Page 63 of Tito

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My father shookTito’s hand for an inordinate amount of time, studying him all the while. “Ted Gottschalk,” he said. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Taddeo Silva,” Tito said. “I prefer Tito.”

“I go by Tank at work,” my father said, crossing his arms over his chest. “But, let’s just stick with Ted for now.”

Tito gave a crisp nod. “Yes, Sir.”

My father eyed Tito’s tattoos for a lingering moment, and then turned toward the kitchen. “You can give that sir shit a rest, Tito. I’m not the chief of police, nor am I a military officer.”

Tito glanced in my direction and shrugged an awkward apology. “It’s habit.”

My father waved his arm toward the kitchen in a whirlwind motion. “Follow me. I’ve got meat marinating.”

It had only been five minutes, but so far, everything was going smoothly. While my father sauntered toward the kitchen, I looked at Tito and raised my brows.

He smiled in return.

Typically, my father formed his opinions in a matter of minutes. After that, there was no turning back. I crossed my fingers that there were no major snafus before the night was over.

It took him five minutes to decide what he thought of Jared, and his beliefs didn’t change over time. In the end, he didn’t come out and say I was right, but he didn’t have to. His categorization of my boyfriends over the course of my life had been spot-on.

The ones that he approved of I let go, only to see them go on to get married. Of the men he detested, some wound up in prison. One was dead. A few continued to abuse and manipulate women elsewhere.

I wondered if being a detective allowed him to develop a sixth sense about mankind, or if his sixth sense about mankind allowed him to become an effective investigator. I found it odd that I never asked the question of him.

“The coffee we drank is going right through me,” Tito said.

“Second door on the left,” my father said.

“I’ll be right back.”

While Tito went to the bathroom, I stepped beside my father. As soon as I heard the door latch into place, I began to probe his thoughts.

“Well?”

“Well what?” he asked. “You want me to make a decision based on a handshake and the fact he called me sir?”

“Yes.”

“Here’s my observations,” he said. “He’s got a good handshake. He’s polite. Confident. I outweigh him by seventy-five pounds, and he’s not intimidated by me. That’s a good sign.”

“Is that it?”

He patted a steak dry, and then set it aside. “He’s got a lot of tattoos.”

“So do half the officers on the police force,” I argued.

After a lingering over the shoulder stink-eye, he went back to tending the steaks. “So far, I like him. I’ll give you a more educated opinion before the night’s over.”

“Okay.”

“Did you find out if he rides in a club?”

I feared if he found out Tito rode in a motorcycle club, that he’d immediately categorize him. Having him form an unbiased opinion after spending an evening together wouldn’t be possible. He’d decide Tito was a bad apple immediately upon finding out he was in an MC.

I couldn’t lie to my father, but I was hesitant to offer the truth. I struggled with a way to be honest without revealing my findings.