Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4) by Nick Pirog (best ereader for textbooks .TXT) 📗

through the glass partition you could see a healthy crowd slugging back beers and cheering loudly.

All the lanes but one were occupied, and I spotted Alexa and Randall in a lane near the middle.

“Look at you,” Alexa said as Wheeler and I approached. I hadn’t seen her since their church revival the first week of June. She pulled me into a hug, exclaiming, “How much weight have you lost?”

“Thirty pounds.”

I was still another ten pounds from fighting weight, but I was no longer fat. In fact, after six weeks of running, working out with dumbbells, and the long days on the farm, I felt stronger than I had in a long time.

Alexa released me, then said, “Well, don’t you go losing any more weight, you gotta give this girl something to hold on to.” She winked at Wheeler.

Since returning from our road trip, Wheeler and I had spent countless hours intertwined: at my house, at her house, even once at her clinic, which I’m guessing had to break some sort of oath.

Wheeler grinned and grabbed what was left of my deteriorating love handles. She said, “Oh, there’s plenty to hold on to.”

Wheeler was wearing a black tank top and a pair of tight blue jeans that accentuated her exquisite backside. Her hands gripping my waist, I was currently struggling with a temptation of the flesh.

Down, Boy.

“Now my guy,” Alexa said, tilting her head toward Randall, who was on his haunches examining a purple, sixteen-pound ball. “He could stand to lay off the Thin Mints.”

Randall let loose his infectious cackle and said, “You’re the one who bought twenty boxes.”

The four of us were all giving this a good laugh when the rest of our bowling party arrived: my cousin and his wife. Being a small town, Jerry and Joan had met Wheeler, Alexa, and Randall at various points and I didn’t need to make introductions.

After some idle chatter, Jerry clapped me on the shoulder and asked, “So, when was the last time you went bowling?”

“Probably a decade ago, when I worked at the Seattle PD.”

“How’d you do?”

“I want to say I bowled a 240…no….a 242.”

Wheeler was tying her bowling shoes nearby and glanced up. She said, “Don’t listen to him. He rolled a 68.”

“I told you that in confidence!” I huffed.

Everyone laughed.

A waitress came over and we ordered one of everything: chicken wings, nachos, pizza, cheese sticks, French fries, chili fries, potato skins, sliders, you know, healthy stuff. Randall, Jerry, and I ordered a pitcher of beer and the women went the martini route.

Alexa, who seemed by far the most eager to do some actual bowling, sat down to the computer and started setting up our game. Randall had mentioned how she was always the one to get things going, whether it was rounding everyone up for a board game or getting people on the dance floor. “Okay,” she said, “everyone needs to come up with a nickname.”

She typed hers in first: Winky Dink.

“Randall?” she asked, turning around.

He thought for a moment, then said, “How ‘bout Pokémon?”

Alexa laughed, then typed it in. “What about you Wheeler?”

She said, “I’ll be Sarah.”

I cut my eyes at her and said, “Hardy-har-har.”

She smirked, then said, “Thomas will be Dergen.”

So much for Ice Man.

“Dergen?” Jerry bellowed.

“It’s my middle name,” I explained.

“You know it means ‘shit’?”

I glared at Wheeler. “I have been apprised of this, yes.”

Joan said, “I’ll be Jo-jo.” Then she pointed at Jerry and said, “He’ll be Fuzz.”

It took a moment for it to register.

Fuzz?

I scoffed, loud enough that Wheeler turned and asked, “What?”

“Nothing,” I said, waving her off.

I thought back to Will Dennel’s Moleskine—Fuzz. I’d thought it was a nickname for someone at the Tarrin Police Department, but was it possible that it was Jerry?

Jerry had proven he was a betting man, first on the golf course, then when he was playing video games with his kids. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think he would have had action with the local bookie. Could Jerry have been the one who owed Will Dennel $83,000?

I glanced at him. He was clad in another of his token golf shirts, this time red. If he was in fact Fuzz, did that change anything? Everyone had their vices. Maybe gambling was his. Who was I to judge him?

But $83,000?

Still, I didn’t know what had happened in the past. Maybe he won that much previously. Or more. Maybe over a lifetime of betting he was up a million dollars. He drove a nice car, lived in a nice house, had nice things. If he did owe $83,000 it didn’t appear to have affected him financially.

Then it struck me.

He never had to pay off this debt.

Will Dennel was murdered.

I asked Jerry, “Where did the nickname Fuzz come from?”

He sighed, then said, “I’ve had it since high school. When I was a sophomore, I tried to grow a mustache. Didn’t turn out very well and all my buddies starting calling me Peach Fuzz. They shortened it to Fuzz, and thirty years later, half the town still calls me that.”

The pitcher of beer and the martinis were delivered. Jerry poured three glasses of the amber liquid, and as if reading my mind, he asked, “You guys care to make this interesting?”

“Sure,” Randall said. “I’ll bet a few bucks.”

“Let’s just play for fun,” I said brusquely, perhaps more brusquely than I intended. Forcing a smile, I added, “I won’t sleep tonight knowing I took your guys’ money.”

They both laughed and we compromised on a small wager of five dollars for whoever bowled the high score over the course of the night.

Alexa overhead our banter and said, “Wait, I want in on this.”

“Let’s play couples,” Wheeler offered.

So we made a second bet. But this one wasn’t for money. Losing couple of each game had to buy shots.

A few minutes later, the food came. After eating healthy for over a month, my stomach churned at the bombardment of grease, but everything tasted so delicious that I powered through.

“All right,” Alexa said, after ten minutes of