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Message-ID: <49823asstr$1101867003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Gina Marie Wylie" <gmwylie98260@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Spitfire and Messerschmitt Ch 22 {Gina Marie Wylie} (teen, mf, cons)
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Date: Tue, 30 Nov 2004 21:10:03 -0500
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<1st attachment, "Davey Ch 22.doc" begin>

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	The following is fiction of an adult nature.  If I believed in
setting age limits for things, you'd have to be eighteen to read
this and I'd never have bothered to write it.  IMHO, if you can
read and enjoy, then you're old enough to read and enjoy.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	All persons here depicted are figments of my imagination and any
resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly a blunder on my
part.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	Official stuff:  Story codes: teen, mf, cons.

	If stories like this offend you, you will offend ME if you read
further and complain. Copyright 2004, by Gina Marie Wylie.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

	I can be reached at gmwylie98260@hothothotmail.com, at least if
you remove some of the hots.  All comments and reasoned
discussion welcome.

Below is my site on ASSTR:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gina_Marie_Wylie/www/

My stories are also posted on StoriesOnline:
http://Storiesonline.net/

And on Electronic Wilderness Publishing:
http://www.ewpub.org/

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Spitfire and Messerschmitt

Chapter 22 :: Contretemps

While we were waiting for the game to start, Josh Mallory, the
catcher, sat down next to me, wanting to go over our signals.  I
listened and nodded; it wasn't too hard.

"You pitched just a couple of days ago," he told me.

"Four days ago," I confirmed.  I felt fine.

"Well, Coach Delgado says he's hoping for three innings from you.
 Last time you were kind all over the map; maybe half the pitches
went where I wanted them to."

I smiled slightly.  "About a tenth went where I didn't expect. 
I've been thinking about it, I should be able to do better this
time."

His eyes hardened and I was a little put off.  "Harper, you can
shake me off; I won't like it and I'll put up another pitch. 
Once.  Shake me off a second time and I'll be telling the coach
your arm's fading."

"I know myself and my arm," I told him.  "You don't."

"And I watch hitters; I study them.  The ones I don't know, I can
guess pretty good what they're going to do.  In any case, I'll be
cautious."

"And I'm telling you that I'm the one up there throwing the
ball," I told him firmly.  "I know what I can do and what I
can't.  You like me to throw low and in.  Do that and we're going
to walk a lot of batters and the other team is going to have a
lot of people limping.  Now and then, fine; I need to practice. 
I don't like low and away either; I just don't have the control
down low that I do up higher."  I smiled at him, trying to defuse
the situation.  "You don't need any exercise running to the
backstop, fetching a wild pitch."

"You and I have to work together, Harper," he said.  He seemed
really pissed.  "What part of teamwork don't you understand?"

"You want me to trust you," I told him.  "I want you to trust
me."

"You can't be out there strutting your stuff, doing whatever you
please," he told me.

"And this is different how, from you strutting your stuff,
telling me what to throw?"

"There are eight other people out there on the field with you. 
We all have to be on the same page."

"Fine and dandy," my dander was getting up.  "You make a
suggestion and I'll tell you what we're going to do."

The argument ended when we had to take the field, as we were the
home team.

The first Lake Terrace player was a burly hitter who strode up to
the plate and planted himself in the batter's box and looked up
at me, confident and ready.

And Josh called for a fastball, right down the middle, belt
high.

I stood there for a long second, contemplating things.  I could
shake him off, I could throw the pitch he asked for or I could do
what I thought best, which was a knee-high fastball, right over
the plate.

I decided that shaking him off was the best choice.  He called
for what I wanted and I hauled off and gave it my best shot.  The
batter got a clean cut at it, realizing it was low only at the
last fraction of a second.  Yep, I thought to myself, belt high
and that ball would have been headed for downtown San Angelo.

Josh called for the next pitch to be low and outside.  I reared
back and let it fly.  The batter was ready for it, but the
outside pitch threw him a little, and he got just a piece of it.
The ball shot foul down the first base line, where Mercedes made
a stab at it, but it was too far for her to reach.

I could see the batter shake his head and stare at Mercedes.  I
wanted to laugh.  Oh, you hadn't paid attention to who was on
first!  That was funny!

Josh wanted his waist-high fastball and I gave it to him.  More
importantly, the batter kept glancing at first.  I waited until
his head was turned when I started my windup.  He saw the motion
in time to watch the pitch come at him.  A called strike three.

The next batter who stepped up was as different from the first
batter as a person could be.  Tall and thin as a rail, he exuded
hyperactivity, fidgeting in the batter's box.  Oh, and he was a
lefty.

Josh called another fastball down the middle.  I decided that
wasn't going to do and I wasn't going to shake him off.  I threw
it down the middle, but I took a lot off the pitch.  Not a
changeup, just not as fast.

He got the bat under the ball and popped it up to Rob at second
base.  Rob caught it easily and I smiled to myself.  That was
more like it!

The first pitch on the next batter, Josh called for a curve, low
and inside.  I laughed.  Hey, you want it when I told you that I
wasn't very good at low and in?  You never asked me about my
curve, either.  It's rotten.  Particularly low and in.

Still, I pictured it in my mind and threw.  To my enormous
surprise, it worked fine.  I could hear the "tunk" of the bat
touching the ball, but Josh caught it.

