Good Guys Love Dogs (37 page)

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Authors: Inglath Cooper

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around town like a monkey in a cage.
"How can you turn

them down, son?"

"I'm tired, Dad."

"It's just an hour or two.
Surely that's not too much to

ask from someone who's made it as
big as you have."

Guilt. John Kincaid played it better
than anyone Wil had

ever known. No one had pushed him
harder toward his

success in the NFL. No one had
reminded him of it more

often.

348

GOOD GUYS LOVE DOGS

Wil had relented final y, certain by
the end of their

discussion that his father would get
more pleasure out of the

event than anyone else in Lake
Perdue.

He hadn't exactly dressed for the
occasion, a fact his

father would be certain to point
out. Wil had never been

much for Armani suits and the like.
Designer jeans had

battled for their share of the
market without ever making it to

a hanger in his closet. His taste
had remained constant over

the years. He stil preferred Levi's,
the kind that had been

washed so many times they'd gone
soft and white. Today he'd

paired them with a denim shirt and a
worn-looking leather

jacket that cost more than a lot of
used cars. He wore equal y

wel -worn loafers on sockless feet.
He hated socks.

He reached forward and popped in a
CD. The sound of

Wagner's “Die
Walkure split the air, blasting away at the

edges of his impatience. He sighed
and ran a hand through

his hair, while he controlled the
steering wheel with the other.

The car had been a bonus from Hank
Calhoun, owner of the

team on which Wil had played wide
receiver. A farewel

present for a job wel done. And
maybe a bit of a bribe, as

wel , Wil had later realized. For
him to consider going back

to work for Hank in some other
capacity. To reconsider not

forgetting Hank's daughter once he
left L.A.

"You and Grace make a fine
couple, Wil ," Hank had

said the last time they'd talked.
"There aren't too many men

I'd hand my daughter over to, you
know." Wil knew it was

true. But it had taken him three
years to realize he wasn't the

man for that particular honor.

349

INGLATH COOPER

Like the rest of the world, Hank had
known Wil 's career

was over. No one seemed wil ing to
dispute the evidence that

he would never again play football.
"With the number of

injuries you've had on that knee,
this was just the final straw,

Wil ," one of the doctors had
said. "The average playing time

is three-and-a-half years,"
another had consoled. So he'd had

more than most. But that didn't make
the verdict any easier to

accept. A verdict he'd sentenced
himself to years ago. Time to

pay the hangman.

Using his left foot, Wil braked to a
halt at the first of the

town's three stoplights.

No one understood why he'd left the
West Coast mecca

of wealth to come back to a town
where the population

hovered around five thousand. He
wasn't sure himself. He

just knew that home was the place
for him to recover—both

physical y and mental y.

With one wrist draped over the
wheel, he glanced at his

surroundings. Things had changed
since his last visit.

Progress had stuck its big toe into
Lake Perdue. Aaron Tate's

General Store, which had since risen
to One Stop Gas & Go

status, stil sat on the corner of
Second and Main. A pizza

joint had been wedged in between it
and Kawley's Drugstore,

more than likely giving Simpson's
Ice Cream, the old high-

school hangout, a run for its money.
On the other side of the

street, Ethel's Fine Fashions had
been replaced by a shop that

looked as though it belonged on
Fifth Avenue in Manhattan,

a concession to the customers coming
in from some of the

lake's new developments.

350

GOOD GUYS LOVE DOGS

Disappointment shot through him.
Nothing stayed the

same. The rest of the world was
beginning to discover Lake

Perdue, the quiet little town that
had been his refuge in the

years of traveling from one big city
to another.

The light turned green. He put his
foot to the accelerator

and continued along Main Street,
dodging the potholes and

passing a car and then a truck. He
didn't know either of the

drivers, but he lifted a hand in
greeting, anyway. Here,

everybody waved. Wil pictured
himself cruising down Sunset

Boulevard, waving at every car he
passed. He shook his head

and smiled to himself for the first
time that day.

Tom Dil on, an old friend and now a
town deputy

sheriff, stood just ahead in the
middle of the street, directing

traffic for the parade. Wil rol ed
down his window and lifted

a cautious hand in greeting. The two
had been buddies in

high school, until they'd had a fal
ing-out just before

graduation. Wil hadn't forgotten it.

Tom apparently had. He grinned and
yel ed, "Hey, Wil ,

man how's it going?"

"How ya doin', Tom?" Wil
threw back, a cool note in his

voice.

Tom blew his whistle and motioned a
lane of traffic

forward, shouting over his shoulder,
"Come on out to

Clarence's when you get a chance.
Buy you a beer."

With a half nod and a wave, Wil
swung off Main onto

McClanahan for the First Baptist
Church. He checked his

appearance in the mirror and then
glanced up just in time to

see a stop sign ahead that hadn't
been there the last time he'd

been home.

