Lassiter

29 Boy Meets Punching Bag

Granny was preparing chicken-fried steaks and yammering about the money I owed her for posting my bail. I was not hungry. Maybe because I’m not partial to beef dipped in milk and eggs and then fried. Maybe because I was worried about Amy.

“Exactly what did she say to you?” I asked.

“Told you three times. I bailed her out of the Women’s Annex before I got you. Figured you’re more used to jail than she is. She said she’d be over for dinner because she favored my cooking.”

“That’s it?”

“She said to thank you for everything.”

“Jeez, Granny. You didn’t tell me that before.”

“So?”

“It sounds like good-bye.”

I tried calling Amy, got her voicemail.

“You gonna mash those taters, or do I have to do everything around here?” Granny said.

I picked up the masher and went to work. I heard the front door open and called out Amy’s name. But it was Kip, shuffling into the kitchen, sniffing around the stove. “Chicken-fried steak again. Jeez.”

“Wash up,” Granny said.

“I’d rather have meat loaf wrapped in bacon.”

“And hush up.” Granny never took backtalk from me and wasn’t going to start with my nephew.

“You make a rhubarb pie, Granny?”

“Didn’t have time, and if you want to know why, ask your jailbird uncle.”

Kip turned to me, and I saw the shiner, a purple welt under his eye.

Shit. Not again.

“Carl Kountz?” I asked him.

“Baseball practice. He clocked me at second base on a force out.”

“Clean play?”

“Not really. He didn’t bother to slide.”

“You have words with him?”

“I told him to lay off, and when the coach wasn’t looking, he hit me again. Hard.”

“Granny, don’t put those beefsteaks in the frying pan just yet,” I said. “Kip and I are gonna hit the bag for a bit.”

It was the third time we’d worked on kickboxing. For a skinny kid, Kip had a snappy left, and his right cross was coming along. I gave him an up-from-under bolo punch because he thought it was fun. Then we worked on front and side kicks. He was a quick learner. Coordinating the punches and kicks into a smooth rhythm would take longer.

Csonka lay in the grass, licking his balls, then watching us a moment, then licking his balls again. Priorities.

I told Kip to speed up his combinations. Sweat dribbled down his face, and the pop-pop of leather against bag became louder, the timing more consistent. We were twenty minutes into it when my cell phone rang. It had to be Amy.

But it wasn’t.

“Lassiter, you like sushi?” Charlie Ziegler said.

“More than chicken-fried steak. Why you asking?”

“I’m inviting you to dinner. The gentlemanly way. No Ray Decker, no armed escort. Just come on over for sake and sushi.”

Thunder boomed to the west, and the first flashes of lightning crackled the night sky. The wind picked up. Kip kept on punching and kicking.

“Why?”

“Castiel told me what happened today outside the Grand Jury. If a reporter had been there, it would be bad publicity for both of us.”

“For you, maybe. A lawyer who goes to jail for his clients is a hot commodity.”

“Don’t be a dick, Lassiter. I’m making peace here.”

“Yeah?”

“I haven’t been totally honest with you.”

Fat, warm raindrops pelted me.

“I want to make this right,” Ziegler said. “I want to tell you everything.”