Men of Mayhem (15 page)

Before getting involved with the FBI, I would vent my anger, angst, and worry during high-profile sports games in the kitchen. As a Scottish man adopted into an Italian family, I learned a lot about cooking for large groups, and my specialty dishes revolved around comfort food to satisfy the most bummed out, dejected gamblers you can imagine.

As Agent Cloverfield and I entered our car, equipped with bulletproof windows, I suggested a plan. “Let’s swing by the grocery store. I think it’s time you agents ate a real meal.”

Peering over his sunglasses from the driver’s side, my bodyguard for the day asked, “You cook?”

I rolled my eyes. “Doing what I do isn’t called cooking, sir. If we find the fresh ingredients I need, you’ll be feasting like a king by sunset, and calling me Chef Frank.”

Agent Cloverfield flipped on his turn signal, swerving the car away from home and toward the store. “So, do you think I should start Rogers or Brady this weekend?”

I rolled my eyes. “Start Brady, it’s his bye week. Lemme know how that goes for you.”

Damn it. Last fall, NFL teams invited me to games, allowing me to play high-stakes poker with the players during the flight. Now I spend Sunday afternoons in front of a small screen TV, smelling like mulch and weed killer.

Though he wouldn’t let me go in the store alone, Agent Cloverfield promised to give me space. He crushed the taco bar in the newly renovated eatery while I grabbed a cart and headed for the fruits and veggies.

Grabbing a mango while sniffing three beets I held with my other hand, I swerved my grocery cart away from the fruit display using my elbows. Before I could declare the beets smelled delicious, my cart collided with someone attempting to speed past me toward the bakery.

I jolted, dropping the mango and two of my beets in the process. “Holy shit.”

Tossing the last remaining beet back into its bin, I grasped the cart’s handle and straightened, cracking my back in the process.

Next to me, a smoky, deep, nervous female giggled. “Well, I’m sorry about that. Are you all right?”

I glanced at the woman who hit my cart, picturing Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone with her husky bass. But when I recognized the woman who’d hit me as the jogger, my imagination felt ashamed at short-changing the beauty belonging to the voice.

I inhaled sharply and attempted to suck in my gut while puffing out my chest. “Don’t worry about me. We must save the mango.”

I flashed a grin, glad my beard covered up the cheek scar I earned betting against an injured Tiger Woods at the US Open championship. Following her gaze down to the ground, I saw the smashed fruit staining the floor and mentally re-added mango to my shopping list.

The jogger crossed her arms. “I don’t think there’s enough to save.”

It was my turn to chuckle. “Best laid plans, I guess. Serves me right for basing such a big meal around such a small fruit, especially now, while it’s out of season.”

The jogger furrowed her brows, grinning, as she appeared to be studying me. After a few moments, she blinked and again dropped her gaze to the ground. “Sounds like you’ve got a special party coming up. What’s the occasion?”

What’s the occasion, indeed? Has anyone in history had to explain, ‘I’m cooking a meal for my fake wife and the FBI agents stationed outside my house to apologize for sulking around, due to the disappointment of not being able to see or learn more about a random jogger who happened by my fake house a couple of weeks ago, and oh, by the way, that’s you and I can’t stop fantasizing about us getting together’?

Instead of explaining anything, I strolled down the aisle and changed the subject. “You’ve never had Mongolian-style BBQ until you’ve tasted my special recipe. If you’ll accompany me over to the spice aisle, I’ll explain more, Miss…?”

I took a few more steps, but when my jogger didn’t respond, I glanced back at her.

Her expression betrayed hesitation. Her posture was rigid. Her eyes darted back and forth as if reading a book invisible to me. Or, perhaps, searching the area for her husband.

Before I could worry if I had been too forward, my jogger’s expression loosened into a friendly grin and her chin stuck out in a challenge. “You’re actually attempting to woo a girl born and raised outside Kansas City with some hair-brained notion about BBQ from where? Get real.”

I shrugged, playing it as cool as I could. “Well, I’m Frank. I’d—”

“Hold that thought,” my jogger said, as she abruptly turned her cart around. “I forgot bread crumbs. Meet you in the next aisle?”

I nodded, and proceeded down the main drag in the front of the store, passing by the taco bar in the process. “Jeez, you goin’ to leave any guacamole for the rest of us?”

Agent Cloverfield sat hunched over a massive pile of cheese, salsa, and jalepenos. I presume taco shells were on the bottom, somewhere.

He chewed just enough to allow air down his throat. “Hey, what about my tight end?”

“To be honest, I’ve never taken the time to look.”

Agent Cloverfield blushed. “Come on, man. Should I start Davis against the Dolphins or hit the waiver wire? You know how close I am to the playoffs.”

“The Cleveland Browns have a better shot at the playoffs than you do,” I said, turning down the next aisle.

The distracting squeak of a cart at the other end of the aisle made it difficult to concentrate on what ingredient I needed next. Until the cart and accompanying footsteps reached just a few feet in front of me, I didn’t realize just how fast it was approaching.

Danger sense tingling, I glanced up to see my jogger, talking on her phone, winking at me. I wanted to say something cool, but I noticed she had a finger over her lips, asking me to stay quiet.

Just as she rushed past, she covered the mouth end of the phone, dropped a tube of sour cream and onion Pringles into my cart, and whispered, “Don’t share these with your wife.”

She returned to her phone conversation. I heard her say, “Let’s meet at one-thirty,” before she turned the corner, out of my sight.

Abandoning any grandiose notions of meals fit for royalty, I grabbed some burgers and buns, and then rushed to check out.