351

INGLATH COOPER

Brake lights flashed as the car in
front of him rol ed to a

stop. Nothing short of a miracle
would al ow him to miss it.

Tires squealed, rubber smoked
against asphalt as the Ferrari

plowed into the back of the stopped
car.

The air bag exploded, preventing Wil
from going

through the windshield.

He slammed a palm against the
steering wheel and leaned

forward to get a closer look at what
he'd done. The brand-

new Ferrari now sat with its nose
tucked under the ancient

relic in front of him.

The car was the color of his aunt
Fan's grasshopper pie.

It appeared to be a good thirty feet
long, sporting twin

pointed extensions just above each
tail ight. He recognized

the make—a Cadil
ac Sedan de Vil e. Had it been a

convertible, it would have looked a
lot like something Batman

drove.

With another muttered curse, he
climbed out of the car,

pul ing his leather bomber jacket
close against the February

chil . He cast a glance at the
damage and decided it might not

have been as bad as he'd thought. A
few scratches maybe if

they were careful about separating
the two cars. Not worth

cal ing the police.

Lips pressed together, he limped
across the pavement to

the other driver's door. A woman. He
should have guessed.

Judging from the antique she was
driving, she probably hadn't

been on the road in fifteen years.

Wil knocked on the window and leaned
forward. The

woman sat there, staring straight
ahead as if in a trance. Alarm

stabbed at him. What if she was
hurt?

352

GOOD GUYS LOVE DOGS

Before he could complete the
thought, the car door

opened, barely missing his nose. The
woman slid out of the

front seat, sidestepping him until
they stood a good four feet

apart. Focusing to the left of his
shoulder, she asked in a

frigid voice, "Was there a
problem with your brakes?"

The question sounded innocent
enough. But her tried-

and-convicted tone rankled Wil . He
took a step back and

arched a brow, taking in the wool
cap pul ed so low on her

head that she appeared not to have
any hair, the round glasses

that seemed to dwarf her smal face,
the scarf wrapped

around her neck and tucked under her
chin. From the way

she'd mummified herself, he could
barely see where the hat

ended and the scarf began.

"Hey, I'l be the first to admit
this was my fault. But you

were barely moving, you know."

The woman kept her eyes averted and
appeared to be

searching for words. Her response,
when it final y came, was

calm and reasonable. "McClanahan
wasn't exactly made for

drag racing."

He slid his sunglasses down his nose
and stared at her,

his eyes narrowed. Something about
the woman seemed

familiar. Only he couldn't see her
wel enough to figure out

what. He stepped back and frowned at
her. "Do I know

you?"

The woman hesitated. Then she
quickly pushed past him

and slid into the car to shuffle
through some papers she

pul ed from the glove compartment.
"I have an appointment

in a few minutes, so if you don't
mind, I'd like to get this over

with. I assume you have insurance."

353

INGLATH COOPER

Wil couldn't remember the last time
a woman had given

him the cold shoulder. Maybe he'd
gotten spoiled, but her

attitude ticked him off. "I
do," he snapped. "And I'd rather

not get the police involved in this.
I've had a pisser of a day, if

you'l pardon the language. Your
damage is minimal. I'l take a

chance on mine. I'm late for
something myself."

Her eyes widened. “If
you could please give me your

company's name." She kept her
gaze on the notepad in her

hand, pen poised in midair.

"Better yet," he said, his
voice softer now, "how about if

I just pay you for the damage? We
could make a reasonable

estimate, and if it's more, you can
get in touch with me later."

"I'd prefer to keep this within
the law."

"I wasn't suggesting anything
il egal, just—"

"Convenient. You're interested
in convenience." She

nodded impatiently. "Al right.
We'l do it your way."

"Sounds reasonable enough."
He turned and made his

way back to the Ferrari,
deliberately taking his time. Reaching

for the wal et inside the glove
compartment, he pul ed out a

wad of cash and counted out several
large bil s. That ought to

do it. He doubted the whole car was
worth that much.

Favoring his right knee, he ambled
back to the woman's

car and leaned inside to hand her
the money along with a few

insurance papers. "It's all
there. With a tol -free number. I

don't imagine you'l need it, though.
This should cover it."

The woman glanced down at the money
and shook her

head.

"I made what I thought was a
generous guess, he said.

“If it's too
much, keep the rest for your trouble."

354

GOOD GUYS LOVE DOGS

"Fine," she said, looking
suddenly angry. With surprising

strength, she yanked the door
closed, leaving him staring at

her through the window.

He took a hasty step back and then
grimaced when a

pain shot through his leg. Suddenly
he realized he hadn't told

her he'd disconnect the two cars
himself. It would need to be

done careful y, just right in order
to—

He reached out to pound on the
window just as she fired

the old clunker, jerked it into gear
and surged forward.

Speechless, Wil stood there watching
as she floored the

heap and roared through the
intersection at a speed that

couldn't possibly be described as a
snail's pace.

355

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