Book 7 of the Sammy Series

From the back cover: The owner of the Dallas Guns, the local arena football team, has been receiving threats on his life from someone he believes to be on his team. So Dallas detective Sammy Kidman gets roped into trying out for the Guns in order to uncover the perpetrator.

As Sammy embraces the novelty of arenaball to the detriment of his work and family, his wife Marni loses all patience. With the connivance of society matron Dolly Threlkeld, Marni does a little investigative work of her own. What they discover about the owner's true purpose throws her into a terrible quandary: How can she tell Sammy that should he achieve his goal of playing, it would entail a most unpleasant surprise?


CHAPTER ONE

Sammy Kidman, in t-shirt and sweatsuit, bounced lightly in the foyer of his modest north Dallas home. Eyeing the Saturday morning cartoons playing full tilt on the television in the family room, he squatted and bounced, stretching his legs. Squat, bounce, and stretch—He warmed up for his daily run as he watched the Road Runner zip away in a cloud of dust, leaving Wile E. Coyote to eat the anvil descending from above.

Marni, Sammy's twenty-three-year-old wife, came out from the kitchen with something on her mind. Her honey-blonde hair was still mussed from sleep and her fuzzy pink bathrobe sported a dab of oatmeal on one sleeve. Seeing Sammy's face, she glanced toward someone in the recliner, then retreated to the kitchen without saying a word. Sammy was still stretching and bouncing with vigor, also regarding the figure in the recliner.

Sammy turned to step out the front door into the cool March haze, swinging his arms and tossing his head. His black hair, past due for a trim, hung over the sweatsuit hood bunched around his neck, and his blue eyes reflected the coolness of late winter. The usual early spring had not sprung. It had better do it soon, by gum, before he got sick and tired of the status quo. Frankly, he was already sick and tired of it.

After ten minutes of careful warming up, he trotted down the front walk to the sidewalk, accelerated to his jogging stride, then made a sudden loop through the front yard back into the house. A cool gust followed him clear into the family room.

"Dad," he said, leaning on the back of the recliner, "it's been eight weeks now. You're gonna have to decide what to do with the rest of your life."

As Sam Watterson (not the actor) looked up from the recliner, Marni quietly came out from the kitchen with her one-year-old son in her arms. "What do you mean, Sammy?" Sam asked.

"You've been staying with us for eight weeks now. It's time to get your own place!" Sammy said.

"I don't have any money," Sam said dolefully.

"What happened to all that you had saved up working for Dolly?" Sammy demanded.

"Well, a couple months on the road ate that up a lot quicker than I figured," Sam admitted, rubbing his unshaven face. Even with the nineteen-year age difference between himself and his son, the resemblance between them was enough to have caused some confusion in the past. Now, however, the son was clearly the authority figure rising up to discipline the slacker.

Marni put the baby on the floor and said, "Dolly called again yesterday, Sam. I don't feel right about lying to her when she asks if we've heard from you."

Coming around to turn off the television, Sammy asked him, "Why don't you go back to work for her?"

"Oh, man," Sam grimaced. "Not when she thinks we're get-ting married, and all. It was okay just being her chauffeur, but when we started—" He paused, glancing at Marni. "I mean, you know—"

"Well, it seems like you owe her an explanation, at least. That was pretty immature to run off when she was depending on you," Sammy lectured.

"You didn't think so then," Sam muttered.

"You didn't ask me or anybody what we thought. You just blew out of town and left it to us to explain things to her," Sammy said, anger rising. "Now you're making Marni lie for you, and I don't like it!"

Silently, Marni added, And cook and clean and do laundry for you, but she knew not to make that the issue here.

Sweet, passive Sam dropped his head penitently. "I don't know what to do," he mumbled.

As it happened, Sammy had already decided for him. "Go pack your bag. We're going over there to talk to her."

So Marni separated Sam's clothes out of the laundry basket while Sam showered and shaved. Sammy backed his bright green, '66 Mustang out of the garage to bring out his father's Harley-Davidson Heritage Softail.

Fifteen minutes later, Sam appeared in the garage with Marni in her bathrobe behind him. "Okay, Dad; I'm going to follow you over there," Sammy said, nodding to the bike as he opened the car door.

