Big Numbers Read Free Page B

punch line: “Because her husband is my richest client. And he’s dying of cancer.”
    Luis’s eyes roll. His square chin moves slowly side-to-side, my favorite bartender maybe thinking over the long list of potential indiscretions. Finally, he pours us another shot of Herradura. “So you think perhaps you will marry this woman when her husband dies? Then you will be rich, too?”
    Wow. I am mucho impressed by Luis’s working knowledge of my tequila-infected brain. Austin Carr’s wildest fantasies lay before him.
    “Oh, it’s just something to dream about,” I say. “Like humping Shania Twain.”
    Luis skips the salt this time, minimizing his shooter ritual to the tequila and a juicy wedge of lime. “I think your plan is bad.”
    I feel the skin around my eyes scrunch up in puzzlement. I called it a dream, didn’t I? Not a plan.
    “When this woman gets her husband’s money, she will leave New Jersey,” he says. “The rich ones always travel. It is what women like to do.”
    I am truly shocked Luis is taking this so seriously. The idea is ridiculous. A daydream. Like watching a two hundred fifty thousand dollar Italian sports car drive by. Sure it would be fun to drive one, but maintenance alone puts the thing out of reach. Forget about the initial outlay.
     
     

 
    FIVE
     
    That evening I put on a pair of super-sized aviator mirror sunglasses and my Dodgers baseball hat, found a thick tree for cover near the left field foul line of my son Ryan’s fall league baseball game. The shade is cool, the bird calls soothing. Who cares if the court order the ex-wife obtained bars my attendance?
    By the fifth inning Ryan has earned a walk and two singles, made three or four nice plays at shortstop. He’s on deck, ready to come up again with men on base when I see a Branchtown patrol car slide quietly into the parking lot. Maybe a cop’s son is playing, too.
    Or maybe not. My ex-wife scurries out of the stands to greet the police cruiser. I desperately want to watch Ryan bat, but my ex-wife’s past deeds dictate extreme caution. I turn my back on the field and make like a squirrel, darting through the park’s thick stand of locust trees and pin oaks. I reach my car, key the engine, then glance over my right shoulder to back up. Damn. A beefy Branchtown cop stands directly behind my car, his left hand raised, telling me to stop. The big cop’s right hand rests on his gun holster.
    “Turn off your engine and step out of the car please,” says a sharp voice in my ear. My head snaps back. A second cop has approached my driver’s window while I was admiring his partner’s artillery. My ex-wife stands behind this second cop, her face contorted with venom.
    “Deadbeat,” she s ays. More of a shout, really.
    The cop motions for her to calm down. “Ma’am.”
    I douse my engine and climb out into the fading evening light. This second cop is younger than the first, about my age, and wears a kindly face with soft brown eyes. Friendly looking. Maybe he has children of his own.
    I give him the famous, full-boat Carr grin. “I just wanted to see my kid play ball.”
    He nods, then spins me by the shoulders, slams my chest against the camper, begins to pat me down. The full-boat Carr grin doesn’t work on everybody.
    My ex-wife seizes the opportunity to deliver additional poison. “You can watch Ryan play ball when you pay me what you owe, you damn deadbeat.”
    The cop motions her away. “Step back, ma’am. We’ll handle this.”
    Good thing the cops are here to protect me. Since the divorce, my ex-wife’s chest and shoulders have grown to the size of an Olympic wrestler’s. Worse, her hatred runs deep, even though I forgave her many years ago. Sometimes her court actions seem vindictive, but I figure she’s just trying to provide for our children.
    “Put your hands behind you, Mr. Carr,” the young cop says. “You’re under arrest for violating a restraining order.”
     
     
    I spend the night in jail