Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(20)

We kicked off and al strategy was forgotten. Kids crowded the bal , moving back and forth down the field in a multi-legged clump. Paul was our best kicker, except he tended to boot it the wrong direction. Maria was a natural halfback, since the bal bounced off her anytime it came her direction whether she meant it to or not.

Jem played keeper. After only five minutes, the other team had scored three goals off him.

Al that hand-eye coordination from playing video games didn’t seem to translate to sports. He moved slowly, grabbing for the bal right after it went past him. He dove in the wrong direction. I yel ed, “Hands!” and he tried to block with his foot. The whole time, he kept a huge grin on his face, as if the other team was cheering for him whenever the bal sailed into the net.

My heart sank. I’d been working with him one-on-one al the previous week, ever since he announced he wanted to play goalie in our first game against Saint Mark’s. I didn’t want to see the poor kid get blamed for what promised to be an absolute slaughter.

Somebody’s dad—a pale Anglo in an Oxford and khakis—joined the mothers at the bleachers. I checked my watch. Only twenty minutes left of practice, and now the rain was real y starting to come down. Typical.

Jack the dog boy kicked from the edge of the penalty box—a slow, weak shot. Jem lunged for it, just the way he and I had practiced. He fel on his side, a foot short, and the bal wobbled into the net.

“Yes!” Jack yel ed. “Woof!”

Laura clapped for him. His team yel ed hooray. Jem got up, grinning happily, his left side caked in mud.

We were stil a few minutes early, but I decided it was time to stop.

I told the kids to line up. We would walk together to the extended care building, where they could play until their parents came.

They heard the “extended care” part, cheered for joy, and scattered.

“Pick up the bal s!” I yel ed after them, but of course it was too late.

Jem and I cleaned up equipment. The rain came down heavier, sizzling against the grass. We gathered the bal s and cones, stuffed everything into the supply sack. Jem skipped around in his muddy yel ow goalie vest, punching the air.

“Wasn’t I great?” he asked. “Goalie rocks!”

“We’l keep working on it, champ.”

“Can I play goalie the whole game, Tres? Please?”

“Remember, you have to give the others a turn.”

“Aw, please?”

We lugged the gear bag to the storage shed, out by the kindergarten parking lot. Rain drummed against the aluminum roof.

I’d just finished padlocking the door when I noticed the silver BMW idling by the curb. The father in the Oxford and khakis was walking toward us.

“Looking for your child?” I asked.

“No, no,” the man said. “Got him in the car.”

The BMW’s windows were so dark he could’ve had the whole soccer team inside and I wouldn’t have been able to see them.

Technical y, he shouldn’t have parked in the kindergarten lot. It was off limits for the summer. Everybody was supposed to pick up at the main entrance, where the security booth control ed access. But the back lot was closer to the field, there was easy egress to neighborhood streets, and many parents, like their kids, had trouble believing school rules applied to them.

“I’m Alec’s dad,” the man said. “Jerry Vespers.”

His hand was cal used, odd for a BMW driver. His accent West Texas—an oil man, maybe.

“Tres Navarre,” I said.

I tried to picture his son. There were stil a couple of kids’ names I was shaky on, but Alec Vespers?

The father’s skin was fish-bel y white, his black hair shaved in a severe military cut. His eyes, behind the gold wire rim glasses, were wrong somehow—calm but intense, like he was staring down a rifle scope.

“I don’t know Alec,” I decided. “He isn’t on the team.”

“No,” Mr. Vespers agreed. “Couldn’t get him interested. I told Erainya we’d pick up Jem.”

“Pardon?”

“The play date.” Mr. Vespers smiled thinly. “I’l have Jem home by supper. Or Erainya can cal , if she’d rather come get him. Come on, Jem.”

Jem was looking at Mr. Vespers with a curious expression, as if he’d just been offered a dangerous present. He took a tentative step forward, but I put my hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t know anything about a play date,” I told Mr. Vespers.

“Erainya must’ve forgotten to tel you,” he said. “How about I cal the agency? She at the 315 extension?”

He took out a cel phone, started to dial. He seemed keen to prove that he knew Erainya’s business number.

“No need,” I told him. “Jem’s going with me.”

Vespers closed his cel phone. He slipped it into his pants pocket. “You the boy’s parent, Mr. Navarre?”

“I don’t know you. Erainya wouldn’t forget to tel me.”

He shifted his gaze to Jem. “Alec’s in the car, son. How about you come say goodbye to him, at least?”

Jem looked agitated now. He was chewing on his thumbnail.

“Mr. Vespers,” I said tightly. “You need to leave.”

Vespers lowered on his haunches. His eyes narrowed, rain speckling his glasses. “What’s the matter, boy?”