Sam sighed in resignation, then turned to Marni. "Thanks for puttin' up with me."

"Oh, Sam. Give us a call now and then," she urged, hugging him. But she knew he wouldn't. It would be up to her or Sammy to keep in touch.

He squeezed her in return, then stuffed his few belongings into the leather bag mounted on the rear wheel. While he threw a leg over the seat and started the bike, Marni glanced with a pang at the scuffed, empty cat carrier sitting in a corner of the garage. Smoky had been riding in that carrier on Sam's bike when he wiped out on the highway in Sweetwater, and she had not been seen in the two months since.

Marni looked back at Sammy starting the Mustang. When his eyes met hers over the steering wheel, she lifted her hand in a subdued goodbye. He nodded to her, backing out of the garage, then idled the engine while Sam pulled out of the drive into the alley.

Trailing him, Sammy pushed the speakerphone on his carphone and keyed in a number. He heard it ring, then a man's voice announced, "Threlkeld residence."

"Hey, Hellier. It's Sammy." In cold weather, when he had to drive with the top up, it dampened the road noise enough for him to use the speakerphone, keeping his hands free to drive.

"Mr. Kidman, Mrs. Threlkeld has been quite miffed that you have not brought the baby over recently," her butler said.

"Well, you might better put her on so I can apologize," Sammy said with a small sigh. He watched Sam pull up to a stoplight ahead of him.

"I should say so," Hellier sniffed.

Sammy smiled halfheartedly, keeping an eye on Sam. In a few minutes he heard a mature woman's voice: "Sammy?"

"Hi, Dolly. I just wanted to make sure you were home before I dropped by," Sammy said, turning a corner behind the motorcycle.

"Do you have baby Sam with you?" Dolly demanded.

"No, sweetheart; I'm bringing someone else." He paused. "The other Sam. My dad."

"Oh," Dolly said, very faintly.

Sammy inhaled, trying to think of the best spin to put on the truth he had to tell her. "He's . . . been staying at our house for a few weeks, Dolly. He wouldn't let us tell you because he was—too ashamed to face you after skipping town like that. Today he decided it was time to do the right thing, so, we're both on our way. You can do whatever you want with him. Shoot him. Chop off his head. Run him up the flagpole on Valentine's Day," Sammy said, warming to each and every suggestion.

"I see," she said. "Is Marni with you?"

"No. She can't stand violence," Sammy said dryly.

"Well, then. I'll be waiting for you," Dolly said, and hung up. Sammy pensively pressed the off button. She had seemed a little too calm about it all.

He looked ahead at Sam pulling away from him on the freeway. "Slow down, Dad. You got nowhere to run," he muttered. He glanced up at a billboard advertising the Dallas Guns, the arena football team. The Cowboys they weren't, but still attracted a loyal following of football junkies. Since the Guns' season spanned the spring and summer, they were now holding tryouts, which fact the billboard advertised.

With the exit to Dolly's part of town coming up, Sammy's gaze diverted to his father ahead. Sam, knowing this Mustang had been rebuilt with a V-8 engine, also knew that Sammy would chase him down clear to El Paso if he had to, so Sammy was reasonably confident Sam would exit. He did.

Sammy turned off after him, and in minutes they were pulling up to the wrought iron gates sitting across the cobbled drive of the Threlkeld abode. Sam spoke into the intercom, and the gates rolled open. He and Sammy passed on through to the mansion.

It was a nice place: twenty-two rooms in three stories on eight acres of prime Dallas real estate. Dolly's late husband Morgan had been one of the city's industrial pioneers, parlaying his oil investments into a business portfolio second only in value to that of the reclusive Dallas billionaire—what was his name?—who married a bank teller and took her to Hawaii.

Sam parked near the mansion's broad white steps and Sammy pulled up behind him. Preoccupied, Sammy left the keys in the ignition—no one was going to steal his car here. Sam dismounted while Sammy approached, clapping him on the shoulder. "Cheer up, Dad. I called ahead, so she's expecting us."

"With a loaded gun?" Sam mumbled, starting up the steps.

"Of course not," Sammy retorted. "Dolly's more the type to use poison."

Sam moaned. Shoulders drooping, he ascended the steps toward the tall double doors.

