How to Score Read online

  “But Mother always watches me read the newspaper.”

  “So take it into your bedroom.”

  “She won’t let me. She says everything has a place and there’s a place for everything, and the newspaper is always read at the kitchen table and then put in a basket for exactly three days before it goes into the recycle bin. And she watches everything I do.”

  This guy wasn’t just living with his mother; he was living with Big Brother. “Well, then, buy a newspaper of your own on your lunch hour.”

  “After I’ve already read ours at home? That would be wasteful.”

  “So splurge a little.”

  “Oh.” Apparently the concept would never have occurred to him. “Okay.”

  “I’ll talk to you on Tuesday. And Horace… ”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d love to hear some more rap lyrics then, okay?”

  “You really liked them?” Horace sounded like an eight-year-old boy desperate for a parent’s approval.

  The neediness in his voice dredged up an old memory in Chase’s mind.

  He’d been eight years old, and he’d had the role of the lead elf in the school Christmas play. His dad never came to school events, but Chase had begged him to come to this one, and Chase’s mom had made it happen.

  Chase had practiced and practiced, and the night of the play, he’d acted his heart out. Behind the curtain, his teacher and the play director had raved about his performance, but it wasn’t their praise he was after.

  Chase had eagerly run up to his father. “What’d you think?”

  His dad had swayed, the bottle of cheap booze sticking out of his coat pocket. His breath had reeked of whiskey. “You looked like a little fag up there.”

  “Richard!” Chase’s mom had gasped. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I sure as hell do. Can’t believe you made me miss the game for that.”

  Yeah, Chase knew what it was like to yearn for approval.

  “You were great,” he told Horace now. “I’m looking forward to next time.”

  “Really? Golly, wow!”

  Chase shook his head as he hung up the phone and pushed back his chair. Pitiful, just pitiful—and in Chase’s opinion, his brother’s approach to coaching the poor bastard was pretty pitiful, too. Horace had already wasted forty-four years of his life, and at the rate Luke was inching him along, it would be another forty-four before he ever moved out on his own. What Horace needed was a swift kick out of his comfort zone. If he were thrown into a sink-or-swim situation, he’d be forced to grow a backbone and earn some genuine self-confidence.

  But Chase had agreed to handle things Luke’s way, so he’d keep his mouth shut and follow his directions. After all, this whole situation was his own fault.

  Chase rose from the table, put Horace’s file on the short stack next to the mountain of files he was sorting through, and glanced at that damned wide-screen TV. It had all started when he’d bought it last spring and invited Luke over to watch the Yankees play the Red Sox. “I’ll call in a pizza and you can pick it up on your way over,” Chase had said. “I found this great little place that makes real Chicago-style ones.”

  As it turned out, pizza wasn’t the only thing being ordered at Giuseppe’s that night. The local mob had ordered a hit on a rival crime boss, and Luke had seen the whole thing—including the shooter, the getaway car, and the man in the passenger seat.

  “Holy mother of Christ,” Luke had said later, after the ambulance and police cars had cleared out and Luke was thumbing through a book of mug shots at Chase’s desk at the Tulsa FBI office. “How the hell did you find that restaurant?”

  “My partner and I were doing surveillance there a couple of weeks ago,” Chase had admitted. “We had a tip it was a mob hangout, but we never saw any action, so we figured it was a false lead.”

  “Yeah, well, guess what?”

  Chase had looked across his desk at his little brother—who at six-foot-one was just an inch shorter than Chase and not really all that little—and felt his chest tighten. He’d promised his mother that he’d look out for Luke, and he’d always done his best. He’d skipped high school sports to babysit him, gotten between him and the old man’s fists, and worked two jobs to support him after their mother had died. The thought that he’d now put Luke’s life in danger made him feel like he’d been kicked in the gut. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  “Don’t even try.” Luke had raked a hand through his hair, which was the same shade of dark brown as Chase’s, but shaggier. “Just do me a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “Next time you want pizza, just call Domino’s.”