He called a belt high curve, over the plate.  What the heck, I
thought.  What I'd do was deliver up his suggestions and then
bitch to Coach Delgado if they didn't work.

The batter hit it, but not solidly.  Instead, it was a slow
roller, right at me.  I charged forward like I was supposed to
and saw Josh nearly stumble when he came up, trying to avoid
colliding with the batter heading towards first.

Time seemed to drag really slowly until I had the ball.  I
barehanded it, turned and threw it as hard as I could at
Mercedes.  Golly, she was pretty!  It was a major league play if
there ever was one!  She was stretched full out and I hit her
glove perfectly.  Maybe we beat him by a half step; it was really
close.

We went to sit down and Josh whispered to me as we trotted off
the field.  "Was that a fastball or not?"

I knew which one he meant.  I dropped down on the bench and
looked at him and said simply, "My arm will last longer if I
throw things other than fast balls."  I tried to keep my voice
mild.

Josh shook his head and continued down the bench and sat down
next to one of the guys I didn't know.

Chuck was batting first.  He walked out and played cat and mouse
with their pitcher, finally going to a full count before he drew
a walk.

Their pitcher was, I thought, about the only person on either
team shorter than I was.  Maybe he was five six, maybe a smidge
more, but not much.  But he didn't seem to be afraid to throw
against Chuck.

Which was good, because Jack came up next.  You could see it in
their pitcher's eyes.  He thought Jack was some sort of
Neanderthal.  He tossed a changeup that Jack jumped right on and
sent to the left field corner.

Their left fielder had taken a look at Jack and decided to play
back, which was a good thing.  Their shortstop was good, getting
out in time to cut off the throw and shoot the ball home,
catching Chuck just rounding third.  Chuck threw on the brakes,
turned and lunged for the bag.  The catcher threw it to third,
which was a mistake because Chuck was back.  They might have
gotten Jack because he was pretty fast and had rounded second
with a good head of steam built up.  Still, when he saw the throw
to third, he put himself into reverse and the third baseman
decided to leave well enough alone.

Mercedes came to the plate, and there was a wolf-whistle from the
other bench.

Everyone learned an important lesson right then.  The home plate
umpire stalked over to the other coach and had words with him,
gesturing at the bench.  Their coach said about six words and the
umpire just made a chopping motion with his hand, turned and
walked away, leaving the other coach standing there.

I'd gone looking for my wooden bat and couldn't find it. 
Finally, I went out to the on-deck circle with an aluminum bat in
my hands, watching the antics across the field.

"I bet that doesn't happen again," someone from our bench said
loudly and everyone laughed.  But no catcalls or wolf-whistles.

A few seconds later it was two and oh to Mercedes, the other
pitcher was throwing wide.  He was, I realized, pissing off
Mercedes.  Not to mention coming in for a few non-gender-based
catcalls from our bench.

The next pitch was weak again.  I hadn't seen the sign; I wish I
had.  I would have objected; Coach Well had her bunt.  She got
the ball down the third base line and took off for first.  But
the ball was pretty slow and the catcher went charging after it
and caught up with it.  He looked Chuck back, and Chuck just
stood ready, one foot on third base.  Still, Mercedes made it to
first without a throw.

I walked up and stood quietly at the plate, the aluminum bat
resting casually on my shoulder.  I just went into my batting
stance, not bothering with any practice swings.

The first pitch was a waist-high fastball, right down the middle.
 And I just hauled off and crushed it.

I don't care what they say about aluminum bats being the same as
wooden bats.  It's not true.  When you put wood solidly to
horsehide, the ball flies.  Aluminum just feels mushy.  Still,
the ball was ten feet over the fence in center field.  The center
fielder had been playing halfway in, well-placed to look up and
see the ball start to arc down.

I trotted around the bases to be warmly greeted by Chuck, Jack
and Mercedes crowding home plate.  I grinned at Mercedes, shook
Jack's hand and we all went and sat down.

By the time they got out of the first inning it was six to zip,
and they had a new pitcher.

I got up to go out, and Coach Delgado stopped me.  "Davey, a
second."

I stopped and looked at him.  "Davey, this is a direct order. 
You will not shrug off Josh's signs.  You will not make up your
own mind what to pitch."

Josh was already getting settled into the catcher's crouch.  I
looked at Coach Delgado; I very nearly shook my head no.  Not
quite what I wanted to say.  "If you tell me to.  I'm telling you
that you're making a mistake."

"Davey, part of being on this team is letting the coaches decide
these things... not you."

"Whatever," I said, pissed that Josh had gone to Coach Delgado.

The first pitch Josh called was a waist-high fastball.  I served
it up and got a strike.  Low and in, another fastball.  Another
strike.

Another waist-high fastball.  A foul tip, keeping the batter
alive.  When Josh called the same pitch, I shook my head, and
pointed to him, then beckoned him out.

"What?" he asked, obviously pissed.

"Stop calling for fastballs."

"You throw a really hot fastball.  They can't hit it."

"If I throw nothing but really hot fastballs, they'll adjust --
and start hitting them.  If I throw other stuff, they'll take
longer to adjust."

He sounded exasperated.  "Look, I know what I'm doing."

I shook my head.  "You go back and call your pitches.  I'll throw
them.  What happens is what happens."

He turned around and jogged back and went into his crouch. 
Another fastball, down the middle.

I took the extra off it, but threw it pretty hard.  Struck the
guy out, I did.