Hellier answered the doorbell, regarding Sam coolly. "How do you do, Mr. Watterson, Mr. Kidman. Mrs. Threlkeld is awaiting you in the sunroom."

"Thanks, Hellier," Sammy said as he entered, looking past the gleaming marble foyer toward the sunroom in the back of the house. Just this foyer, with its scrolled oak paneling and twin staircases flanking the elevator, was about as large as the interior of Sammy's house, but he felt no envy and disliked living here when he had been Dolly's chauffeur. It was a security nightmare—too big and rambling to adequately monitor on the funds Dolly would allow for the purpose.

Sammy paused. "I thought Mrs. Pace had quit." She was Dolly's latest household manager.

"She had given her resignation, which Mrs. Threlkeld ig-nored," Hellier said, closing the door and coming abreast of Sammy, who muttered something under his breath.

Glancing around the vast, empty foyer and stairs, Hellier wondered, "How did you know Mrs. Pace was still here?"

"It's—just her aura," Sammy said sourly. Perhaps it had something to do with the little yellow Post-It® notes stuck up everywhere in sight—on doors, furniture, and a cluster of them on the telephone at the foot of the stairs.

"She the one who tried to get me arrested for taking Smoky?" Sam whispered nervously to his son.

"Yeah, but—no problem, Dad. It was all one big mis-understanding that she created all by herself. Just steer clear of her and never, ever ask her to do anything. We have a lieutenant who's just like her," Sammy said confidentially. Sammy was a detective in the Targeted Activity Section of the Special Investigations Bureau in the Dallas Police Department.

Sammy and his dad walked back to the large sunroom, furnished in rattan and crowded with plants. It overlooked the Olympic-sized pool and surrounding gardens in back of the estate. Sitting serenely in a glider was Dolly Threlkeld, in her mid-sixties, wearing a loose caftan. She looked up as the two men entered the room.

"Hi, doll," Sammy said, coming over to squeeze her hand tenderly and kiss her taut cheek.

"Hello, Sammy," she replied from her seat on the glider, then they both looked back at squirming Sam.

He didn't say anything for twenty seconds. Sammy began working his jaw in irritation, feeling that he had already gone far above and beyond the call of duty in dragging Sam over here. Dolly looked up at Sammy and began, "I asked if Marni was with you because—"

About that time a gray cat jumped up into Dolly's lap, nudging her hand. Sammy exclaimed, "That's—is that Smoky?"

"Yes, it is," she said, stroking her. "Early this morning she showed up at the back door, raising such a fuss! We called out the veterinarian, who examined her and said she was fine, except for a lacerated paw pad. And she ate until I thought she would explode! I wanted to let Marni know she was back home."

"That's amazing. She found her way back here all the way from Sweetwater! That's over two hundred miles!" Sammy said.

"She knows where she belongs," Dolly observed without overt reference to the prodigal chauffeur.

Sam mumbled, "I'm glad she's okay," whereupon Dolly re-garded him in resignation.

"And what can I do for you?" she asked him as she stroked Smoky.

Sam couldn't get the words out, so Sammy volunteered, "He wants his old job back." Anything to get Sam out of his house.

"Is that right?" Dolly asked Sam.

"Yeah. Sure," he mumbled.

Dolly considered it. "I need a chauffeur, and you were a good one. I will hire you back at your old salary, provided you understand that this relationship is strictly professional. You will wear your uniform at all times, and you will sleep in the downstairs quarters. Are we clearly understood?"

Sam looked immensely relieved. "Yes, ma'am," he said.

"Good. You may change and see to the vehicles. I believe they need attention," Dolly said, nodding toward the five-car garage visible from the sunroom.

"Yes, Mrs. Threlkeld. Excuse me, Sammy; I have to get to work," Sam said gravely.

"Great, Dad," Sammy said, grinning. "You—"

The grating sound of gears being stripped turned all heads toward the cobbled drive leading back to the garage. Sammy was jolted to see his prized Mustang, manned by a small, brown-haired woman, lurching painfully toward the garage.

Sammy tore through the back door, clearing five patio steps in one leap. "Mrs. Pace! Stop!"

