Page 27 of Doozer

“Trouble. You need to figure out what’s best for you and your future. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity that you’re being given, and I strongly suggest you take hold of it.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have anything to lose,” I said.

“Hey,” Taxi snapped. “I’m putting my ass on the line for you. You’re the youngest, and by far the least experienced, person I’m recommending for this team. And if this team fails, I can pretty much kiss my career with the FBI goodbye. Not to mention all the good we’re trying to do.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Button that lip,” Taxi growled. “How the hell do you think I’m gonna look to my new boss, when the cadet candidate I recommended doesn’t show up for her entrance interview?”

“Taxi, I’m not trying to—”

Thwack.

Another spray of yellow followed by another sting. This time on top of my right foot.

“Would you please stop shooting me?” I yelled.

“I need an answer,” was all Taxi said.

“Minus isn’t gonna be happy.”

“You let me deal with Minus,” Taxi said.

I bit my lip. “Doozer isnotgoing to take this well.”

“He’ll understand,” Taxi said.

I cocked my head and raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, he’s gonna lose his shit, but if he cares about you, he’ll support your decision.”

Taxi was right and I didn’t know which idea scared me more. The possibility of Doozer being angry about me going to Virginia, or of him being supportive. If he were gung-ho about the idea, I’d have one less excuse for staying. But there was one more possibility.

“What if he doesn’t care at all that I’m leaving?” I asked softly.

“Something tells me, that’s not going to be the case.” Taxi replied.

* * *

Doozer

“The left side is still too low. Raise it up about three inches,” I called up to Tacky, co-member of the newly assembled Burning Saints decorating committee. He was balanced at the very top of a ten-foot aluminum, A-frame ladder. His boots covered the red and black safety sticker which read, “WARNING: DO NOT USE AS A STEP.”

“How about that?” he asked after adjusting the wrong side.

“No, yourotherleft, dumbass.” I yelled.

“You wanna climb up here and hang this fuckin’ thing?” Tacky asked.

“No way,” I replied. “This is our tallest ladder and you’re the only one stupid enough to stand at the top of it. Besides, only your freak monkey arms can reach the rest of the way.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a mean fucker first thing in the morning?” Tacky asked, raising up the sign which read, “CONGRATULATIONS CHAMP.”

Clutch, our club’s Sergeant at Arms, and his wife, Eldie, had recently adopted two kids they’d taken in off the streets. Alejandro, who we all called “The Kid,” was a scrappy seventeen-year old who Clutch almost murdered the first night they met.

The Kid had stolen and trashed Clutch’s beloved 1971 Barracuda, Lucille, as his initiation into a rival club of ours called Los Psychos. We eventually made peace with Los Psychos, and it didn’t take too long for Clutch to take a shine to the kid. They bonded quickly over boxing and eventually began to repair Lucille together. Shortly after taking Alejandro in, Clutch and a very pregnant Eldie began fostering his eight-year-old sister, Celia. Callie, Sweet Pea’s old lady, is a lawyer and helped big time with their adoption process. Through her connections and expertise in family law, she was able to cut through years of red tape.

Alejandro was proving to be a boxing phenom, winning his first three amateur bouts, two by way of knock out. Making his father and trainer, Clutch, the happiest member of our club. His most recent victory was for the local Golden Gloves title which meant he could now qualify to compete at the state level.

---