Back at home, Betty insisted on helping me unload the groceries, so I slid the covert Pringles underneath my car seat until her prying eyes wouldn’t be around.

I opened the fridge and pushed around some leftovers, making room for a cantaloupe. “Did you see we have a new agent assigned to us?”

Betty paused, regarding me with a quizzical expression. “Eh, no, I hadn’t noticed. Where’s Agent Hadley?”

“Apparently he never showed up this morning. At least that’s what the fill-in guy told me,” I said, popping a grape in my mouth as I put a fresh bunch of them away.

“He was a good man.”

Nodding, I grabbed a ginger ale. Not wanting any further conversation, I hustled out of the room.

Before I exited, however, Betty asked, “Hey, can we, you know, like, talk?”

I spun, eyes darting around to avoid contact. “I, uh, I’ve got something, right now. Let’s talk tonight, okay?”

I pushed backward through the door and ignored whatever Betty continued the conversation with. Out in the garage I picked up the Pringles, shaking them like a maraca as my mind drifted to thoughts of my jogger. Sobbing greeted me as I crept back into the house. I entered the bathroom, locking the door to avoid any interruptions.

What on earth could my jogger have hidden in this can? A lipstick-stained napkin with her phone number? Dirty photos?

I popped the top, ripped off the foil seal, and saw—Pringles.

Not wanting to miss whatever the jogger added in here for me, I carefully picked out one chip at a time and began to eat. About thirty chips in, I felt nauseous, but my disappointment left me unable to vomit.

I tipped the can and dumped a dozen or so chips into my hand. I looked between each one. Nothing. I repeated until all the chips were gone. Out of habit I tipped the can over my mouth, eating all the bits and crumbs at the bottom. Now the tube was empty, my fantasies of romance were dashed, and heartburn would be coming on soon.

I threw the can across the bathroom. “What the fuck is going on here?”

I paced back and forth in the bathroom. In the kitchen, I had a fake wife crying because I was too preoccupied with my fantasy to listen; outside, the FBI agents were coming and going in a massive operation to prevent the Ricci family from acquiring my whereabouts and ordering a hit from New York; and some bullshit thing was stuck to the bottom of my shoes, making an annoying clicking sound every time I stepped.

I kicked my shoe at the wall in frustration. There, stuck to the sole of my shoes, was the top foil wrap from the Pringles can. Only it didn’t say Pringles.

I peeled off the label and gave it a better look. The “Pr” had been penned over with enough lines to make the letters illegible, while the “i” was hijacked and turned into an “A” so that it simply read, “Angles.”

Now, at least, I knew where she wanted to meet—Quad Angles park—but I had no idea when. I flipped the foil chip lid over and examined it closely, but saw nothing else out of the ordinary.

Wait. Wait just a second.

Right before the jogger left me, she said something about a meeting into the phone. Or was she talking to me?

One-thirty, she had said.

Betty doesn’t sleep deeply, but by one-thirty she’d be oblivious if I went out for a stroll.

Now all I had to do was get myself cleaned up and hope things proceeded the way I fantasized.

Who knew suburban life could be so exciting?

Exiting the shower through a cloud of steam, I wrapped a towel around my waist and danced across the hall into our closet.

Though the local news had already assured us that by 3:00 a.m. high winds and heavy rains would pound our area, Betty hadn’t yet fallen asleep. In fact, when I jumped in the shower she had been in the kitchen flittering around, prepping a dish for some event, and judging by our still-made bed, Betty was still at it. No bother, there would be plenty of time for her to crash for the night and for me to slip out of the house to finally meet my jogger.

I let the towel fall to the floor as I checked myself out in our closet’s full-sized mirror. My six-pack intact, I rubbed down my legs with a body lotion my ex-employer had smuggled in from the French Riviera. Though I found the poignant, mossy scent of the lotion irritating, women commented on it every time I wore it.

A giggle from the hallway broke my train of thought. I spun.

Her cheeks were flushed, but Betty made no effort to hide the fact she was checking me out, from my business-casual-style-cut ginger hair down to my exposed ankle bracelet with its two green lights, one flashing and one solid.

Instead of grabbing for my towel, I pulled my gold chain necklace over my head, squeezing the good-luck medallion in the process. “Did you lock the doors and turn on the alarm?”

She looked me up and down one more time. “Uh, no, not yet. I’m going to shower before bed.”

Typically by midnight she’s threatening to wake the neighborhood with her snoring.

I turned away to roll my eyes, but kept my voice warm and friendly when I returned my gaze to her. “I’ll probably have a cigar tonight, so I’ll lock up.”

She nodded and backed into the bathroom, her sparkling eyes betraying that she was still enjoying the view.

Not wanting to alert her that my night wasn’t finished, I left the closet wearing only my boxers. I did, however, plant clothes in the kitchen by the back door. In my hoodie pocket I stuffed a credit card sized data strip that was the key to my successful escape tonight. When placed between my leg and my ankle bracelet’s homing sensor, it would force-feed a predetermined location to be transmitted to the FBI, which would prevent the agents from learning of my tryst in the park. Sometimes it’s good to know tech nerds, and just like Betty’s fake dad said, “It’s always good to be prepared.”

With the lights dimmed, I slipped into bed, pleasantly surprised by the fresh silk sheets welcoming me. Now all I needed to do revolved around getting someone already up past her bedtime to fall asleep so I could sneak away. The neon green of the clock read twelve-fifteen. Piece of cake.

I yawned.