The Manipulated (Joe Portugal Mysteries) Read Online Free PDF Page A

irritated me. I walked out figuring I’d blown it, and not caring. It surprised me when Elaine called in the morning with the callback. It surprised me more when, a day later, I got the job.
     
    On Sunday night Mike took me to another hockey game. There’d been a ticket available for Gina too, but she had plans with her mother. “Basketball, I would blow her off,” she said. “All those sweaty young black men. But not hockey.”
    This game was even tighter than the last, with the Kings and Rangers tied at the end of regulation. They went into overtime. With less than a minute left, with the whole crowd on its feet, a fight started on the ice, against the boards on the far side, right opposite us. Mike grabbed his binoculars and peered down at the action, as each combatant tried to pull the other’s shirt over his head. Each one got a couple of good shots in; then the officials separated them and started doling out penalties.
    I turned to Mike to say something. He was still staring through his binoculars. He wasn’t pointed at anything happening on the ice, as far as I could see, but was still focused on the area the fight had been in.
    “What are you looking at?” I said.
    He didn’t say anything. His expression didn’t change. But something about him did, like a load had been lifted and another dropped in to take its place.
    He climbed past me, headed for the back of the box. The binocular strap dangled from his hand.
    “Mike?” I said.
    He kept going, ripped the door open, went flying out.
    Whatever it was that got him going like that, he might need help.
    I ran after him.
    I spotted him at the end of the corridor, near the escalators, elbowing his way into the crush of people who couldn’t bother to stick around for a couple more minutes to see how the game came out. Then I lost sight of him. I ran down there and inserted myself into the crowd, let the mass of people carry me to the top of the escalator. Halfway down I caught another glimpse of Mike. He’d made it to the bottom and was running along the concourse. When I got off I went the same way.
    A big guy in a Kings jersey and Raiders cap stepped out in front of me. I crashed into him, bounced off, tripped over a little kid, hit the ground.
    “What the fuck you think you’re doin’?” the guy said.
    A fair question. Helping a friend? Or simply running around mindlessly?
    The kid was crying. His mother was calling me a son of a bitch.
    “Sorry,” I said, to anyone and everyone. I got up, took a step. Didn’t go anywhere. The iron grip on my arm saw to that. “Can you please let the fuck go of my arm?”
    “Don’t get smart with me.”
    “And watch your language,” the mother contributed.
    Jesus H.… Mike was probably halfway to San Pedro.
    I bent back one of the guy’s fingers. He yelped, let go, took a step back. Right into the kid and his mother. All three went down in a clump. More wailing. I got moving.
    After five or six more sections a stitch in my side slowed me to a walk. I passed one of the TVs they have mounted up high, so you can follow the game in the concession lines, and heard that the Rangers had scored. A massive grumble arose. A wave of disappointed fans erupted into the concourse.
    I kept going. Wherever Mike was headed, it had something to do with what he’d seen in the binoculars. The spot was almost directly opposite us. I checked the section numbers, did a calculation, walked a few more yards. Then slipped through one of the entryways.
    Nearly everyone was on their way out, except a few diehards staring numbly at the ice. The PA guy was announcing the three stars of the game. I looked across the way, tried to spot our box. Thought I had it, worked out the geometry. Where Mike had been looking should have been right … about …
    There. Two sections away.
    He was standing in the aisle, a couple of rows up from the ice. He scanned his immediate area, and upward toward the exit. The binoculars were gone. His hands