  That had been nearly four months ago. Luke had ID’d the shooter, as well as the man in the getaway car’s passenger seat—who’d turned out to be Marco Lambino, the local kingpin Chase and his partner had been trying to nail for months, and Lambino’s brother, Gianno. Both Lambinos were indicted and held for trial, and everything had been fine until last week—when the Tulsa district attorney had been forced by law to give the defense their witness list for the trial and, not coincidentally, when the Lambinos would have learned Luke’s identity. The very next day, someone took a shot at Luke as he walked from his house to his car.

  Which meant Luke was a marked man. Chase had damn near blown a gasket. He’d rushed his brother to the FBI field office in Oklahoma City and pulled every string available to get his brother into Witness Protection.

  “You’ll only need to stay in the program until after the trial,” the craggy-faced regional commander had told Luke as they’d sat across from him at his mahogany desk. “We’re sure the shooter was the Lambinos’ nephew, Johnny, and we’re confident the uncles will give him up in exchange for lighter sentences. Once that happens, you’re home free.”

  “If you know who shot at me, why don’t you just arrest him?” Luke had asked.

  “We don’t have any evidence,” the commander said.

  “So how do you know it was him?”

  “Johnny is none too bright. If it were a real hit man, you’d be dead.”

  Luke had absorbed that silently for a moment. “What’s to keep other members of the mob from coming after me?”

  “This is the Calabrian Mafia, not the Cosa Nostra,” Chase had explained. “It’s made up of small family groups—usually just seven or eight operatives. Except for the nephew, we have the whole family in custody.”

  “What about the new family that’s moving into town?”

  “They have more reason to give you a medal than kill you,” the commander said. “You’ve made it possible for them to take over.”

  “But what’s to stop the Lambinos from hiring a hit man?”

  “Money. We’ve confiscated all their loot.”

  “How do you know they don’t have some hidden somewhere?”

  “Because their first priority is keeping their asses out of jail, and they’re so broke they’re using public defenders. Once they’re all convicted, you’ll be in the clear.”

  Luke blew out a resigned sigh. “So where will I be while I’m in Witness Protection?”

  “I don’t know, and if I did, I couldn’t tell you. You’ll be out in the boonies—probably out west somewhere.” The commander had leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingertips together. “You won’t find out until you get there.”

  All in all, Luke had taken it pretty well—until the commander had left the room and Chase and his partner, Paul, had filled Luke in on the terms of the Witness Protection Program.

  “What do you mean, I can’t call my clients?” Luke had demanded.

  “You’re not allowed to have any contact with anyone you know,” Chase had explained. “Not even me. And I won’t have a clue where you are.”

  “Why?”

  “Witness Protection policy,” Paul had explained. The stocky man with salt-and-pepper hair had handed Luke a document outlining the rules. “You have to be untraceable. It’s part of the deal.”
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  “But I can’t just bail on my clients!”

  Chase had shrugged. “Tell them you’re going on an extended vacation and refer them to someone else.”

  “It doesn’t work like that.” Luke’s chin, so much like his own, had jutted out to a stubborn angle. “Some of these guys spent years working up the courage to reach out to someone. It’s taken months for them to trust me, and they can’t just transfer that trust to someone else. This could stop their progress dead in its tracks.”

  “How much progress do you think they’ll make if you’re stopped dead in your tracks?”

  Luke had slumped low in his chair, his eyes filled with such utter defeat that Chase’s heart had twisted. An idea had flashed through his mind—a bad idea, an idea so awful that it should have been immediately discarded. And yet, against his better judgment, he found it coming out of his mouth.

  “Look—I’m responsible for getting you into this mess, so I’ll stand in for you.”

  Luke’s head had jerked up. “What?”

  “I’ll talk to your most desperate clients and pretend to be you.”

  “Oh, right,” Luke had scoffed. “Like that’ll ever work.”

  Paul had laughed. “Yeah. Not very likely.”

  Chase had felt vaguely offended. “Why not? Your sessions are conducted on the phone, and people always say they can’t tell us apart on the phone. And I’m great at giving advice.”

