Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
There were the obvious visible signs—buildings with broken and boarded up windows, graffiti, messy yards, timeworn cars that looked abandoned. The few commercial buildings that held stores, had bars covering the doors and windows. A very visible police car was parked at the corner of a four-way intersection.
Where the fuck did Dick live?
I followed a half-block behind, careful not to call attention to my pickup. He weaved in and out of side streets that made me want to lock my doors. Eventually, he slowed and pulled to the curb. I parked on the opposite side of the street, five or so cars back. If I was going to keep up with this shit, I really needed some fucking binoculars. Dick reached into the back of his car, pulled out a bag, and proceeded to start changing his clothes right there in the front seat of the car.
What the fuck was he doing?
The street we parked on was lined with dilapidated muti-family housing. A half-dozen bandana clad guys hung around on a stoop nearby. I was pretty sure I’d just left a couple of them behind at the state penitentiary. Dick got out, looked around skittishly, and headed to one of the rundown buildings. He disappeared down a set of concrete stairs that looked like it led to a basement entrance.
A few minutes later, another man headed to the same door. This guy had a long, matted beard and wore a wool cap and heavy army jacket, even though it was still close to eighty-five degrees. He was also scratching his face incessantly and looking around frantically as he walked.
Dick was in a crack den? The day was getting a lot more interesting.
After spending two years in a prison full of criminals, I was anxious to get the fuck out of there as night fell. The neighborhood that had seemed desolate was suddenly starting to come alive—with people who didn’t go out until they could hide in the shadows of darkness.
But I waited. If Dick could be out here, so could I. More than an hour passed before the Princess Fucker jogged up the stairs and onto the street. With a brown paper bag in his hand, he wasted no time getting in his car. His fancy ride pulled away as soon as his door was shut.
I didn’t follow him.
Curiosity had gotten the best of me and before I knew it, I was locking my truck. I hadn’t planned what I was going to do once I got to the door—buying a vile of crack as evidence to show Aubrey that Dick was a dick, probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do. I would have to settle for understanding what I was up against and worry about what to do with the information later.
The stairwell was narrow, with only a few steps leading to a closed door. When I got to the bottom, I found the door was actually left a crack open. There was also music coming from inside. I edged it open. At first, a little. Then a little bit more. Until the door suddenly swung open, and I nearly fell into the building.
I looked up expecting to find a gun to my head for breaking into a crack house. But what I found couldn’t have been more different. A priest was holding open the door and extended his hand into the room behind him, welcoming me.
“Come in. Ladels of Love is happy to feed you this evening.”
It took a minute to realize what I’d just walked into. A soup kitchen. The Princess Fucker wasn’t buying crack; he was feeding the indigent.
Fuck me.
I was definitely going to need to up my game.
Chapter Twenty
It seemed Aubrey and Dick were quite the pair of philanthropists.
Sitting in my truck on Jefferson a few days later, I opened the local newspaper, and smack dab in the middle of the community section was Aubrey’s beautiful smile along with an article about a new animal shelter that had just opened up.
Local attorneys Aubrey Bloom and Richard Kline of Sherman, Kline and Lefave, LLP attend the grand opening of the Park Street Animal Shelter. Kline and Bloom, a member of the Park Street board of directors, helped raise over five-hundred-thousand dollars to support the shelter’s new facility.
At the end of the article, there was a phone number for the shelter. I immediately dialed it.
A girl answered, “Park Street Animal Shelter?”
“Hi, I was wondering if you’re looking for any volunteers?”
“Actually, yes, sir. We are in dire need of dog walkers. Is that something you might be interested in?”
“Absolutely. I could come by this afternoon.”
“We’ll have you fill out some paperwork we need to process, so you may not be able to start until later in the week.”
“That’s fine. I can’t wait to help.”
Take that, Princess Fucker.
Stalker, landscaper, goat sitter…add dog walker to the list of new occupations held by Chance Bateman during my stay in Temecula.