The Mustang bounced and died. Mrs. Pace, her short, smooth pageboy curling under her pert chin, looked up from behind the wheel with her usual deer-in-headlights expression. She wore no makeup. "Mrs. Pace," Sammy gasped, opening the car door, "what—what—"

"Mr. Hellier told me that all the staff are to park around back here," she said in her tentative way.

"I'm not—" Sammy forced himself to speak calmly. "I'm not staff. I just came to visit Dolly. I am leaving right now. Do not ever touch this car again," he said as civilly as he could, holding the door open for her.

She slowly climbed out. "Oh. Mr. Hellier said that the man who had been chauffeur before was coming back."

"Sam. My dad. He's the one coming back to work for Dolly as her chauffeur," Sammy clarified. He added in a tone of brotherly concern, "And, uh, Mrs. Pace, if I were you, I would keep my distance from him. He spooks easy."

"Oh," she breathed, her hand creeping to her white throat.

"He's not dangerous," Sammy added hastily. "Just a little . . . withdrawn. If you leave him alone and let him do his job, everything will be fine."

"All right, Mr. Grant," she said.

He closed his eyes. "Sammy. I'm Sammy."

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked anxiously.

"No! I'm leaving, now, Mrs. Pace. Goodbye." Sammy sat in the car, started it, and gently shifted into first. He turned the car around in the drive and made a beeline for the gates.

Before exiting onto the street from the Threlkelds' drive, Sammy stopped to close his eyes and utter the heartfelt prayer, "God, please don't let her have caused much damage, 'cause You know how much transmission repairs cost."

That said, he inhaled and looked east, toward downtown. Turning the wheel that way, he shifted and then keyed in a number on his phone. "Hello?" came the sweet voice.

"Hi, baby. I got Sam over to Dolly's, and she agreed to rehire him as her chauffeur, in a strictly, uh, platonic relationship," he said to the speakerphone as he drove.

"Oh, Sammy! That's great!" she exclaimed.

"Yeah. Oh! And guess who showed up on Dolly's back porch this morning?" he baited.

"I have no idea," she said mildly.

"I'll give you a hint. She's soft, and furry, and she bites—"

"Sammy! Are you telling me they found Smoky?" Marni screeched.

"Yep," he said with a grin. "She just showed up at the house. Found her way home all by herself."

"I can't believe it. I prayed and prayed that she'd find a good home, but I never imagined she'd make it all the way back to Dolly's," she marveled.

"How 'bout that," he murmured. "Two wanderers coming home on the same day." After allowing the proper moment for reflection, he began, "Uh, baby—"

"Sammy Kidman! Don't you tell me you're going to the office 'for a minute'!" she warned.

He coaxed, "Baby, I'm already right downtown here, and it won't take a minute to stop in and see if Mike's got that big case he promised me. He was coming in today just for that."

She hesitated. "I know how disappointed you were when the FBI moved that counterfeiting investigation to New York—"

"New Jersey," he corrected.

"—but, you promised—"

"Hey, don't I always take care of you?" he demanded lightly.

She thought about that. "Yes, you do," she admitted.

"Okay. I'll be home in a little while," he said.

"Okay, Sammy. I love you."

"I love you, baby." He pressed off the speakerphone and exited the freeway to downtown.

He parked in a private lot where detectives paid their own parking fees and trotted into the Big Building—the Police and Courts Building. Yes, yes—the new police complex south of downtown was all complete; all construction issues had been resolved, and many personnel had already moved. Sammy's partner Dave Pruett had been packed for months, he was so anxious to get out of this crazy old building on Main. Half of it had been built in 1914, the other half in 1954, with the two halves connected by their third floors. Since Pruett had also packed his current files, whenever he needed anything, he had to open one of the boxes stacked by his desk.

Sammy's sweats were appropriate here today, as the building was as cold as a mausoleum. Despite the fact that detectives worked in round-the-clock shifts seven days a week, the City Council would not approve heating or air conditioning in this building on weekends, especially not with the new complex open and operating. These little power plays helped make working for the city so entertaining—except during the summer. Then, the Targeted Activity Section detectives did whatever they could to work outside the building on Saturday and Sunday—except, of course, work in the new building, which they had not been authorized to do yet. All the elite units, like Homicide and Crimes Against Persons, had made the move. But not TAS.