Still, at the end of the inning, I'd thrown thirty pitches,
twenty-eight fastballs and the score was six to two.

I went back and looked Coach Delgado in the eye.  "My arm is done
for the day.  So am I."

I went back and sat down, enduring a lot of hard glances from
those who'd overheard; I certainly hadn't made an effort to be
quiet.

Coach Wells came over and looked down on me.  "If you don't bat,"
he told me, as Jack was standing at the plate, "you can't come
back."

"Then I can't come back," I told him.  I stepped on the thought
that most ball players wouldn't mind having a home run and 4 RBIs
for their game stats.

"I'll talk to you later," he said and went back.

They announced the change, and even Mercedes was eying me with a
little temper.

I sat there sullen and watched us lose, eight to six.

When Coach Wells called me in, Coach Delgado was there.  "Harper,
do you have anything to say?"

"Sure.  My arm hurts.  Every single pitch Josh calls for me to
throw is a fastball.  Most of them are waist-high, over the
middle of the plate.  I thought coaches were supposed to know a
lot about baseball.  Let's just say, as little as I know, that's
just plain dumb."

"You took the heart out of the team," Coach Wells said.

"Excuse me!"  I flipped out.  I just lost it.

"I took the heart out of the team?  What if there'd been a hard
comebacker, like there was the other day?  I get injured, and
have to sit out for a while.  If the team can't take an injury to
a teammate, you haven't got a team.  My arm hurts, Coach.  It
hurts.  And that's after I stopped putting everything I had on
those fastballs.  And I was getting peppered.  What would have
happened if I hadn't pulled the plug?  Would I have gone out for
the third inning?"

"No, we had Lopez warming up," Coach Delgado told me.

"If we'd done it my way, I could have finished the inning, I
could have done the third inning; I could still have batted if
I'd gotten something other than fastballs to pitch."  I turned to
Coach Delgado.  "Are fastballs what you wanted?"

"I wanted you to follow the catcher's signs."

"I want another catcher."

The two traded glances.  "No," Coach Wells said.

"The next time I pitch with Josh catching, and he calls four
fastballs in a row, I walk."

"Is that what you are, a quitter?" Coach Wells came up out of his
chair, his face red.

"What I want is to do my best," I said, standing up to him.  "If
I can't do my best, why should I bother?"

"Because you need to do what you're told."

"From when I was little, my parents talked to me about peer
pressure.  Don't, they told me, follow your friends off a cliff.
Well, I never had friends, so I pretty much never had to worry
about cliffs.  Until now.  Thank you anyway, but I'm not just
going to do what I'm told, not if I think it's wrong."

There was silence in the room, and then Coach Wells waved at the
door.  "Go see the trainer about some ice for your arm.  We'll
talk some more, next week."

I turned and walked out.

The trainer packed my arm with ice, which makes it hard to
shower, I decided I could stand being a little objectionable in
polite company right then.

Jack and Chuck showed up.  "What part of perfect didn't you
understand, Davey?" Chuck said.

"I told the coach, if the rest of you fold because me, or because
anyone else gets knocked out of a game, then you're not perfect.
You're wimps."

"You should do what the coaches tell you," Jack said.

I flipped again.

"Go look in the mirror, Jack!  Tell me again how I should follow
whatever the coaches tell me because they are looking out for
me!"

He turned pale.  For a second, I thought I was going to get
punched.

"Jack," I said to him, "think about something else.  My dad
talked to you; he got your side of the story.  He didn't make up
his mind until he'd done that.  Tell me, Jack, did you ask me for
my side of the story?"

I turned around and walked away, seething and bubbling with
anger.

I walked right through the locker room, and sat down on a
concrete bench outside, right next to Shellie, who'd been
patiently waiting for us to come out.

It didn't make me happy at all that she took one look at me and
decided that talking to me might be a lost cause.  Instead, she
put her arm on my shoulder.  I smiled at her, and then turned
inward.

Mercedes shook me.  "My dad's here."

I blinked and looked at her.  I had no idea how long I'd spent in
my mental fugue.  I turned to Shellie.  "Sorry, Shellie."

She shook her head.  "I wish I could help."

"It'll pass," I told her.

I was silent going home, as was Mercedes.  I got out; smiled as
cheerfully as I could manage and told them I'd talk to them
later.

The ice pack on my arm was pretty much water, so I went in and
showered, then rubbed some liniment on my arm.  I felt halfway
decent, so I decided to get something to eat.

Wanda came right up and got in my face.  "You lost today."

"The team lost today.  I hit a home run with the bases loaded. 
Then Josh called for me to throw everything as hard as I could. 
Even holding back, I was shot by the end of the inning.  If I'd
taken it easy, I'd have lasted longer, had better control and
been able to bat the next inning."

"You took yourself out of the game."

"Gosh, and the coaches didn't tell me that I was pitching on a
short rest and that if my arm was giving out I was supposed to
tell them?  All of you are getting on my case.  Go talk to the
arrogant prick who was catching and leave me alone."

I turned on my heel and went back to my room and stretched across
my bed.  I gave a half thought to reading something, but a nap
seemed like a better way to find oblivion.  Why wasn't anyone
interested in what I had to say?  It was like a Pavlovian reflex.
 A coach says something and you're supposed to do it, even if
it's stupid?  Not me.  I had a brain between my ears.  I wasn't
jumping off any cliffs because someone thought it might be the
thing to do.

