Troubleshooters 03 Over The Edge Read online

  He solved the problem by glaring at Starrett. “You shouldn’t be here right now. Sir.”

  And the recently promoted lieutenant junior grade also shouldn’t have been playing with fire by starting something with this Mary Lou Morrison. She was too young, too pretty, too desperately hopeful. While Starrett was looking only for a night in her bed, she was looking for a ring. Someone was going to end up disappointed.

  “Yeah, I know, Senior,” Starrett said in his cowboy twang, made thicker by all he’d had to drink, “but I do love to watch you work. And I’m not the only one impressed. Mary Lou’s sister Janine over there was wondering what you’re doing later.”

  Starrett gestured with his head toward the other side of the room, where a woman was standing. She gave Stan a little wave. Ah yes, she was definitely Mary Lou’s sister.

  A little bit older, not quite as pretty, but just as completely, amazingly stacked. She approached, but Stan escaped, nodding at the younger sister. “Excuse me. I need to speak to Kevin Franklin.” He turned and ran.

  But Janine was crafty. “Hi—Stan, isn’t it?” She’d managed to circumnavigate her sister and Starrett and cut Stan off before he reached the bar, blocking his route. “I couldn’t help noticing you.”

  She was sober. Amazing. Her eyes were blue and warm and she sipped what looked to be plain soda pop. And he’d been wrong. She was the prettier sister. Maybe not on the surface. But she was certainly the less desperate sister, and he’d always found lack of desperation to be particularly appealing.

  “How’s that for a come-on line?” she continued. Her gaze was frank and open and flat-out admiring, and her smile was friendly. He almost felt handsome. “You have any time later to pull up a chair and pretend to get to know me?”

  Stan had to laugh at that. “Tempting, but believe me, ma’am, you don’t want what I’ve got.”

  Her laughter was low, musical. “Want to bet?”

  Oh, mama. “Seriously—Janine, right?” He dropped his voice. “Janine, I’ve got the flu and I’ve got about twenty more minutes, tops, before I’m going to fall over.”

  She lowered her voice, too, moved closer. “Oh, you poor thing. Then you need someone to take care of you, don’t you? I make an awesome chicken soup, I’ll have you know.”

  Someone to take care of him? “I don’t think—”

  “Well then, Stan, maybe you have a friend you could introduce me to. I’m not looking for long term, but this is a position I’d like to fill immediately. Forgive my bluntness, but we’re both adults and we both know why people come to a place like this, don’t we?”

  Her honesty made him laugh again. “Truth is, I came here to talk to the manager and get my guy out of the men’s room without him hurting anyone or himself. It wasn’t by choice.”

  She bulldozed over him as completely as he’d run down the Marine corporal, reaching up to feel his forehead. Her hand was cool and soft against his too-hot skin. “God, you are burning up.”

  He stepped back, away from her. Guinness Book of World Records breasts and pretty eyes be damned—he didn’t want her touching him. Lately he didn’t seem to want any woman touching him, except Teresa Howe.

  Christ, where had that come from?

  The fever. That was one goddamn feverish thought, no question. Because helo pilot and Naval Reservist Lieutenant junior grade Teri Howe was the last woman on earth who’d want to touch him. God, talk about beauty and the beast. Yeah, a woman like her hooked up with a guy like him only in a fairy tale.

  And while his life was far from dull, it was no freaking fairy tale, that was for sure.

  Meanwhile, he’d hurt Janine’s feelings. “I’m sorry, but right now I really need to talk to—”

  “It’s all right,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to explain. It was nice meeting you.”

  Shit. Now she was walking away. What was he doing? She was pretty and funny and built like a Playboy Bunny and it had been months since he’d gotten laid. And yet he’d reacted to her touch as if she had the plague. What was he doing? Saving himself for Teri Howe? This fever was definitely addling his brain.

  “Senior Chief.” Kevin Franklin, the Bug’s manager, called to him from behind the bar. “What are we going to do about that broken mirror?”

  Ah, hell. Stan turned to him, forcing himself back to the business at hand, dismissing Janine as absolutely as he was usually able to dismiss all thoughts of ever being touched by Teri Howe.

  Old Kev was more of an asshole than usual tonight. It was a pity Stan couldn’t throw a few punches to shut him up, the way he’d done with that Marine. Instead he lived through an endless list of complaints and a whole lot of whining, entertaining himself by trying to guess exactly when his knees would finally give out, and what his men would do when that happened.

  Stan tried his hardest not to listen, but there were a few things he couldn’t help but hear. A, Franklin still wanted to call the police. And B, he was tired of bar fights on his watch, tired of WildCard Karmody in particular.

  That made two of ’em.

  “Here’s the deal,” Stan said flatly, when he finally got a chance to get a word in edgewise. “You don’t press charges, and Karmody pays for the mirror and the chairs, and he never comes into the Bug again when you’re working the night shift.”

  “He doesn’t come in when I’m working any shift,” Franklin countered, just as Stan had known he would. Good, let him feel as if he’d won a hard bargain.

