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The stage goes black. The show’s about to begin. Soon, Davie appears in the spotlight and Chaz feels his chest welling.
His grandson delivers his line with gusto: “You have her father’s love, Demetrius. Let me have Hermia’s.”
Chaz isn’t clear about the plot of this play, but he’s moved just the same. There’s a breeze tonight. He watches the performance with intensity, feels tears coming that he’s gotta fight back. They do that to us, the ones who take our hearts.
He thinks of Michael Harper, the accountant, who sacrificed himself for his daughter. The bravery it took to fly off that bridge. Chaz gets periodic reports on the accountant’s daughter. Her French gallery held an exhibit in Philly, and damn if she didn’t take the risk to come. Even ventured into the old neighborhood to visit her mother’s grave site.
Chaz told the young woman with three names that her debt was paid, she was free, but not everyone sees it that way. It’s one of the reasons Chaz didn’t fight too hard about upper management forcing Shane’s job on him.
For the two hours, Chaz is mesmerized by the performance. Davie is talented. Maybe this will be his destiny, performing onstage. At the final bow, Chaz stays on his feet cheering louder than any other member of the audience.
Afterward, it’s ice-cream time, and Davie is beaming.
“Thank you, Granddad,” he says.
“For what, buddy?”
“For, well, everything.”
Chaz feels a lump in his throat. He wipes a tear quickly from his cheek, looks back to see if the half-wit secret service crew are watching him from the parking lot. As usual, they’re nowhere to be seen, probably on their goddamn phones inside the SUV.
“Are you kidding me? I gotta be nice to a future superstar.”
Sylvia returns from the restroom. “All right, I’ve gotta get this kiddo home.”
Chaz walks them to their car, which is parked close to the ice-cream shop. Davie throws his arms around Chaz before they leave.
Chaz saunters over to the Suburban. The dipshits aren’t even gonna get out of the vehicle to open his door. This generation.
He opens the back passenger door. And his blood runs cold. Next to the lifeless bodies of his crew sits a man who stares at Chaz with a glint in his eyes: Leo Sabatino.
“You didn’t need to throw my brother off that boat,” Sabatino says, pointing the gun at Chaz’s center mass.
“But I did, Leo, it was my job,” Chaz replies.
Sabatino gives Chaz a look of what can only be described as admiration, a nod like he regrets what he has to do.
And then Chaz Donnelly’s world goes dark.
83
LEAVENWORTH, KANSAS
Poppy McGee lets out a scream.
It’s of the roller-coaster variety as she holds on for dear life in the sidecar of Dash’s stupid motorcycle. She knows he took that curve too fast on purpose.
He skids to a stop in front of her apartment building. She yanks off the helmet, glowers at her brother’s broad grin.
“Damn,” he says, laughing. “I’m glad your squad wasn’t around to hear that embarrassing scream.”
Poppy shakes her head but doesn’t disagree. The Leavenworth law enforcement community is still getting used to the idea of a sheriff in her twenties. After she helped break the Alison Lane case—which led to the arrest of a corrupt former FBI agent—the mayor appointed her sheriff. She misses the real sheriff, Ken Walton. She knew him only a short time, but long enough to know he was a good man.
“I knew I shouldn’t have let you talk me into riding in that contraption.”
Dash holds the smile. A smile that has sold many a Ford automobile.
“See ya tonight. Don’t be late. Dad’s making steaks,” she tells him.