and left the scene, but not before the bikers had gone.
Moto told the story to me later that week out of earshot of Billy. He would not admit it but he was really very proud and very moved by Billy’s intervention. “Dumb Indian!” he said at the time. That was his pet name for Billy and always brought a smile to Billy’s face. Billy in return called Moto a “dumb Chinaman,” which infuriated Moto, which amused Billy. Moto, as Billy well knew, was Japanese.
There were days I had to drag myself into the gym, but Billy never complained about going in. Once I started my routine, I was fine and glad to be there.
“What did Joseph Fleet want with you, Blood?”
“To find his daughter,” I panted from the exercise bike beside Billy. I told Billy what I knew.
“What can I do?” he asked.
“Check the obvious—planes, trains, buses, rental cars. Cover all the smaller airports within a hundred-mile radius for planes, commercial and private. Also check Roanoke, Nashville, and Atlanta. I’m almost positive they drove out of here to a major airport but you might as well cover everything. We are being well-paid.”
“How much?”
“Twenty thousand,” I lied. Billy whistled. I always lied about how much we were being paid. Cherokee Investigations was the major source of income for Billy and I certainly didn’t need the money. Billy loved our business. It made him feel important and gave him a sense of purpose. As the pedals turned, I could see Billy was already thinking about the case.
“If it was me, I’d drive to Atlanta and fly out,” Billy said.
“Good place to start,” I agreed.
We worked out hard for an hour and a half, each in our own way. We started on the exercise bikes for about twenty minutes to get a sweat going and then worked on abs. From there I went to chest and arms, then to back and shoulders, and finished with legs. Sometimes I went back to the bike for about ten minutes at maximum effort or into the side room to work on the speed bag or heavy bag with Billy. I always finished rubbery-legged and feeling justified that despite some of the unhealthy food I continued to eat, I was taking care of my body.
That day we went to the side room to finish our workout. I worked on the speed bag and Billy thumped the heavy bag. Dust flew every time he made contact. After ten minutes on the speed bag and sweating heavily, I took a break. Billy finished his heavy bag workout and reached into his gym bag and took out three knives. They were all large type hunting knives with different blades and handle designs. Billy walked back to the far wall and turned and threw the first knife into a life-sized wooden cutout of a man that was attached to the opposite wall. Billy had made the target himself and Moto, with feigned reluctance, had let Billy mount it in the side room. The knife lodged into the target in the approximate area of the heart. The second knife zipped through the air seconds later and thudded in beside the first. The third knife followed with similar results. Billy repeated this practice in silence while I watched. Sometimes he aimed at an arm or a leg, but mostly the heart. About once a month he had to replace the wood in the chest area. I guess that is why he originally made the target in three pieces, although I never asked.
Billy ended every workout with knife-throwing.
Billy and I left the gym at 7 pm and parted company. I drove back to my condo at the Mountain View condo complex. I walked up two flights of stairs to unit 5300, a penthouse corner unit on the top floor. The five was for building five. The three was for the third floor. The double zero meant corner unit, left side of building. Upon entering I was mauled by Jake, my big black standard poodle, who couldn’t contain himself to a proper greeting. He had to jump, spin, nuzzle, and perform an assortment of other acrobatic wonders. Did he really like me that much or did he have to pee? I never felt like putting Jake to the test, so I grabbed the leash and we went for a walk. I ignored the beeping answering machine. I knew it didn’t have to pee.
Jake and I stayed in town during the week and at the lake house on most weekends. Occasionally we had company of the opposite sex, mostly my company. The lake house is a good hour’s drive and belonged to my parents before they were killed. The house and property was and still is immaculate and sprawls over ten acres, a lot of it lakefront on Indian Lake. The lake house is my favorite place in the world but too far for a daily commute, and so I bought the luxury condo at Mountain View in the woods on the outskirts of town.
Every night Jake and I spend a half an hour together outside, weather permitting. Our routine begins with a walk while Jake takes care of business, and ends with a game of soccer-basketball on the tennis court that has a basketball goal.
Standard poodles need daily exercise and quality time with their masters. Fifteen minutes of our game leaves Jake winded and ready for a nap. It doesn’t tire me out at all. Jake does all the work. It proceeds like this. I dribble the ball behind the three-point line and try to shoot. Jake tries to steal the ball and occasionally does. When I try to shoot Jake defends. It is not easy trying to score from three-point range with a standard poodle in your face. Especially one that appears to have pogo sticks for legs. I shoot and occasionally score. Jake tracks down the ball and maneuvers it around the court with his nose until he has finally rolled it back to me and the process starts over. We went through our routine and when I thought Jake was sufficiently winded we went back inside.
The answering machine was still beeping. I punched the button and was greeted by a familiar sexy voice. “Hey, Donnie, what’s happening? Call me when you and Jake are finished horsing around.”
Cassandra Alexandria Smith, a.k.a. Sandy, was my current love interest although the “L” word had never been used and wasn’t likely to be. I teased her about her name suggesting that her parents must have been looking for something complicated to go with Smith. An exercise they chose not to go through again. Sandy was an only child. She stood about five foot four inches tall with a very muscular, athletic and well-proportioned body. In a word, Sandy was built. She worked out three times a week. We liked each other a lot, enjoyed spending time together, had great sex, and for the most part led separate lives. Sandy was an investment broker. We met on the telephone when she tried to sell me on her services. I was intrigued by her voice and therefore granted an appointment hoping the rest of the package looked as good as the voice sounded. It did. She was single and “taking a sabbatical from men.” I asked her out anyway. She said yes. That was a year ago.
We never demanded each other’s time. If getting together wasn’t convenient for both parties, neither got offended. “Not tonight” was okay. We rarely planned far ahead. I liked her a lot but I wasn’t in love. I was still carrying a twenty-year-old torch that seemed to burn brighter as time passed, no doubt fueled by adolescent hormones left unsatiated. I think something in Sandy’s past haunted her also, but so far it had been left undiscussed.
I called her back. “Do you need to be investigated?”
She laughed, “Absolutely!” Sandy had a great laugh.
“Tonight?”
“No, not tonight.” she said. “I’m beat. I couldn’t give you my best tonight and I have an early appointment tomorrow.”
“No problem,” I replied, although I did feel a pang of disappointment in my lower extremities. I asked about her day and she told me in a language of fine detail that only Wall Street junkies would have understood. She had had a good day, a very good and stressful day that had left her limp. A day I understood very well. Once upon a time I had been on that roller coaster. I listened intently and interjected at the right moments. She had to tell it to someone who understood. She had to share the excitement, get it all out, unwind.