I was restless.  I wasn't sleepy; I didn't want to read.  I
thought about swimming some, but the low pain in my arm reminded
me that maybe I should wait.  I decided to go for a walk
instead.

I ended up standing next to the Concho River.  I picked up a
small stone and tried to skip it across the water.  It went
"plonk" and sank at once.  Not much of a splash and not very many
ripples.  A metaphor for life in San Angelo.  At most you are a
small splash in a small puddle.  In the summertime, unless there
has been a lot of rain, the Concho is more like a stagnant lagoon
than a river.  The water wasn't going anywhere, like the rest of
us in town.

"You're too high to skip stones from here," Ruy d'Silva said from
behind me.

I turned to look and nodded at him.  "That's me.  Too high and
mighty.  Too full of myself.  That's what I heard, so it must be
true."

"Next time," he said, "get it in writing."

I looked at him, not having a clue what he meant.

He laughed.  "Ninety percent of what you read is wrong."

I laughed too.  "That's a thought."

"Did you and Mercedes have a fight?"

I thought about that for a second, and then shook my head. 
"Worse."

"What's worse than a fight?  Except maybe breaking up."

I shivered.  Not that!  Tell me it wasn't true!  I swallowed. 
"No, we just stopped talking."

"Was it something she did or something you did?"

"Me."  I sighed.  I didn't want to think about a world without
Mercedes.  For that matter, a world without Shellie wouldn't be
as nice a place as it could be, either.

"She wasn't happy that you lost the game this morning."

I looked him in the eye.  "People on the team think I let them
down."

"Did you?"

"I don't think so.  But I'm not supposed to think; I'm just
supposed to do what I'm told.  I didn't at first; I did what I
thought was right.  I was told to stop it, and do what I was
told.  Now my arm is messed up and we lost the game."

"Which bothers you the most?"

I looked at him, frowning.  Which bothered me the most?  Well,
which did?  I flexed my arm, which was still sore.  "My arm.  It
was unnecessary.  And my arm messed up the game.  Probably. 
Maybe."

"I noticed the other day when we were playing poker that unless
you had a really good hand, you didn't play to win.  Sometimes,
Davey, you have to play with what you're dealt."

"I did that.  I did what they told me.  I thought it was wrong
then; I still think so."

"Do you honestly know that you'd have won, doing it your way?"

I looked at him carefully.  "No, of course not.  All I know is
that things would have been different."

Actually, I'd stopped paying much attention and was reflecting on
my poker playing.  The first time I'd had no goal, I just went
and played my best.  Then I'd gotten lucky and then I'd gotten a
goal.  Now I was too conscious of losing and how important it was
not to lose.  And Ruy d'Silva had seen it?  That had to mean
everyone else at the table had known as well.

"Come over for dinner, Davey," he told me.

I contemplated who I most wanted to be with in the world and it
was no contest.  "I'll call home."

I talked to Wanda who said she would pass on the message.

I walked with Mercedes' father back towards their house.  He
walked briskly, but there was nothing wrong with my legs, just my
right arm.

Mercedes gave me a big hug when she saw me.

"Sorry about this morning," I told her.

"Amigo, you looked like a big fat cloud about to spit tornadoes.
I didn't know what to say, so I steered clear.  I should have
stayed."

"I don't think I was listening to reason," I told her.

"Well... you weren't listening to anything.  Not really."

I smiled at her and felt much better.

We spent an hour and a half working on a topic for the Science
Fair project and making no progress at all.  Most of them
required expertise that we didn't have, and many would have
quickly bankrupted us.

Mercedes' mother roasted a chicken while I helped Mercedes mix
some corn bread batter for muffins.  Then I helped chop up what
was easily the largest zucchini I had ever seen.  It was as long
as my arm, and the fattest part was thicker than my shoulder.  I
looked at the pile of sliced veggie and winced.  "We aren't going
to eat it all, are we?"

Mercedes hugged me.  "Dad grows these things in the back yard
every year.  Another vote for him to plant fewer zucchini would
be a welcome addition to the family.  No, you don't have to worry
about it -- this time.  Zucchini soup tomorrow for lunch,
though."

"Maybe we can get together to study... later in the afternoon."

Everyone laughed and shortly we sat down to eat.  It was kind of
amazing.  Mercedes, her parents, and I worked on dinner.  The
minute it was ready, brothers and sisters sprouted out of the
woodwork to eat it.

I got a lift back to the house where I went and stood in the
family room, beside the poker table Dad had already set up.

Seeing Mercedes and talking to Ruy d'Silva had gone a long way to
making me feel better.  Now I contemplated poker.  I was, I
thought, a known quantity.  What had tripped up Frau Kimmel was
when she'd made a false assumption about what she knew.

Could I fake playing like I had the week before?  It was then I
realized what a true poker face meant.  It meant you didn't give
away anything, even when you wanted to give something away.  What
I needed to do was act.  I laughed and made a mental note to get
with Rob and see what he knew about acting.

Dad appeared, carrying bowls of chips and dips.  "Have a good
time eating out this afternoon?"  Combined with a leer, I had to
laugh.

"No, I ate in with Mercedes, her parents and her brothers and
sisters, less the one."

"Bummer!  And your team lost the game this morning."

I looked at him sharply.  I knew he wasn't a stupid man, so was
this a genuine attempt to not heap the blame on Davey Harper?  I
thought so.

