No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,26
sympathy. “You’re doing a fine thing, ma’am—I mean, Jess. Good luck. And let me know if I can help. I got a police scanner, if you need it.”
She appreciated his offer. “Thanks, Jerry. I’ll keep it in mind. What do you use a police scanner for?”
He turned back to face her and shrugged his broad, thin shoulders. “Oh, I hear stuff about shootings, robberies, runaways.” He thudded his thumb into his uniform front. “I figure if I’m lucky, I’ll get on ‘Primetime Crime’ for catching a serial killer or something.” He must have seen a trace of doubt in her expression, for he added, “Honest. We got plenty of crime here in OK City.”
She had to agree with that. “Well—thanks for the offer. And if you hear of any serial killers in the area, let us know.”
He laughed. “You’re kiddin’, but I will. Also, I’m great with spaghetti sauce, if your kids need a good recipe. My day off’s Sunday.”
She grew vaguely hopeful. “Oh? You mean Mr. Brand doesn’t go to work on Sundays?”
Jerry shook his head, clapping his hat back on. “Naw. He goes. He’s got the ragin’ red Testarossa.”
She made a face. “Sounds painful.”
Jerry looked baffled, then laughed his high-pitched, staccato laugh. “The red Testarossa’s Mr. Brand’s Ferrari.” He took on the look of a lovesick pup. “Heck. If I had one of them, I’d fire me and drive that baby all the time.”
Light laughter bubbled in Jess’s throat. “I’d be glad he isn’t you, then. You’d be out of a job.” Secretly, she would have preferred that Lucas Brand was Jerry—at least his attitude toward the Mr. Niceguy project would be a trillion-percent better.
“Well—be seein’ ya. I’ll give that message to the boss,” Jerry promised as he jogged toward the door leading to the kitchen.
“Thanks,” she replied, then headed back to the van to direct the kids to the bunkhouse where they’d been banished. The volunteer couples, Howie and Reba Goodall, both retired teachers, and Bertha and Bernie Kornblum, who owned a small farm outside of town, cast each other subtle glances of disappointment. They recognized the ostracism for what it was, just as Jess had. But as the kids scrambled around untying their stuff, laughing and shouting, nudging, teasing and generally horsing around, Jess silently prayed that they wouldn’t recognize the rejection. The six boys and four girls had already known enough of that in their young lives.
The bunkhouse was a long, one-story building with a wood-shingled roof and walls constructed of rough-cut pine treated with a reddish stain. Wooden shutters were closed across the windows, making it obvious that the place had been locked up for some time. Jess hoped it wouldn’t require much cleaning. The kids shouldn’t have to slave over their accommodations. This wasn’t a construction site or a prison camp. It was a retreat and supposedly a time to fish, to ride horses, to collect leaves or jump in them; a time to run, to learn how to work together as a team, be a family, be creative, see how life could be better, and basically, to enjoy a reward for having tried and succeeded at something.
Jess took a suitcase in each hand and struggled to join Annie Smith and Suzy Clark, who were loaded down with bags. Moses Booker raced past Jess and the two girls, each with a duffel bag under one arm and a suitcase grasped in the other hand. “I’m gonna check this place out. You comin’, Spitball?”
Jess had to smile. The Asian boy, Noriko Sakata, had been given the nickname Spitball, and she had no idea why. She supposed it was best that she didn’t. Noriko was a native of Oklahoma City. His dad, an immigrant, had died several years before, and his mother, not proficient in English, was having a hard time making ends meet for herself and her three sons. Spitball was a good kid, worked two part-time jobs after school, and had done well on the essay. He was slight, with spiky black hair and a bighearted grin.
“I’m coming, dude,” Spitball puffed, dragging the biggest suitcase of the bunch. Jess shook her head at him. For a kid of fourteen who was just under five feet tall and couldn’t possibly weigh one hundred pounds yet, Spitball had no idea he wasn’t as strong and big as an ox.
Jack lagged behind, not speaking, but doing his share. He had single-handedly lifted a cooker off the top of van number two. It had to weigh eighty