Justice Rain by Rex Bolt

Author:Rex Bolt [Bolt, Rex]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-06-20T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

The thing Chris remembered, while working on his freestyle in the slow lane of the lap pool, was unfortunately there was a barbeque event attached to the NFL charity thing, once everyone finished the golf.

He was trying to master breathing on both sides. Some old guy in the pool a few weeks back had it down pat, had probably been swimming that way for 60 years, and he gave Chris some pointers.

Chris was once on a competitive swim team when he was a kid in San Francisco, 4 days a week at the USF pool, but he didn’t last long enough to get the double-breathing down. The concept was you breathed to the right like normal, then another stroke down the middle with no breathing, then the third stroke to the left, the tricky one.

It made sense, and he wouldn’t say he had the hang of it but he was making progress . . . but if you were supposed to be working the barbeque and you missed that, you’d probably get fired . . . not the worst thing, but why let it happen . . . and Chris hopped out and went back to work.

By the time he got there the participants were all milling around the patio outside the golf pro shop, and there were about 8 grills fired up, and Chris’s boss Gibbs came racing by carrying a high waiter’s tray, and he gave Chris some instructions -- so at least that part was good, Gibbs didn’t seem to notice he’d been missing.

Chris made himself busy, not the stacking plates business that Gibbs asked him to do, but he opened and closed the barbeques, moved the meat around a bit with the tongs, and closed them up.

Joaquin Washington was watching with amusement. “So you a chef,” he said. “You got the touch today with the metal, man.”

Chris figured Washington was being sarcastic -- but something else occurred to him, that bit about the metal. Chris said, “Oh yeah? And what kind of touch would that be?”

The guy laughed. “You proving to be a source of entertainment. More ways than one.”

And that was over the top. Chris didn’t anticipate it, but this guy must have heard about the incident with Fritsckie.

What could you do?

So Chris said to Washington, “Big tough guys, stud ballplayers . . . I’d take a flying guess that none of you lasted the full 18.”

“Naw man, you got that right. Whad’ya expect?” Still laughing, having a good time, not really at Chris’s expense, so you couldn’t blame the guy.

McBride came over, and then Waylon showed up, and Waylon opened the grill, fiddled around with the tongs same as Chris, and stuck the top back on and said, “Frankie’s not feeling too good. We was just giving him our condolences.”

“Indirectly,” Washington said.

“The nose tackle guy?” McBride said. “What happened to him?”

“He fell on his club,” Waylon said, deadpan. Eyeballing Chris.

The three of them had cocktails in their hands, so Chris figured why not, and went behind the little bar and fixed himself a double scotch on the rocks, and came back.

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