Since Sammy had missed his morning run today, he took the stairs to the third floor. He walked down the hallway where faint voices echoed off the concrete that lay exposed in worn spots on the linoleum. Then he stopped at the door of the snack room with its larcenous machines and orange-laminated tables to see if Mike might be in here. He wasn't—there were only one off-duty officer and his wife handing out leaflets to anybody coming in.

Before Sammy could escape outside, the guy caught him. "Hi! Man, you look like you could use this." He pressed a leaflet into Sammy's hand.

"Uhhh." Sammy took the paper, eyeing the muscular, clean-shaven cop with the blond buzz cut. Then he glanced at the paper.

Seeing massive amounts of religious jargon in small type, Sammy started to hand it back, but the guy forestalled him with an insistent handshake. "I'm Roland on the bike downtown here"—meaning, he was a bicycle patrol officer. "This is my wife Kim. She works in Records."

"Hi!" She leaned over with a big smile.

"Hi," Sammy said automatically. "Uh, I have to get to —"

"Sure! Just look it over when you can. You're welcome at our church anytime. Directions are on the back there," Roland told him.

"Yeah," Sammy said. He held on to it while backing out the door but dropped it in the first trash can he passed.

He bypassed the Targeted Activity office, as Mike's office was down the hall. The sergeant in charge of TAS was supposed to have an office within the section, but because there wasn't room, he got put wherever there was room, and there he would stay, short of a court order or a sudden decision that this space was needed for something else. Now, once they got into the new building. . . .

Coming up on Mike's open door, Sammy saw that he was on the telephone with his back to the door, leaning far back in his desk chair as he raised a hand to feel his bald spot. This was Mike's Thinking Hard and Fast posture.

Sammy entered, preparing to announce his presence with a kiss on Mike's chocolate-brown bare patch. It drove Mike crazy when Sammy kissed him, which is why he did it whenever he could catch Mike unawares.

But Sammy stopped in his tracks upon hearing Mike object over the telephone, "Kidman can't do it. No, I don't mean he has anything else working; I mean he can't. Pruett, possibly—oh yeah, that's right. Well, how about that hot dog from Central?"

Suddenly aware of someone's presence, Mike swiveled in his chair to regard Sammy's stony face. "Uh, let me get back with you on that, Lieutenant. Uh, yes, sir; Kidman just walked in." He hung up and deliberately folded his hands on his paper-strewn desk.

"I want a transfer out of TAS," Sammy said.

"Sammy—"

"The day you lose confidence in me, I want out. Petecki was begging me to come back to Narcotics," Sammy said coldly.

"Simmer down, Kidman," Mike said, gesturing. "It's not a matter of confidence; I was just doing you a favor."

"By telling the lieutenant I'm incompetent? Thanks a lot," Sammy said, wounded.

"You're not incompetent, just too old. And how long do you want to keep your knees in working order?" Mike asked.

"Hey, I can do anything now that I could do ten years ago," the thirty-four-year-old said brashly. "As a matter of fact, I'm in a lot better condition than I was then, and so are my knees."

"Okay, Hot Shot, here it is: You know Bart Toups?" Mike asked, swiveling.

Sammy searched his memory. "No. I don't think so."

"He's the owner and general manager of the Dallas Guns—the arena football team here," Mike said.

"Oh, yeah," Sammy breathed, settling into the chair beside Mike's desk. "I read about him in the sports pages all the time. They named the team after his mouth."

"He must be your first cousin, then," Mike noted sarcastically. "Still, he's a personal friend of Lieutenant Kerr. Toups has been hearing rumors that one of his players is going to make an attempt on his life, and he wants a cop on the team long enough to find out who. The lieutenant agreed to come up with somebody."

Sammy listened open-mouthed, then burst out laughing.

"I hate it when you do this," Mike muttered.

"Say," Sammy paused, catching his breath, "can we negotiate for him to include the lieutenant in a two-for-one deal?"

"Kidman!" Mike's angry retort would have sounded much more credible had he not snickered. Rearranging his demeanor, he said, "Okay, laugh. The truth is, I don't know that you can do this, Sammy. It may not be the NFL, but it's real professional football. Is it true you played ball in college?"

