He listened to the smooth modal changes of “So What” from the Miles Davis–Bill Evans masterpiece album Kind of Blue. It was one of Crocker’s favorites, and to his mind the best Davis ever recorded.
“You really like it?” he asked.
“It’s cool and…like…helps me relax.”
He sat on a pink plastic stool across from her. “Sweetheart, let’s talk about the letter that came from your counselor.”
“Oh that.…” As if the weight of the world had suddenly fallen on her seventeen-year-old shoulders.
He cut to the chase. “Is this about a boy, drugs, alcohol, or something else not related to school?”
“No, Dad,” she answered. “Is that what Holly told you?”
“No.”
“I’m not partying or fooling around,” she said. “Maybe I go out on the weekends with my friends, but I come home every day after school and study.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
She sighed, “Dad, I’m trying. I’m just dealing with a lot of like…personal stuff.”
He wanted to believe that, and knew it had to be tough having a mother who couldn’t deal with her and sent her to live with a father who wasn’t around most of the time. He tried to be involved, the way he was doing now, asking her what was going on at school, patiently waiting for her to explain. According to her, things weren’t as bad as they seemed. Teachers in both classes had failed to enter some of her assignments into the computer grading system. And there were some tests and quizzes that she was planning to retake.
In the end, she accused Holly of overreacting.
Crocker begged her to be understanding. Holly, he explained, was going through a difficult time of her own.
Jenny nodded. “I know, Dad. I think she still feels guilty about her friend who died.”
Both women were hypersensitive, especially with regard to each other.
He said, “I agree,” then kissed her, told her he loved her, and that he had to leave the next morning.
“You think you’ll be back for Christmas?” Jenny asked.
The holiday was four days away. “I don’t know,” he answered. “The odds aren’t good.”
“But you’ll call?”
“Every opportunity I get.”
“Thanks, Dad. I love you. Be safe.”
He closed the door behind him, and padded down the hall to his bedroom, where Holly lay in bed with the reading lamp on beside her. He splashed water on his face, brushed his teeth, pulled off the sweater he’d worn all day, and sat down on the bed beside her.
“Holly,” he whispered. “Sweetheart…”
She turned and he saw she’d been crying. He wanted to take her by the shoulders and tell her to snap out of it, but he knew that wouldn’t work. So he wiped the tears from her eyes, told her he’d spoken to Jenny and she had assured him that her grades weren’t as bad as they seemed. In fact, she thought she was getting A’s in her three other classes.
“I can’t help her, Tom,” Holly said, squeezing his hand. “I’m too busy trying to deal with my own problems.”
He kissed her on the lips. “I know, sweetheart. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
Chapter Eight
There is not a righteous man on earth who always does what is right and never sins.
—Ecclesiastes 7:20
The six members of Black Cell sat in the Corona Beach House in Terminal D of the Miami International Airport, watching the Heat-Jazz game on TV, sipping beers and snacking on nachos as they waited for their connecting flight. The last time Crocker had been in Caracas he’d been part of a security team guarding President George H. W. Bush back in 1990 and not too long after he graduated from BUD/S.
That was before Hugo Chávez had assumed power and become a thorn in the side of the United States. He even blamed the States for causing the earthquake that devastated Haiti in January 2010.
Crocker pulled Cal over to the salsa bar and asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Just checking.”
Working with the men on the team was easier than dealing with people in civilian life. They bled, but they didn’t complain. Their bones cracked, but they’d been trained not to break down psychologically.
He returned to the table as Ritchie was telling the others about a trip he’d made to New York City over the weekend with his fiancée, Monica, and how they’d enjoyed the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall, ice skating at Rockefeller Center, shopping at Barney’s and Bergdorf’s. Monica had expensive tastes, and Ritchie, who had grown up in a trailer park on the outskirts of Dallas, seemed not to mind.