  “They need good advice.” Luke had looked at Paul, and both men had snickered.

  “Have I ever steered you wrong?” Chase demanded.

  “I can’t believe you’re even opening that door,” Paul said dryly.

  “Including or excluding your choice of pizzeria?” Luke asked.

  Paul had roared.

  “No offense, bro,” Luke said, “but you don’t exactly give off the sympathetic, supportive vibe my clients are looking for.”

  It was probably true. They looked alike and sounded alike, but that was where the similarity ended. Luke believed in talking things out, while Chase was all about action. Luke said they’d developed different coping tactics while growing up in a dysfunctional family. Since Luke had studied all that psychology crap, Chase would take his word on it.

  “So I’ll fake it.” Hell, it couldn’t be as hard as Luke was making it out to be. After all, Luke was doing it, wasn’t he? And there were no licensing requirements for life coaches, so Chase wasn’t technically unqualified.

  “I just ran a new ad, and I’m booked solid,” Luke had said. “It’s a full-time job.”

  “So I’ll refer the newbies to someone else and coach your worst cases in the evening,” Chase had said. “Write down what you want me to say. I’ll follow your directions.”

  Luke had snorted. “That’ll be a first.”

  Ultimately, though, Luke had agreed, because he didn’t have a choice. Paul had retrieved Luke’s files, and Luke had spent several hours at the Oklahoma City bureau office, writing detailed notes, lists of things to say, and instructions about his six neediest clients. He also jotted down a list of sports terms.

  “Most of my clients call me Coach, and they expect a lot of sports talk,” Luke had explained. “I use a lot of sports references, such as ‘To win at the game of life, you have to learn how to score.’ ”

  Chase had rolled his eyes. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “No. I relate everything to plays and practice and strategy and skills.”

  When the transport team arrived, Luke had handed Chase an enormous cardboard box filled with files. “Promise you’ll take good care of my clients.”

  Chase had taken the box and nodded, a hard lump in his throat. “Don’t worry. I won’t fumble the ball.”

  So far, so good, Chase thought as he gazed at the three stacks of files on his table—the tallest stack for the clients he’d referred to other coaches, the medium-sized stack for the clients he’d try to put on hold for six weeks, and the short stack for the clients he was actually coaching.

  The next client was due to call in ten minutes. He strolled into the kitchen and grabbed a Coke from the fridge. So far tonight he’d coached a man who hadn’t left his house in two years, an obnoxious braggart who couldn’t understand why he had no friends, and Horace. He’d bitten his tongue so many times it was a wonder it was still attached. It was excruciating, having to listen to these morons whine and moan, then respond with nothing more than pansy-assed, sports-laced suggestions. What these folks really needed—and probably really wanted—was a hard kick in the end zone. Left to his own devices, Chase would straighten out these gutless wonders in a few short weeks. Too bad he wasn’t going to get a chance to prove it.

  The apartment felt stuffy. Chase blew out a restless breath and strode toward his terrace, wanting to grab some fresh air before he got tied up with another pathetic loser. Popping the tab on his Coke, he opened the sliding door and stepped outside, leaving the door open so he could hear the phone.

  It was September, but the night was hot. In Oklahoma, autumn didn’t really kick in until mid-October. Still, Chase sensed a change in the air. The breeze carried the scent of rain, and the wind was brisker than usual.

  Chase inhaled deeply, leaned against his terrace railing, and gazed out at the Tulsa skyline. Lightning zigzagged over the Williams Tower as a strong gust of wind plastered Chase’s maroon OU T-shirt against his chest.

  A noise like a small avalanche sounded behind him. Chase turned to see his brother’s files crashing to the floor, the tall stack pushing the other stacks like dominoes, the papers tumbling out of the folders, the wind blowing pages and manila folders around the room like autumn leaves. With a muttered oath, Chase quickly stepped back inside and closed the door, but not before another gust scattered the papers like confetti.

