Fran Rizer - Callie Parrish 05 - Mother Hubbard Has a Corpse in the Cupboard by Fran Rizer Page B

wanted coffee.
    Our server had barely walked away when three teenaged boys came in. Tyrone glanced at them and then made a point of looking at Patel and me.
    A different female server asked the teenagers, “What would you like?”
    “Three draft beers,” one of them declared like a king making a proclamation.
    “Sorry, we can’t serve alcohol to minors.”
    “I’ve got ID.” The same boy copped an attitude with a smirk.
    The server pointed toward our table. “See that man. He’s Mr. Patel, the owner. Go show your identification to him and if he accepts it, he’ll serve you. I’m not about to give you three any alcohol, ID or not. I can look at you and see you’re underage.”
    “What the f-word are you supposed to drink in a beer garden?” Substitution of “f-word” is mine; he said the word. I just can’t get used to even hearing people say that word out loud in public.
    “Take it up with Mr. Patel,” the young lady said politely.
    “I don’t have to. Just get me my beer, bitch.”
    Patel stood. I knew he was tall, but he looked even bigger now, and the expression on his face would have frightened a bear. He pointed at the boys. “Out!” he said as he walked toward them.
    The sassy one opened his mouth, but his buddies tugged on him and urged him to get out of there.
    When they were gone, Patel returned to our table and apologized for the interruption. I’d noticed Tyrone’s intentionally turning his back to them. “Tyrone, did you know those boys?” I asked.
    “Not really. They don’t go to my school.” He seemed relieved when the server placed the gigantic creation he’d ordered in front of him. He chowed down on doughnuts, meat, cheese, bananas, and peanut butter—keeping his eyes on his food and avoiding eye contact with Patel or me.
    “Now, about the Red Star Shooting Game.” Patel took a sip of his black coffee. “The goal is to shoot out the star completely so that no red is still there. They’ll give you a BB gun and one hundred BBs to do it.”
    “Is there a trick to it like throwing the ball at the basket rim?” Tyrone was catching on.
    “First thing to do is ask to look at the target. You hope the paper is flimsy. The better the grade of paper, the more difficult it is, and the smaller the star, the easier it is. The targets are numbered so that the game agents can account to the owners how many people tried. At the end of the number is a dash followed by a single-digit number, generally a two or three. You want to play this game where the digit is two, which means the star measures one and one-fourth inch. That’s the easiest.”
    “How big is a three?” Tyrone finished the crazy doughnut burger and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
    “One and three-eighths inches.”
    “That’s not much bigger.”
    “It makes a huge difference.”
    “What should I do if the target is on thick paper and is a three?”
    “Move on to another booth.”
    “What else?”
    I kept eating those mouthwatering mushrooms and listening to Patel’s advice.
    “Check out the gun and self-zero it. That means shoot the first three or four BBs at the top point of the star. If they hit high and to the right, aim low and to the left. If they hit low and left, aim high and right. You get the idea?”
    “Sure. Do they mess up the guns by bending the barrel or something like that?”
    “Not necessarily. Maybe some game agents do, but it’s generally because the guns are old and have been used a lot. That’s what causes them not to aim true. Most marks start shooting at the middle, which is a big mistake.”
    “What’s a mark?”
    “You’re a mark—the person who’s playing the game and paying the man.”
    “If I shouldn’t start in the middle, where do I shoot?”
    “Shoot a circle pattern around the star, and don’t fire all the BBs fast. Shoot a few, then look to see what you’ve done before shooting more.” Patel looked at the empty plates and bottles in front of Tyrone and me. “Ready