"The catcher kept calling fastballs.  Pretty soon I didn't have
an arm, I had soggy spaghetti."

"And you protested?"

I nodded.

He shrugged.  "You win some, you lose some.  You ready for some
poker?"

That was it?  The coaches were down on me, the team was down on
me and it was "win some and lose some" and on to poker?

"Yes, sir."

He smiled at me, and then asked me to go fetch my money.

When I came back, the judge was there, and the police chief,
Victorio Ortega.  A few minutes later Willy Coy, Blade and Hammer
arrived.  Once again it was hard not to admire my father's
logistical talents.  Things were ready on time, and people
arrived on time.  Most everyone else I saw around me, weren't so
careful about being on time.  But these men were.  I was sure it
was a sign of something important, but I wasn't sure what.

We sat down at the table and I found myself next to the judge,
instead of Chief Ortega.  He held out his hand and I shook it.

Chief Ortega promptly cleared his throat.  "I didn't want to say
this twice, for all that I have nothing to say.  We haven't had
any luck finding Miss Kimmel or an associate.  We did file an
official missing person report on her, nationwide.  No one
matching the description has been found dead or comatose in a
hospital.  We're pretty much going into a holding pattern until
she reappears."

I saw Blade glance at Willy Coy; I could see Willy nod.

Blade bobbed his head at the judge.  "Sorry to delay things with
gossip, your honor."

"Oh, this sort of gossip is juicier than most.  Don't let me stop
you!"

Blade turned to Dad.  "There was never any reason to closely
check Hannelore Kimmel.  When we checked with the German version
of the State Department, they said a person with that name, such
and such a passport number had exited Germany on such and such a
date.  Our records show that Miss Kimmel had the requisite visas
for a protracted stay, employed as a teacher.

"However, upon closer examination, the story falls apart.  The
Germans sent us a photocopy of her passport; our Hannelore Kimmel
is the same age and hair color as the woman who held the
passport, but ours was three inches taller and thirty-five pounds
lighter.  Representatives have passed around our Hannelore
Kimmel's picture to people who knew the German Hannelore Kimmel
and they didn't recognize who she was.  The Germans have now
declared Hannelore Kimmel to be missing as well, and are
searching for her."

"Which means?" Dad asked.

"She wasn't here on a legal passport.  At this point in time, we
have no idea what she was actually doing.  We have testimony from
Davey and Mercedes d'Silva saying they saw the driver of the car
that almost hit them and that the driver was Semitic.  One other
witness said the driver was 'swarthy' and another said he had a
'dark-complexion.'"

"Or, more succinctly," Willy Coy added, "we haven't a clue who
she was or what she was doing or where she's gone.  It bears
repeating.  She could show up for work Monday morning and the
most we could charge her with is visa fraud.  We'd put her on a
plane back to Germany and that would be it."

"Wonderful," the judge said.  "Nice to see that our police and
federal government are on top of things.  Poker!"

Hammer thumped the table with his hand, showing he agreed.

The cut for deal seemed to be like the rest of the day: I drew
the deuce of spades, and everyone else had face cards.  Dad won
the deal.

The table was different tonight.  The judge was on my left, then
the chief, then Blade, my dad, Hammer and Willy was to my right.

Dad started out with five-card stud and my first two cards were
the deuce of spades up and the deuce of hearts down.  Hammer was
high with a king and he put out a nickel.  Everyone called. 
Another round and I had the seven of spades up.  I stayed in,
even though Willy Coy was now high with a pair of eights.

It was funny, sitting waiting for my next card.  I was hoping for
a losing hand.  I had two spades up, but I didn't want a third,
because I wanted everyone to think I was staying in with a pair
of deuces.  I was determined that I was going to look just like I
had last week, only sometime during the night I was going to
bluff.  I wanted to get my head on straight; I wanted to practice
showing no emotion.

The king of clubs dropped on top of my other cards took a lot of
worry away.  I smiled slightly to myself.  I wouldn't mind
actually winning the hand, either.  But if I did everyone would
know conservative Davey had stayed in because no one was showing
a high pair and he wasn't going to toss a possible winning hand.

The last card was dealt; I was a little sick to realize that this
particular part of my plan had already cost me a dollar.  Willy
Coy bet a quarter, and one after another the rest of us dropped
out.

Willy scooped in the pot; my dad passed the deck to Hammer.  As
casually as I could, I tossed my cards towards Hammer.  It went
just as I had hoped, they hit his hand, and flipped upside down,
showing the little deuce I had to start with, and no others.

"Sorry," Hammer said and I shrugged.  No big deal.

We'd started at eight; by nine thirty I had won two pots and lost
the rest, and was down, by my count about two dollars.  Several
times during the game people had gotten up and gotten some chips
and dip after they'd folded; other times they'd gotten something
to drink.  It was something I'd sort of noticed the previous
nights: they drank cokes, diet cokes for Hammer, Dad drank root
beer, and Willy Coy and Blade were Sprite drinkers.

Chief Ortega was the oddest, drinking water.  The judge got a
Sprite, produced a flask and added a little extra something to
it.  I smiled to myself again.  A friendly game; sure.  My father
was as fond of beer and wine as anyone.  During football season,
on Sundays when he wanted to sit and watch a game, he had a beer
in his hand the entire day.  I didn't think any of the others
were members of the Temperance League either.  Which meant that
they were seriously trying to win.