  “Well . . .” Stan pretended to think about it. “I guess so. I guess we got a deal.” He held out his hand for the man to shake.

  “Karmody’s not going to go for this,” Franklin warned.

  “I’ll handle Karmody.”

  Which was step three.

  Christ, this was the part where Stan would go into the men’s and sit down on the tile floor and talk to WildCard. “What happened this time, Karmody?” Through clenched teeth: “Nothing happened, Senior.” A sigh from Stan. “Don’t bullshit me, Kenny. I know you went to see Adele.” “Fuck Adele!” Back and forth they’d go, with WildCard venting his anger, ranting and railing about whatever injustice Adele had done this time, until he was all ranted out and ready to go home and pass out.

  Which was what Stan was ready to do right now.

  Tomorrow WildCard would wake up all contrite and hungover. Stan would call him in to his office and do some ranting and railing of his own. WildCard was going to be feeling the repercussions of tonight’s little hell party for a long time.

  Stan made the trip from the bar to the men’s room on legs that were leaden. Janine was still there, still watching him. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t do more than put one foot in front of the other.

  O’Leary was still guarding the door, but WildCard had stopped his pounding and shouting. It was quiet in there. Maybe the son of a bitch had knocked himself out from hitting his head on the tile walls.

  No, that was too much to hope for, too much to ask.

  O’Leary opened the door for him, and Stan went inside and . . . Oh, Christ.

  “Shut the door and don’t let anyone in here,” Stan ordered O’Leary.

  WildCard was crying.

  He was sitting on the floor, arms around knees that were up close to his chest, head down, body shaking, sobbing as if his heart were breaking. Which it probably was, poor bastard.

  Adele Zakashansky had no idea what she had lost by ditching him the way she had six months ago. Yes, WildCard could be completely obnoxious. Give him enough time, and he’d probably get on Mother Teresa’s or Ghandi’s nerves, but in all honesty, the man had a heart the size of California.

  “Shit,” Stan breathed, lowering himself gingerly down onto the floor next to him. He spoke gently. There’d be plenty of time tomorrow to yell at the man. “Why do you keep going to see her, Kenny? You know, you’re doing this to yourself.”

  WildCard didn’t answer. Stan hadn’t really expected him to.

  He put his hand on the kid’s back,
feeling completely inadequate here. Even when he wasn’t fighting the flu, he wasn’t the cry-on-my-shoulder type. He didn’t do hugs, rarely touched the men in his team unless he had to—at least not much beyond the occasional high five or slap on the shoulder.

  “She got a restraining order, Senior,” WildCard lifted his tearstained face to tell him with the much too careful enunciation of the extremely drunk. He looked about five years old and completely bewildered. “How could she even think that I would hurt her? I love her.”

  Stan felt like weeping himself, his head throbbing in sympathy. God, being in love sucked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I know that, Ken, and you know that, but maybe you haven’t done such a great job over the past few months communicating that to Adele, you know? When you come at her all loud and angry, and completely shit-faced, too, well, that’s got to be a little upsetting for her. I think you need to try to see it from her point of view, huh? She tells you it’s over, and two weeks later, you’ve parked your Jeep in her flower garden at four in the morning, waking up the entire neighborhood by playing Michael Jackson at full volume on your car stereo.”

  “It was the Jackson 5,” WildCard corrected him. “ ‘I Want You Back.’ It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “And punching out her new boyfriend at the movie theater?”

  “Yeah, that wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “Calling her every fifteen minutes all night long? From Africa?”

  “I just wanted to hear her voice.”

  Stan looked at him.

  WildCard laughed. “Yeah, all right. I knew he was over there, with her. Goddamn Ronald from MIT. Getting it on for the first time. I wanted to make sure the evening was memorable for them.” He wiped his eyes. “She’s not going to take me back, is she?”

  There was still hope in WildCard’s heart. Hope that Stan crushed ruthlessly by flatly telling him, “No, she’s not. Not tonight, not next week, not ever.”

  Hearing those words didn’t make WildCard dissolve into more tears. Instead he wiped his nose on his sleeve. Sat up a little straighter. “I’m so damn tired of being alone, Senior Chief. I mean, when I was with Adele we weren’t actually together that often, but she emailed me every day. I knew she was thinking about me.” He looked at Stan with the pathetic earnestness of the truly drunk. “I just want to know someone’s thinking about me. Is that really too much to ask?”

  Stan looked at the kid. No, he wasn’t a kid—he was well into his twenties, he was a full grown man. He just freaking acted like a kid most of the time. With his dark eyes and angular face, Ken Karmody wasn’t a bad looking man. If you didn’t pay too much attention to his Dr. Frankenstein haircut.

  I’m not looking for long term. . . . Janine’s pretty eyes and knockout body flashed to mind, and Stan knew what he had to do. He felt a brief flare of regret, but it passed quickly enough.

  “You been with anyone else?” he asked WildCard. “You know, since Adele?”

  WildCard looked away, looked embarrassed. Shook his head no, like that was something to be ashamed of.