"At Texas?" Sammy hooted in disbelief. "Just intramural," he said with a shrug. "I was wide receiver for my frat team. I had great hands. Two out of the three years I played, we won the intramural championship."

"Does that mean you know anything about arena football?" Mike asked.

"I can learn," Sammy said.

"Can you block?" Mike demanded. Sammy hesitated. "Get hit by a three-hundred-pound linebacker and live to tell about it?" Mike pressed. Sammy regarded him dubiously.

"I can't do this to you." Mike leaned back with finality. "Marni would hate me for the rest of my life." Sammy himself seemed ready to give up the proposition on the altar of reality.

Mike looked up, his expression changing, and Sammy turned when Mike said, "Come in, Lieutenant. Kidman and I—"

"At ease, Sergeant," the lieutenant said crisply, entering the small office. Another man stood in the doorway to evaluate Sammy. The visitor had receding blond hair and wore sweats similar to Sammy's. The lieutenant addressed him in saying, "This is Kidman, Bart—the one with the Medal of Honor."

Sammy stood to shake the proffered hand while the other continued to study him. "You—what? Six foot?"

"Five eleven," Sammy said.

"You run?" Toups asked, glancing at Sammy's attire.

"Six miles a day," Sammy confirmed, with a glance at tight-lipped Mike.

"Your lieutenant said you played ball at Texas. That right?" Toups asked.

"Well—" Sammy glanced down with a self-deprecatory laugh, hesitant to tell the influential friend of a superior officer that he had his facts wrong.

"The great ones are always modest. They don't have to prove anything to anybody—they do all their talking on the field. Your sergeant here tell you what the game plan is?" Toups demanded.

"Well—" Sammy began.

"You missed the first tryout, so you'll have to show with the callbacks next Saturday," Toups said. "You have to be good enough to make the team, too. I'm not gonna sacrifice a slot on the roster to a clown."

Tilting his head at the reference, Sammy said, "Look, Mr. Toups—I'm kinda intrigued by the opportunity, but I don't know anything about arenaball. I—"

"Okay, I can do this much for you," Toups said in a sudden change of heart. "You meet with my assistant coach at nine AM Monday at Brice Field in Euless, and he'll go over some of the fundamentals with you—spend the week getting you ready for tryouts. You show adequate form next Saturday, and you're in." He paused to dig in his sweatsuit pocket for an embossed business card. "Here's my private number. When you find out anything, you let me know." Toups extended the card to Sammy.

Taking the card, Sammy opened his mouth and Lieutenant Kerr leaned forward to advise him, "This'll look real good on your next performance review, Kidman."

"Thank you, sir. Nine AM Monday. I'll give it my best shot," Sammy said automatically.

"Good. Okay. You using an alias? Bart needs to know it," the lieutenant mentioned.

"Ahh." Sammy thought quickly. "Mick. Hazelwood. Mick Hazelwood."

Lieutenant Kerr told Toups, "Kidman's done too much undercover work to go under his real name. From now on, you know him only as Mick Hazelwood. Any other particulars, you two will have to work out. Hey, did I show you our new mobile command unit?" Kerr asked, taking Toups out of Mike's office.

In the ensuing silence, Sammy turned back to Mike. They looked at each other a moment, then Sammy said, "You realize this is just a steppingstone to NFL superstardom."

"Tell Marni I tried to stop you," Mike said earnestly.

"Yeah. Marni," Sammy considered as he left. On the way down to his car, he mulled, "How am I going to tell Marni?"

He thought about this all the way home. When he had parked his car in the garage and opened the door into the laundry room, Marni herself came up to greet him with a smile and a kiss. She wore a dark blue turtleneck sweater that made her hair shimmer in contrast. "You did make it! Oh, Sammy, thanks for leaving all the work downtown for a change!"

He squeezed her, nuzzling her soft hair. "You'd make a great cheerleader."

"Thanks. What?" she said, pulling back. Her almond eyes were narrowed in a quizzical smile.

"I'm gonna play professional football," he announced.




In researching Sammy, Robin toured the Dallas fifth-floor jail where Lee Harvey Oswald was held. See that tour here.

See In the Library review.

Buy Sammy: Arenamania.


© 2008 Robin Hardy