  The phone rang.

  Great—the next client was calling, and Chase didn’t have the file. Hell, he didn’t even know the client’s name. It took him two more phone rings to locate the appointment book from the heap of papers on the floor. He snatched up the receiver half a second before voice mail caught the call. “Hello?” he said gruffly.

  “Luke?” purred a sultry female voice.

  Out of habit, he almost said no, then caught himself. “Uh, yes.”

  “I took your advice about how to handle Joe, and it worked!”

  “That’s great, um… ” Chase quickly flipped through the appointment book, looking for the name of his brother’s 7:30 client. “… Samantha.”

  “It’s Sammi—remember? Being called Samantha makes me want to twitch my nose and call for Darren.”

  Chase smiled. “Oh, yeah. Right.” Where the heck was her file? He dropped to his knees and snatched up two manila folders. Neither was the right one. He crawled across the dining room floor, reaching for another.

  “Are you okay? Your voice sounds kind of funny.”

  Hell. This girl was way too observant. He covered the mouthpiece, feigned a cough, and raised his voice to a slightly higher pitch. “I’m fine. I just, uh, have a little cold.”

  “Oh, you poor thing. You ought to take some vitamin C and zinc and eat some chicken soup.”

  “Yeah, good idea.”

  “You live in Tulsa, don’t you?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, you advertised in the Tulsa Tribune, and you have a local area code. So I was thinking I could bring you some homemade chicken soup.”

  The offer sounded oddly… nice. Too nice. Overly nice.

  Crazy nice. “That’s, um, very kind, but no, thanks. I’ve got some soup in my pantry.” It was a lie; all he had was beef jerky, Doritos, and a box of stale Cheerios, but she didn’t need to know that.

  Where the hell was her file? Chase crept forward on his knees, grabbing at the scattered folders with one hand, holding the phone to his ear with the other. He’d encourage her to talk and just play along until he found her file or figured it out. “So—you and Joe are working things out?” he prompted.

 
“Oh, yes. Things are much better!” Her voice poured over him, silky and rich, with just a hint of a southern accent. It reminded him of a dessert he’d once had in New Orleans called Chocolate Sin. “You’re a genius!”

  He warmed under the praise, which was ridiculous, because she thought he was his brother. He didn’t even know what topic, much less what brilliant advice, she was talking about. “Why don’t you give me a play-by-play of how things went.”

  “Well, last night, Joe wanted to play with my shoes again.”

  Her shoes? Holy Moses, but his brother had some clients. He started to ask if Joe were her husband, but he was supposed to already know that. Moving across the floor on his hands and knees, Chase snatched up another folder, glanced at the name, and discarded it.

  “I handled it just as you suggested,” Sammi continued. “Instead of just telling him no, I put on a pair of shoes that I didn’t mind him drooling all over.”

  Drooling? Ye gads.

  “They were spike-heeled sandals,” she continued, “and he just went nuts.”

  Chase had to admit, this was a lot more interesting than anything he’d discussed with Horace. He grabbed and rejected another folder. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. He started nibbling my toes and licking my instep.”

  Chase ran into some weirdos in his line of work, but they were usually just ordinary, run-of-the-mill serial-killer weirdos. This was a whole new world. “No kidding.”

  “Yeah. He particularly liked my toes.”

  Chase had nothing against feet—in fact, he’d been known to give a mean foot rub a time or two—but he couldn’t understand why a man would focus on a woman’s feet when she had so many other, more interesting body parts. All the same, there was something oddly erotic about Sammi’s description.

  It was probably her voice. With a voice like that, she could make skinning a snake sound sexy.

  “He went crazy when I shook my foot in his face,” she said.

  “No kidding. How about you? Did you like it, too?”

  “Well, not so much at first, but after a while, it was okay. I got a little worried when he started huffing and panting and breathing really hard.”

  Chase was breathing a little hard himself. Of course, he was on his belly, reaching for a folder at the back of his sofa, but still, her story probably had a lot to do with it. “How long did this go on?”