  “Maybe you need to,” Stan said gently. “Maybe hooking up with someone for a while will put this thing with Adele into perspective. Yes, she was an important part of your life for a few years, but now that she’s gone, your life’s not over. There are plenty of women who would love to spend their time thinking about you.” He pulled himself to his feet, amazed he could still stand. “Come on, let’s get out of here, go rejoin the world.”

  WildCard pushed himself off the floor. “Senior Chief, I have to be straight with you. I was fighting before. I’m not sure exactly, but I think either the police or a whole bunch of jarheads might be waiting for me out in the bar.”

  “Franklin didn’t call the police,” Stan told him. “I took care of him—and the jarheads, too. Of course, you’re going to have to pay for damages.”

  New hope lit his eyes. “You mean I’m not going to be arrested?”

  “No. You’re going to have to meet some seven-foot-tall Marine in a boxing ring in a few days. And you can’t come back to the Bug if Kevin Franklin is on duty. Not ever again. We’ll go over this, at length, tomorrow in my office.”

  Out of all the things Stan had said, it was only this last that gave WildCard pause. Tomorrow’s little meeting wasn’t going to be any fun for either of them. Stan was going to deliver an ultimatum. He gave him a small preview because although he was going to make sure WildCard was delivered safely home, there were still several hours before dawn, and the kid was a supreme dumbass.

  “You need to know, Karmody, no shit, read my lips because this is serious: You break that restraining order, you’re on your own. No senior chief to the rescue. It will be Lieutenant Paoletti who comes to see you in jail, and he will not be a happy man. And what he will tell you is good-bye and good luck. And good luck will be for surviving your eighteen months to three years in prison and then getting a job fixing computers in the back room of some CompUSA, provided you can find one with a manager who hires convicted felons. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

  WildCard nodded, a dazed look in his eyes, and Stan knew he’d hit on the kid’s worst nightmare. Good.

  He pushed open the men’s room door and WildCard followed him out into the bar. Home—and his bed—were so close, he could almost smell it. Only one more thing to do.

  Sam Starrett had the younger sister out on the dance floor, taking advantage of a slow dance to get in a full body embrace. Janine stood by the jukebox, as if entranced by the list of songs, still sipping her soda.

  Stan headed toward her. “Janine. That position still available?”

  She looked up, looked from him to WildCard, noted the fact that the younger man’s eyes were still red from crying. Her own gaze softened slightly before she glanced back at Stan, awareness and wisdom in her eyes, and he knew he was doing the right thing.

  “Yes, it is.”

  WildCard didn’t have a clue what was going on, still partially locked in the horror of that alternate reality Stan had described.

  “I want you to meet Chief Ken Karmody of SEAL Team Sixteen,” Stan said to Janine.

  She looked at WildCard again. “I saw you earlier, with all those Marines. You didn’t back down when they insulted you. You must be either really brave or really stupid, sailor.”

  “Really brave,” Stan said at the exact same moment WildCard answered, “Really stupid,” and she laughed.

  She had a really nice, musical laugh, and WildCard woke up a little and actually looked at her. His eyes widened.

  “You ever take a tour of the naval base?” Stan asked her.

  She took a sip of her soda. “I don’t believe that I have.”

  “Would you like to? Tomorrow?”

  Janine looked at WildCard again, this time checking him out not quite as obviously as he was hypnotized by her breasts. She smiled. “Sure. Why not? How about right after church? Eleven-thirty?”

  “Great,” Stan said. “I’ll have Chief Karmody here meet you at the gate.”

  “Me?” WildCard said in surprise.

  Stan pushed him toward the door.

  “I’ll be there.” Janine’s eyes sent him a very definite message: Your loss.

  It probably was. But right now he didn’t want anything but his bed. And Teri Howe. He cursed this fever again. Stop thinking about her.

  “Did you see the way she was looking at me?” WildCard asked as they stepped into the parking lot. The air wasn’t any cooler, but it was less smoky. “Senior, if I go back in there maybe she’ll—”

  “Tomorrow at 1130 is early enough. That way you can impress her with your sparkling sobriety.”

  “Did you see her? She was hot, and I think she likes me! I know she likes me!” WildCard did a victory dance, punching the air. “Yeah! The hell with you, Adele! The hell with you!”

  Mike Muldoon slipped down from where he’d been sitting on the hood of Stan’s truck, staring at WildCard with amazeme
nt. He looked at Stan with something that normally would be uncomfortably similar to hero worship. But right now Stan appreciated the fact that Muldoon saw him through rose-colored superhero glasses—the kind that obscured the greenish tinge Stan knew was on his face.

  “My God, Senior Chief,” Muldoon said, “you really can fix anything, can’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” Stan said, getting into his truck and starting the engine with a roar, praying that Muldoon wouldn’t see the way his hands were shaking.

  Christ, he was hurting. And he still had to call O’Leary when he got home, ask him to rouse WildCard in the morning, get him down to the front gate by 1130, order him to meet Stan in his office at 1300. Stan would ream him a new asshole then, using Janine Morrison to provide additional motivation to toe the line. He put down the window. “Do me a favor and get Karmody safely home.”