The Throwbacks, Book 1 of The Scotland Yard Exchange Program Series

The Throwbacks, Excerpt # 31

On the street, he wished he smoked.  He may as well send himself to an early grave with cigarettes as with a sedate—or sedated—life as an old codger.  That’s not the old age he pictured for himself.  He may not a 30-year-old family man with the ambition to set up shop in the suburbs and raise a bunch of kids, but he was no old codger either.   He had to acknowledge though, that life with Grace under any circumstances would be a kick.

No, he wouldn’t be retiring to a country cottage with the likes of Frenchie either.  He acknowledged the vision of his likely future as a lone wolf, investigating whatever illicit or mysterious deeds the Boston Police Department assigned him to investigate.  He’d skulk around on the job, have some drinks and laughs with friends when he wasn’t and keep a warm, worldly, witty and understanding lady friend around to keep from being lonely—on the nights he needed her.

Where the hell would he find a woman like that?  She wasn’t Frenchie—too timid.  And alas, she wasn’t Grace.

Those were his thoughts when the police cruiser pulled up in front of him with a wave of acknowledgment.  The cop inside was friendly and well informed—He had pictures on his dash board of him and of Grace, among others.

“Lucky man,” the cop said about his assignment.  He smiled back.

“Strictly professional,” he told the young cop.  David had a spike in temp and felt compelled to protect Grace’s reputation.  “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you about behaving professionally.”  Though his words were friendly, he bared his teeth a tad more than was usual for a smile and the cop was duly warned and nodded his head.

David walked to the corner intersecting with Cambridge Street, glanced to the left to see how close he was to police headquarters and City Hall.  Thank god for small favors.  He hoped that proximity would not be relevant, but it was good to have.  Then he hailed a cab and gave the cabbie the address that Oscar had given him.  It was a rundown motel in Chelsea, just north of the city.  This was a bad place and a very odd place for a world-class soccer player to be staying unless he was up to no good.  David was not surprised when the cabbie refused to wait, but pulled his neck-tie from his shirt and stuffed it in his pocket and turned up his collar.  The autumn air was camouflaged well by grimey night-time mist and puffs of smoke coming from buses, the meat factory chimney and a nearby waste management plant.

“Charming place, Chelsea.  Exactly as I remember it,” he thought and walked around the block from themotel.  There were three cars in the lot and a few others parked in the vicinity.  One dim light shone in the interior of the motel office and he saw a man who looked to be Hispanic in his mid fifties staring at a small TV in the corner.  There was a door—probably to a back room and washroom and a door out of the back on the other side to a small grassy area with a fence within 10 feet of the building along the back.  He finished circling the perimeter with his eyes and walked back towards the front and in the front door.

The man at the desk jumped.

“What you want,” he said in a dead voice.  He looked at David as if he were crazy.  The man’s suspicion was palpable and David noticed that the man’s hands weren’t where he could keep an eye on them.

Since David was obviously not dressed appropriately to be a customer for this particular hotel, he didn’t blame the man for being wary.

“I’m looking for one of your residents.  Mr. Arturo Diego.  Can you tell me which room he’s in please?” David said without sparing a blink of concern.

“Why should I?” the man raised his brow and grinned now convinced that David was either daft or a cop.

“Because I have money,” David said with enough smugness so that he knew the man would believe it.  No sense trying to talk tough when he could speak the universal language of dollar signs.  The man seemed to understand him perfectly and he stopped grinning and gave him a nod.