I'm not sure why that was a revelation to me, but it was.  I got
up at nine thirty and went to the bathroom; that sent a signal,
and one after another they went, too.

Blade dealt the next hand and the game he picked was five card
draw.  I spread my cards and found two aces and three small
cards.  The betting was always a little more brisk with five card
draw and seven-card stud.  Now it was more brisk than usual.  The
round cost me seventy-five cents to stay in.

I tossed three cards, knowing full well that everyone would know
I had a pair, a probably a high pair.  Then the planning came to
a halt when I drew another ace and a pair of sevens.

Willy pushed out a quarter and I pushed out two quarters.  The
judge looked at his cards, looked at the pot and folded.  The
chief pushed out three quarters and Blade called him.  Then it
was my dad's turn and he folded, but he thought about it first.

While he was thinking, so was I.  The judge had taken four cards,
and was out.  The chief had taken one card; Blade took one too. 
My dad had taken two and Hammer took three.  Willy Coy stood pat.
 Sourly, I realized that if I had a lot of time I could probably
have a clue what the odds were what everyone had.  But I didn't
have any time.

Hammer pushed out a dollar, grinning.  "And thus the Lord sayeth,
'I win, you lose.'"

Willy laughed.  "I didn't say anything, but now I call."

Then it was to me.  I wished I could raise, but instead, I had my
money ready and without hesitation pushed it out.  Chief Ortega
promptly folded.

"Pot's right," Blade said grinning.  "I believe, Hammer that you
were called."

He laid down his cards, grinning.  "Read 'em and weep, gents." 
He laid down a heart flush, headed by the queen.

Willy chuckled.  "Beats me!"  He tossed his cards face down on
the table.

I laid mine face up.  "Aces over sevens."

"Trip aces," Dad added a little unnecessarily, I thought.

"Drat," Blade said, tossing his cards face down on the table.

Hammer chuckled. "Beats me."  He grinned.  "Tell me you didn't
draw to a pair of sevens?"

I shook my head.  "Odds would be the same, drawing to a pair."

"There's that," Hammer said.  He was smiling and I was sure he
didn't mind losing.  What was wrong with people like Hannelore
Kimmel, or whatever her real name was?  It was a game!

Hammer looked around the table.  Dad was pulling in the cards and
I was raking in money.  "Anyone want anything to drink?"

"A coke," I said, while everyone else chorused that they were
good.

Hammer stood up.

Perception is a funny thing.  Rationally, you know what the order
of events have to be.  But that's not how you perceive them.

Hammer twisted and fell to the ground.  Something whizzed by my
head, a few inches high.  Behind me there was the sound of
breaking glass from the window.

For an instant, time stood still.

Blade, Willy Coy and Chief Ortega hit the floor.

"Down!" Willy yelled.

Dad promptly was out of his chair and on the ground.

Stupefied.  That's what I was.  Stupefied.

Something slapped the table next to where I was sitting, sending
Willy Coy's neat stacks of coins flying everywhere.  I heard that
gunshot.  I started to stand up and felt the weirdest thing. 
Like a feather touch alongside the right side of my face.  The
judge was already on the floor, and I joined everyone else a half
second later.

For the first time since it started, I woke from my stupor.

Hammer was cursing, while trying to crab away from the table. 
"Why do they always shoot me first?" he complained.

I heard Blade laugh as he moved towards the window.  "Because you
are as big as three other men.  Fifty-fifty chance of hitting you
or the rest of us."

While he was talking, the chief had his walkie-talkie in his
hand, trying to say something.

More bullets came in, hitting the table, sending money flying
around the room like shrapnel.  Blade ducked for cover as well.

Chief Ortega gasped, then started cursing.  Hammer had been
inventive, the chief just said, "Shit, shit, shit, shit!" over
and over again.

"Plunging fire," Blade said, his voice sounding level.  "And all
I have is a .32 caliber popgun.  I might as well be naked."

He had a gun?  I hadn't seen a gun!

"You think you can do any better with a .45?" Willy chimed in,
his voice sarcastic.

Outside came more whip-crack shots.  This time, though, no
bullets.

"Texas!" Willy Coy said.  "God, you gotta love 'em.  Someone's
shooting back."

Chief Ortega spoke up, "Someone dial 911.  My radio's tit's up."

Dad had his cell phone in hand in an instant and he was calling.

Blade looked right at me.  "If you can, Davey, how about going
and checking on the rest of your family."

"No," Willy said, "I'll do it.  Davey, you stay down."

"I can do it," I said, mildly aggrieved.  Then I realized he was
thinking that they were shooting at me.  "I can do it," I
repeated, starting to get up.

"Sit down and be still!" Willy told me.  

Coming from someone like him, as old as my dad, I sat back down
on the floor.

"You might want to do something to stop the bleeding."

I looked at him like he was crazy.  Bleeding?

I looked down and saw that my right shoulder and sleeve were
covered with bright red blood.  Mine.

I stared at it, stupefied once again.  I'd been shot?  When had I
gotten shot?  I thought it was supposed to hurt?  Except Hammer
had been shot and he was laying still, his hand on his left arm,
pressing down, grousing about things.  And the chief of police
was cradling his right hand in his left, obviously in pain, but
he'd stopped saying "Shit."

"The dispatcher wants to talk to you Vic," Dad said, getting up
and handing the phone to the chief.

