I ask my daughters in the calmest tone I can muster.

“Ah, duh,” Kelly says.

The girls walk down the path to the street where the Caddy awaits. The Thug opens the rear door and motions for them to get in first. Before I get in, he says to me, “It’s yer fault. Youse wasn’t spossed to have yer kids dis weekend.”

“Tell me about it.”

Mr. Ponytail pulls the limo into traffic. The glass partition remains in the
Up
position. Kelly stretches her legs out and luxuriates in the rear seat, “Now this is more like it. We should travel like this all the time.”

“Where are we going?” Care asks.

“We’s goin fer a ride,” the Thug answers.

Kelly takes out her cell phone and begins to text. “My friends aren’t going to believe this.”

The Thug reaches over and grabs Kelly’s phone out of her hands.

Kelly’s face turns bright red. She starts to shake. This could be worse than someone reaching into her chest and pulling her heart out. “What are you doing? That’s my life in your hands!” she screams.

“Just wanna borrow it,” the Thug says.

“You can’t.”

I pat Kelly to calm her down. “He’s not going to hurt it,” I tell her.

The Thug looks at Care, “Youse got one too?”

“Everybody has one,” Care informs him.

“Youse too,” he says to me.

I hand my new phone to him and Care follows suit. I warn him, “You do anything to hurt those phones and you’ll have a riot on your hands.”

The Thug tells the girls, “You’se can hav’em back when da ride’s ova.”

I can see the girls don’t trust our host. “It’s okay, girls,” I say to add a layer of calm. “You’ll get your phones back. I promise.”

“Now, how bout sumthin to drink, ladies?” Our host and tour guide asks. “Look in da fridge.”

Kelly dives down to the unit to check the items. Care tells our host, “We’re hungry.”

“Hungry?” the Thug asks, as Kelly surveys the quality of liquor in the cabinet.

“Can I have a martini?” Kelly asks.

“No.”

“I need something to calm my nerves, Dad.”

“When did you start drinking martinis?”

“I haven’t, but this could be a real good time to start,” Kelly says.

“Please,” Care continues. “Can we stop and get something to eat? I’m starving.”

The Thug glances over at me with a look of
dun’t you feed yer kids
on his face.

“Welcome to my world,” I tell him.

“Well,” the Thug says. “I could eat.” He pushes a button on the console where he sits and relays to Mr. Ponytail at the wheel, “Stop at McDonald’s.”

“Yeah,” the kids yell.

“We’re not stopping at McDonald’s,” I protest.

“Why not?” the Thug asks. “I like dem Big Mac’s.”

“That food is terrible for you,” I tell him in no uncertain terms. “Do you have any idea of what the fat content of a Big Mac is?”

“Who cares,” he says. “It tastes gud.”

Not only am I and my entire family getting kidnapped, we’re also being taken against my will to a McDonald’s for unhealthy fast food. Talk about adding injury to insult.

Ten minutes later we are through the drive-up window and the back seat of the limo is filled with bags of burgers, fries, and apple turnovers. The pungent aroma of the grease each of them was cooked in permeates the air. The girls both clutch extra large chocolate shakes. The sugar content in those drinks will have them bouncing off the ceiling tonight like a couple of atoms in a super-collider. I’m the only one refraining from the feast.

“Ya know, Dad,” Kelly says with her mouth full of fries. “You could have had a filet of fish sandwich. That would have been good for you.”

“Kelly, I heard the fish they use to make those sandwiches comes from the goldfish people flush down their toilets.” I will stop at nothing to scare my kids away from the evils of fast food, although my comment is a little late to stop today’s gastrointestinal carnage.

Twenty minutes later, the limo stops at a gorgeous, Greek Revival converted “two-flat” on Howe Street, just off Armitage Avenue in Lincoln Park. “We’s arrived,” the Thug announces. “Git out, Sherlock.”

I sit tight.

“Git.”

“Come on, kids,” I motion for my daughters to leave their collection of greasy food wrappers, cardboard, and napkins in the car and follow me.

“No,” the Thug says. “Just you.”

I make no move to get out the open door. “I go, my kids go with me.”

“Dey ain’t finish’d eatin’.”

“They’re kids, they’re never finished eating.”

We all climb out of the back seat.

Mr. Ponytail waits in the car while the rest of us trudge up the concrete stairs, past the two lion statues that vigilantly guard the entrance, and through a leaded glass door that’s probably worth more than most people’s IRA’s. It's worth a lot more than mine; since I don’t have an IRA. We stand in the foyer dominated by a fireplace and a tall Grandfather Clock. “Wait here,” the Thug tells us before he exits.