Read Online Johnny Halloween by Norman Partridge - Free Book Online
Authors: Norman Partridge
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pie, and the ice cream, and the truffles and finger sandwiches and whatever other goodies the maids and butlers didn’t get into today.”
“Watching your weight, El Bandito?” she teased. “Making a comeback?”
“Your husband wishes,” Nardo said, and he hung up laughing.
El Bandito. It had been a long time since anyone had called him that. Nardo walked to second base and scooped up the tattered cap. Before he could straighten up, another blast of hot wind sprayed dust in his eyes. He swore, squinting, not rubbing because he remembered all too well the doctor’s warning about rubbing an eye that had suffered a detached retina.
The injury had come in his biggest fight, a bout with Carl “The Truth” Williams, who at the time possessed the best jab in the heavyweight division outside of Larry Holmes. Best thumb, too. Anyway, the detached ret had ended the career of Bernardo “El Bandito” Chavez, an in-your-face boxer with a good left hook who had KO’d a string of fringe contenders.
While the doctors had been able to repair his eye, they had also recommended that he retire. Nardo had taken their advice, and since then no one had succeeded in finding him another career that satisfied his lust for designer ice cream and foil-sheathed beer. Lately, he settled for the in-store brand when it came to ice cream, and his beer of choice was canned and the special of the week.
At least he’d earned enough from his loss to Williams to buy a new house in his hometown and a used Firebird. And time. Time to think things through for the first time in his life. And when the money ran out he was done thinking; he took the law enforcement exams at the county office and now here he was. A deputy. An upstanding member of the community. But drawing county pay meant that luxuries came few and far between—his Noconas were on their third set of heels and three of the four speakers in his Firebird were long dead—and the things some people called him these days made him long for the days when they’d called him “El Bandito.”
At first. Bill had pushed for a comeback. Training Nardo was the only job he’d ever had, and he wasn’t happy about losing his one-and-only client. “Look at Sugar Ray Leonard,” he’d whined. “He didn’t quit when they fixed his eye. He made big money afterward.”
“The gravy train’s done run its course. Bill. You’d better get yourself a job, because if you don’t take care of my sister I’ll put your ass in a sling.” Those had been the deputy’s exact words.
Fuck it. Nardo rubbed his eyes and felt blessed relief from the dust. He dribbled in some eye drops as an afterthought and was still blinking when a blurry Dennis Wichita came jogging toward him.
“You were right!” Wichita called. “There is something missing! The equipment shed was busted open, and the chalker is gone!”
“The chalker?”
Wichita pointed to the indistinct first baseline, which disappeared under a cloud of dust. “You know—the machine we use to line the field.”
****
Nardo took Wichita’s keys and told him he’d be back in a hour or two with a full report, suggesting not too subtly that Lee Iacocca had designed the seat of the Dodge Dakota especially for sleeping off tough nights. Then the deputy thumbed his extender mic and arranged a meeting with Ron Allen at the Ascot Funeral Home parking lot.
After Nardo related the story of the missing chalker and a good bit of family history, Ron asked, “Is your brother-in-law drunk, or is he just naturally insane?”
“Who knows? Maybe the whole thing is a Halloween prank. Bill and his buddies might do something crazy if they got a real snootful. They might be out there this minute chalking dirty words on decent folks’ lawns.”
“Halloween night.” Ron laughed. “And a full moon, to boot. Shit, I hate working mids. The only time to deal with nuts is in the light of day.”
“If then.”
They decided to soft-pedal it for a while.
“Watching your weight, El Bandito?” she teased. “Making a comeback?”
“Your husband wishes,” Nardo said, and he hung up laughing.
El Bandito. It had been a long time since anyone had called him that. Nardo walked to second base and scooped up the tattered cap. Before he could straighten up, another blast of hot wind sprayed dust in his eyes. He swore, squinting, not rubbing because he remembered all too well the doctor’s warning about rubbing an eye that had suffered a detached retina.
The injury had come in his biggest fight, a bout with Carl “The Truth” Williams, who at the time possessed the best jab in the heavyweight division outside of Larry Holmes. Best thumb, too. Anyway, the detached ret had ended the career of Bernardo “El Bandito” Chavez, an in-your-face boxer with a good left hook who had KO’d a string of fringe contenders.
While the doctors had been able to repair his eye, they had also recommended that he retire. Nardo had taken their advice, and since then no one had succeeded in finding him another career that satisfied his lust for designer ice cream and foil-sheathed beer. Lately, he settled for the in-store brand when it came to ice cream, and his beer of choice was canned and the special of the week.
At least he’d earned enough from his loss to Williams to buy a new house in his hometown and a used Firebird. And time. Time to think things through for the first time in his life. And when the money ran out he was done thinking; he took the law enforcement exams at the county office and now here he was. A deputy. An upstanding member of the community. But drawing county pay meant that luxuries came few and far between—his Noconas were on their third set of heels and three of the four speakers in his Firebird were long dead—and the things some people called him these days made him long for the days when they’d called him “El Bandito.”
At first. Bill had pushed for a comeback. Training Nardo was the only job he’d ever had, and he wasn’t happy about losing his one-and-only client. “Look at Sugar Ray Leonard,” he’d whined. “He didn’t quit when they fixed his eye. He made big money afterward.”
“The gravy train’s done run its course. Bill. You’d better get yourself a job, because if you don’t take care of my sister I’ll put your ass in a sling.” Those had been the deputy’s exact words.
Fuck it. Nardo rubbed his eyes and felt blessed relief from the dust. He dribbled in some eye drops as an afterthought and was still blinking when a blurry Dennis Wichita came jogging toward him.
“You were right!” Wichita called. “There is something missing! The equipment shed was busted open, and the chalker is gone!”
“The chalker?”
Wichita pointed to the indistinct first baseline, which disappeared under a cloud of dust. “You know—the machine we use to line the field.”
****
Nardo took Wichita’s keys and told him he’d be back in a hour or two with a full report, suggesting not too subtly that Lee Iacocca had designed the seat of the Dodge Dakota especially for sleeping off tough nights. Then the deputy thumbed his extender mic and arranged a meeting with Ron Allen at the Ascot Funeral Home parking lot.
After Nardo related the story of the missing chalker and a good bit of family history, Ron asked, “Is your brother-in-law drunk, or is he just naturally insane?”
“Who knows? Maybe the whole thing is a Halloween prank. Bill and his buddies might do something crazy if they got a real snootful. They might be out there this minute chalking dirty words on decent folks’ lawns.”
“Halloween night.” Ron laughed. “And a full moon, to boot. Shit, I hate working mids. The only time to deal with nuts is in the light of day.”
“If then.”
They decided to soft-pedal it for a while.
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