I heard Chief Ortega ask for multiple ambulances, reports of
shots fired, people injured.

He snapped the phone shut and looked at Willy Coy.  "I assume you
want to talk to the guy."

"Oh yes," Willy said mildly.  I didn't believe he was feeling
mild for an instant; there was a distant, hard look in his eyes
that was positively scary.

I looked down at the blood on my shirt again.  Why didn't it
hurt?

"If I'd told them officer down, it might have gotten pretty
sporty, taking a prisoner," Chief Ortega told Willy Coy.

"Thanks.  How's the hand?"

"The round hit my walkie-talkie.  I have one broken finger and
another that's either broken or sprained really bad."

"Jacketed ammunition," Hammer said.  "Clean entry and exit
wounds, right through the fleshy part of my bicep."

How do you ask any of them right then, how do they know all these
things?

Willy looked at me and shook his head.  "I grant you, it's not
much blood, but you really should do something about the
bleeding, Davey."

Without a word, Dad came over and handed me a wad of paper
towels.  I looked up at him, curious.

"I know this sounds stupid, but where am I shot?"

He laughed and guided my hand to my ear.  "Not to worry, Davey. 
That is, unless you wanted to get that ear pierced."

Everyone in the room laughed, except me.  Even the judge was
laughing, although first he'd taken a long pull from his flask.

Blade came back.  "Everyone else is fine, the rounds were coming
from above, hitting the floor."

"I counted eight," Willy said.  "Two clips, he had to reload."

"Yeah, and a pause after the first round.  A kid, most likely. 
An amateur for sure, firing a deer rifle."  Hammer told us.

Sherlock Holmes, I thought, had nothing on these guys.  "Was he
right or left-handed?" I asked, joking.

It was Willy that laughed.  "A professional wouldn't have four
round clips.  A professional would have fired his shots spaced
evenly.  A professional would have had a better shot; this
shooter was firing blind.  He might have seen movement when
Hammer stood up, but not very likely anything else."

Police came, the fire department came, ambulances came.  At the
hospital, Chief Ortega was furious.  A neighbor had indeed
started shooting back, and the shooter, up a light pole, had slid
down, hopped on a motorcycle and drove off.  And hadn't been
found, in spite of the fact that by an hour after the shooting,
every policeman in West Texas was looking for him, and there
weren't many policemen left in their beds, because they were all
up and looking.

I'd lost my right earlobe.

They held a mirror up and I could look and see that bit of flesh
that had once hung down from my right ear, and maybe stuck out a
little bit more than I liked, was simply gone.  The earlobe on
the other side was still there.

One of the doctors started talking about cosmetic surgery to fix
it, and for the first time I laughed.  "How about cosmetic
surgery on the left ear and make that earlobe gone too?"

"Girls don't like asymmetrical guys," Dad said, laughing his head
off.  "You're right about that."

I flipped him a bird, something I would never have dreamed of
doing before.  He clapped me on the shoulder and went out to talk
to Mom.  Wanda and Emily were still at home, but safer than at
church, because there were about a dozen policemen and two FBI
agents armed with machine guns guarding the house.

Dad came back and told me we were going to ride over to the
police station.  Mom would be driven back home.

Blade stayed with Hammer.  "He'll be fine, I'm sure.  But the big
risk is infection.  I'll just stick around and make sure he takes
his pills."

My phone rang just then; I'd forgotten I was wearing it.  And
thankfully, I wore it on my left side.  I picked up and it was
Mercedes.

"Are you okay?  You made the news again," she asked.

"I'm not quite the man I was a while ago," I said, deciding that
everyone else could joke about being shot, so could I.  "But I'm
feeling better than after the game this morning."

"I don't understand.  We heard some people had been shot; they
mentioned your father and some others."

"Well, not my father.  Me, Hammer and the chief of police, Chief
Ortega.  Except I wasn't shot, my earlobe was shot.  And the
chief wasn't shot; his radio was shot.  Hammer was shot, but it's
not serious."

"You were shot?"  I could hear the incredulity in her voice.

"I was nicked," I told her.  "I lost some skin and a some blood;
not much of either.  I'm fine.  We're on the way to the police
station."

"Can I call Shellie and tell her you're okay?"

I frowned.  Huh?

"I'm fine, you can tell everyone I'm fine.  Why ask?"

"She might get upset."

I thought about things for a second.  "Mercedes, I don't want to
hurt your feelings, but I'm willing to bet that Shellie takes it
better than you are."

She didn't protest, instead she came back saying, "I was worried
about you.  It took a few minutes to psych myself up to call."

At that point, it was more than an hour and a half since Hammer
had started to stand up.  "Well, call Shellie and tell her I'm
fine.  Although I'm not sure her parents will be thrilled about a
call at this time of night."

"Call me when you get home, will you?"

"Okay."

At the police station, there was a lot of activity.  Dad and I
were ushered into one of the interrogation rooms.  We sat, not
talking for the first ten minutes.  For the first time since it
happened, I was feeling a little bit of pain from my ear.  It
wasn't much, but I'd been put on notice that something was indeed
wrong there.

Willy and the chief came in.  The chief's right hand was in a
cast.  "Well," the chief told us, "there's an eyewitness.  I sent
him over to the hospital.  They're giving him a full physical and
an eye exam."

"Mighty generous of you," Dad said.

"Homer Simpson lives down on the corner," the chief told us.

