Tyler promised to have the flyers done by five, and Matt headed back to the rink. When Harlow looked up from the ticket booth, he had that flip-flop feeling, the kind that made a man write poetry and croon a love song.
He’d not given much thought to why he kissed her, except he wanted to kiss her again . . . a few inches below her forehead.
“Did you get the flyers?” She tore at the cellophane around a new roll of tickets.
“Harry gave him a big job, so Tyler put ours on hold. I’m sure it’s part of his strategy to get in our way.” Matt checked to see how many skaters were on the floor. His goal for now was to save the rink. After that, he’d figure ways to improve business. A group of senior citizens slowly skated, clinging to one another. “Who’s out there? Where’s the floor guard?”
“A Nickle High reunion,” Harlow said. “Class of Twenty and Twenty-one. Your granny was excited to see them. Craig was supposed to be floor guard but didn’t show.”
“Then let’s just remove the Starlight from Craig’s things-to-forget. I’ll call his house, let him know his services are no longer needed. I’ll be the floor guard.” He started to walk off. “Unless you want to do it?”
“I don’t skate.”
“Hmmm, we’ll see.”
Matt called Craig’s house, gave his mother the news. Then called Simon Caster, the kid who mowed Harlow’s lawn and delivered pizza for Tony’s. He was always hustling. “Simon, Matt Knight. You want a job at the Starlight?”
As Matt exchanged his Adidas for his skates and looped the whistle lanyard around his neck, his old high school buddy, Milo Patitucci, walked in, flashing his Sea Blue Beach PD badge.
“Got a minute?”
“Sure. What’s up?” Matt peered toward the rink floor as Nora called for the Hokey Pokey. “Make it quick, Milo. Got no floorguard and a bunch of senior citizens about to put their right foot in and their left foot out. We might need to dial 9-1-1.”
“What happened at the Blue Plate?” Milo crossed his arms and leaned against the sound booth wall.
“Is this about Dale Cranston?”
“You know it is, Matt. You hit him?”
Matt started to speak, then remembered the advice of his LA lawyer, Norman Lundquist III, who worked his legal magic for Matt a couple of times.“Keep your mouth shut.”
“Is that what he’s saying?”
“He’s pressing charges, Matt. I’d like to punch his arrogant face too, but even in Sea Blue Beach, punching a man is a first-degree misdemeanor.” Milo held up a slip of paper. “Right or wrong, Judge Hart signed a warrant for your arrest. He and Dale used to bowl together.”
“At that old Tin Pins Alley? It shut down years ago, which is no surprise when you misspell the number ten.”
“Also not a crime.” Milo waved the warrant. “I got to haul you in, Matt. You’ll see the judge tonight.”
“Haul me in?” He laughed, but Milo did not. “Okay, fine, then I want to file charges against Dale Cranston for insulting the Starlight and Harlow.”
“Fine, but first—” Officer Patitucci reached for his cuffs. “I can do this outside if you want.”
“I don’t need cuffs.”
“Procedure. Also, Dale hired a lawyer. He’s claiming your training with Chuck Norris makes you a life-threatening weapon. Did you really hit him with a jab, cross, uppercut?”
“I plead the Fifth, Milo. The Fifth.”
“Okay, off with the skates, Matt. Let’s go. By the way, who’s the brownish-blonde at the ticket booth?”
“The woman Dale insulted.” Matt jerked the skates’ laces. “Harlow Hayes.”
“TheHarlow Hayes?”
“Yes,theHarlow Hayes.” Matt tugged off the skates, returned them to the office, and reached for his sneakers. Unbelievable.
“She, uh, gained some weight.”
