Crown's Law by Wolf Wootan Page B

has been bothering me.
She’s 16 now, has her own wheels. In June she’ll get her
doctorates. She’ll be a professor of some sort at UCI—or anywhere
she wants. Several universities have already approached her. So
she’s a perfect case for emancipation whenever she wants it. I
wonder if she’s ever talked to you about it.”
    “Are you for or against it?” she asked, back
in shrink mode.
    “Against, of course. I would never stand in
her way, but it would complicate my job.”
    “Which is?”
    “To look after her. Protect her. Like I’ve
always done.”
    “You wouldn’t be obligated if she were
emancipated,” observed Sue.
    “I’ll never abandon her, even if she does
something foolish.”
    “Why, Sam! You sound like a father! You
should discuss emancipation with Becky. Let her tell you how she
feels about it. You won’t be sorry.”
    “So, you won’t tell me.”
    “No.”
    “I didn’t think so. Some rules you never
bend.”
    “I’m going to sleep now. You can spend the
night if you promise not to roll over and crush me. We could have
an encore in the morning,” she said as she kissed him
goodnight.
     

Chapter 13
     
    Tuesday, May 1, 2001
    Santa Ana, CA
     
    Sam was sitting on a bar stool
in Sparky’s Club , a local bar
that he frequented often because it was only two blocks from the
Mickey Malone office—and he was friends with the owner. Also, they
served good basic food and poured good booze. The room was much
deeper than it was wide. The long bar was along the left side as
one entered the front door and several booths lined the right side.
There were three pool tables in the far back with low hanging lamps
over them. There was a small kitchen beyond the bar where the cook
served up food from a small menu: burgers, hotdogs, fries, onion
rings, chili, and their famous French dip with cole slaw. The place
had a varied clientele, but it was mostly a hangout for rough
bikers.
    It was 5 P.M. and Sam was enjoying a Cutty
and water and chatting with Sparky, the owner, who was behind the
bar. Sparky was a big Irishman with white, thinning hair, a big
nose that had been broken more than once, and clear blue eyes. He
stood about six feet two inches and weighed in at 250 pounds. No
one knew his exact age, but he performed the bouncing job himself
and it was said not even the tough bikers that hung out at the bar
dared to get him riled. Besides, he kept a baseball bat and a
sawed-off shotgun in easy reach behind the bar and was not afraid
to use either. Sam had run into Sparky a couple of times in Saigon.
Sparky had been a Gunnery Sergeant then, Sam a Corporal. There were
several black-and-white framed photos on the wall behind the bar
depicting Marine buddies of Sparky’s.
    Sam had experienced a successful day. He had
finally caught the husband of one of his clients with his mistress
going into her apartment together. His state-of-the-art zoom lens
got several good pictures of them in his car in the parking lot as
they kissed with passion and he groped her breasts. These pictures
should ensure his client’s lawyer of a favorable divorce
settlement. Sam was smiling as he thought of the conversation he
had recorded using his long range directional microphone. Hubby’s
girl friend sure liked to talk dirty!
    “. . . and then I said, who cares?” Sparky
was saying. Sam came out of his reverie and laughed. He hadn’t
heard what Sparky had said, but he assumed it was one of his
endless jokes.
    “That’s a good one, Sparky,” Sam chuckled as
he took a sip of his drink, the first of the day, but probably not
the last.
    “So how did the shamus work go today?” Sparky
asked, knowing he wouldn’t get any juicy details. Sam never
discussed the details of his work with anyone. Client
confidentiality. And mostly boring—to Sam.
    “Oh, just a long day of shoe leather and
surveillance stuff,” Sam responded with a shrug. “You know how dull
and boring private eye work is.”
    Sparky ran a cloth over the