"Homer Simpson?" I said, being an ass.  "Like in the cartoon?"

"Mr. Simpson predates the cartoon a good bit," Dad said, his
voice acid.  "God knows, he doesn't need anyone making fun of
him."

"Yes," the chief told us.  "He was, as he stated in his
deposition, cleaning his M-1 Garand, much like the one he carried
in World War II in Europe, then a few years later in Korea.  He
has a raft of medals as long as your arm, or so he says.  FBI
says it's him and he's right about the medals, so I guess so.  We
haven't officially heard from the Army yet.

"Anyway, when the shooting started, he got up, put a clip in his
weapon and chambered a round.  He said he saw someone up a
telephone pole, hanging from a pole-climber's belt, shooting a
bolt-action rifle at another house down the street.

"Mr. Simpson opened fire then.  He says that he thinks, he used
the word 'tagged,' the shooter, because he says the shooter came
down the pole very fast.  There was a "scooter," that's his word
for it, at the base of the pole.  Mr. Simpson did not fire
further, as he said, it was too dangerous."

He looked at my dad.  "Homer Simpson is eighty-two."

"His son is head of my Accounts Receivable department," Dad told
him.  "I know the man.  He's very active, not just physically,
but he volunteers in the community."

"The All-City Marching Band," Chief Ortega agreed.  "He conducts
it.  Mr. Simpson says the secret to a long life is playing the
tuba and conducting a marching band.  He does not wear glasses or
contacts, and he swears his vision is 20-20.  I hope so."

He looked at me.  "Davey, Mr. Simpson made a point of saying that
he thought the person who came off the pole was young, probably a
high school student.  Oh, and I forgot to mention, the shooter
was wearing a ski mask."

"And you couldn't find someone riding a motorcycle in San Angelo
at this time of night, a deer rifle on his back, wearing a ski
mask?" my dad asked, angrily.

"Not at the present time.  I assure you, that the San Angelo
Police Department has no higher priority at the present time. 
Ditto, the State Police and the Texas Rangers.  The FBI is
involved and I believe Mr. Coy has stated that additional Federal
assets are enroute."

"They are," Willy told us.

"What I would like from you, Davey, is a list of names of anyone
you've had words in the last few days.  Anyone you know who rides
a motorcycle."

"Fesselhof, I don't know his first name.  Terry Toohey and his
two compadres, Alan Gutierrez and Sean Forth."  I stopped with
the realization that I knew one person who rode a motorcycle.

"Those four, they are the ones you should look at."  I knew it
sounded lame.

And the chief picked right up on it.  "How about people you don't
think we should look at?"

"Jack and Chuck weren't really happy about losing the game to
Lake Terrace this morning," I told him.  "They had a few words to
say to me.  Josh Mallory, the catcher.  He didn't so much have
hard words with me, as the other way around.  I was bad-mouthing
him pretty bad.  Rob Oliver, a friend, rides a small motorcycle."
 Let them think last and least, I thought!

The chief had been writing down names; he didn't bother to ask
for Jack or Chuck's last names.  He handed the list to a
detective who'd been standing silently against the wall.  "I want
them all brought in.  Now," he told the detective. 

I'd been sitting at a table.  I leaned down and put my head
against it.

"Are you okay, Davey?" Dad asked.

"No."

I sat back up and looked at the chief.  "I'm not an adult, I know
that.  But look at me.  I have to go to school.  You bring in all
those guys and everyone is going to know I gave you their names.
Please, do me a favor.  Start with Terry, Alan and Sean. 
Fesselhof, maybe.  If it's not one of them, then worry about the
others.  Please, Jack, Chuck, Rob, Josh -- we're teammates.  I
might as well quit if you bring them in at the same time as
everyone else."

Willy spoke up.  "Davey's right.  Bring in the likeliest first. 
It wouldn't look good in the news tomorrow if it looks like we're
grasping at straws."  He turned to me.  "You understand that if
the first tier doesn't pan out, we'll have to grasp at straws?"

"Suppose he mistook Hannelore for a teenager?" I asked.

Willy smiled.  "And Mr. Simpson is taking a physical, why? 
Everyone assures me that he's what he says he is.  Tomorrow, he
told us, he plans on going to church, then on to the rifle range
to fire a couple of boxes through his M-1.  To keep up his eye,
he said."

So, they went with the short list of names.  Oh, and I was sent
to the showers, so to speak.  I was sent home, now surplus to
needs.  They gave Dad a choice, and I was surprised when he said
he'd go home with me.

At home, Mom, Wanda and Emily hugged me, one after another.

That was the good news.  The bad news was that the family room
was a crime scene: I couldn't go in it or even through it, to my
own room.  There were a dozen people working in there, doing who
knows what.

I called Mercedes, who was still up.  "I'm home and safe.  There
are guards all around the house."

"I'm glad you're safe.  Shellie says, look on Disk 3 of her
backup, the folder 'Life', the first four panels.  She loves you.
 I love you.  Get some sleep."

I ended up in Wanda's bed.  Which isn't the wonderful thing it
could have been, because Wanda was in bed with Emily, which
wasn't the wonderful thing it could have been because of all the
activity at the other end of the house.

I took two aspirin, which in ten minutes removed the dull ache
from my ear.  I could smell Wanda, even if she wasn't in bed with
me.  When I fell asleep I was as hard as a rock.

<1st attachment end>


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