Baseball Dads: Sex, Drugs, Murder, Children's Baseball Part 14

h.e.l.lo?

STEVE:.

h.e.l.lO??????.

TOMMY:.

RUSS:.

LOL.

STEVE:.

G.o.ddammit.

Dwayne couldn't help but chuckle as he read the texts. The thing about Pete concerned him, but it wasn't fear. Dwayne wasn't sure if he could feel fear anymore.

He looked into the bathroom mirror. He couldn't understand what had happened to him.

Was he experiencing the world's first positive mental breakdown? His brain was no longer capable of dealing with the hypocrisy and the idiocy of the people he'd become embedded with over the last several years. On a very primal level, he felt like he might be the only person he knew who was willing to finally pull back the curtain and call it the way it was. Too many people spent their lives trying to break other people down. They stabbed them in the back. They talked s.h.i.+t. They destroyed people for sport. Why? Probably deep insecurity, Dwayne hypothesized. But he really didn't give a s.h.i.+t why it was. He didn't care. He wanted justice in a completely bulls.h.i.+t social setting. He wanted happiness among the kings and queens of unhappiness. He would bring a painful end to anyone that stood in the way of that.

Dwayne knew that these social forces had corrupted Estelle, but he was confident that he could make her see the light. He loved her. And he loved her a.s.s. But he wouldn't allow Alex to be corrupted. It wouldn't happen.

Dwayne received a text from Estelle. "Alex is going to a friend's house after school. I'm having a prayer group at our house after the funeral."

Dwayne rolled his eyes. He had his work cut out for him with Estelle, but he was ready for it. He was ready for all of it. No one in the social circles that mattered ever liked Ricky Dale, but no one would dare miss a social event like a funeral for a really rich a.s.shole. He figured that Walmart boy's funeral would be far less of a must-attend soiree. They'd never find the body, though, so it would be a while before the funeral invitations went out.

Dwayne sent out a text to the guys.

DWAYNE:.

Good job on keeping the code word inconspicuous. I'm taking the day off. Ricky Dale was a flaming c.o.c.ksucker. I'm paying my respects today by drinking beer, smoking weed, and watching ESPN. We can meet up tomorrow for lunch.

STEVE:.

Briefcase! Did you hear about Pete Rearden? He got abducted at Walmart last night. Briefcase!

RUSS:.

That's hardly the first time something has been stolen from a Walmart.

TOMMY:.

LOL.

STEVE:.

d.a.m.n. You guys are d.i.c.ks!

DWAYNE:.

Yup. And this d.i.c.k is gonna watch some TV and smoke a doob. f.u.c.k Pete. See you guys tomorrow. Noon at the club.

STEVE:.

Dwayne ... I just ... briefcase. Briefcase, Dwayne. Briefcase.

DWAYNE:.

I caught that, Steve. I'm in mourning. We'll talk tomorrow.

Dwayne threw on a pair of old camouflage shorts and a t-s.h.i.+rt, and slid his feet into his nicest flip-flops. He reached above his armoire for his rolling tray and bag of weed, and twisted up a few joints. A feeling of accomplishment from his previous day at the office, compounded with the awesome news that life from this point forward was his for the plucking, brought on a profound need for celebration via relaxation.

Alex wouldn't be home until later in the evening, so he figured he would tie on a pretty mean buzz. He walked out to his garage, grabbed an old Styrofoam ice chest, and filled it with beer and ice from the fridge. He slid the ice chest up close to his favorite recliner in the living room, within arm's reach. With a joint in his mouth and a beer in his hand, Dwayne pulled the recline lever on his favorite chair and hit the power b.u.t.ton on the television's remote control.

The air in the living room was thick with pot smoke in no time at all. The sun had begun to s.h.i.+ne brightly into the living room, and the light cast interesting shapes in the clouds of smoke throughout the room. One particularly annoying beam of light had worked its way toward Dwayne's face, so he pulled his Wayfarers out and slid them on.

Dwayne indecisively flipped the channels back and forth between ESPN and National Geographic. NatGeo had an excellent African cat segment airing, and Dwayne didn't want to miss a single kill. The gazelle deaths were great, but the water buffalo takedowns were simply spectacular.

A pride of lions was enjoying a meal of kudu when the front door to Dwayne's house opened. Dwayne heard the mult.i.tude of footsteps from the finest Jimmy Choo and Prada heels. He then heard the chairs in the dining room slide in and out. The prayer group had arrived.

"Estelle, dear, what is that smell?" one of the ladies asked.

"Did a skunk die under your house?" another inquired.

Estelle knew exactly what the smell was. She was struggling with an explanation for the uppity women. Dwayne decided to help her out.

He popped the footrest down on the recliner and headed into the dining room. With his sungla.s.ses on, he walked to where the ladies were seated, clasping a beer in one hand and holding the last inch of a smoldering doobie with the other. He leaned his back against the wall and began to rub it up and down slowly to take care of an itch before addressing the crowd.

"What's shakin', ladies?" he asked with a grin.

"h.e.l.lo, dear," Estelle said, trying to conceal a grin of her own. "We're just-"

"Is that marijuana, Dwayne?" quizzed Janice Harper, wife of Pastor Jim from the Westside Church of Jesus.

"Why, yes it is," he responded. "It's some pretty good s.h.i.+t, too. I am fuuuuucked up!" Dwayne started giggling. He tried to stop but couldn't.

"Is this why you weren't at the funeral, Dwayne?" Tiffany Blaine asked. "You couldn't pay your respects to Ricky Dale because you'd rather abuse substances?"