Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43689 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
We all worked hard for the next few hours, getting everything set up and preparing. Kids always turned up early, and we had guys entertaining them outside the entrance. I think a couple of them even let the kids sit on their bikes in front of them. Yeah. These guys were all big softies. In some ways.
I scanned the park, satisfaction warming my chest as I took in our work. Stuffed scarecrows lounged on benches, their straw-filled hands holding candy bowls for passing children. Paper bats hung from tree branches, twisting in the October breeze. The haunted trail wound through a section of woods, decorated with eerie props and staffed by volunteers in costume. But the crown jewel of our event -- the dunk tank -- sat in the center of the park.
Caleb was now perched on the platform above the water, his light brown hair falling into his eyes as he shouted taunts at potential donors. The twelve-year-old had volunteered immediately for his usual spot heckling passersby when we announced the guys from Kiss of Death would be helping with the fundraiser. I’d only thought the kid was good in previous years. Apparently, someone had told him to have at it because he now revealed an unexpected talent for creative insults that had people lining up with softballs in hand. Okay. So maybe it wasn’t an unexpected talent. Caleb was hell on wheels in the best kind of way.
“Your haircut looks like your mom put a bowl on your head and let a blind raccoon go to town with safety scissors!” he called to a middle-aged man who’d just missed the target. The crowd around the tank erupted in laughter as the man grinned good naturedly and handed over another five dollars for three more balls.
I approached the tank, checking the collection box beside it. “You’re doing great, Caleb,” I called up to him. “But remember, no profanity. There are little kids around.”
“I know, I know,” he replied, rolling his eyes but smiling. “I’m keeping it clean. Just using my superior observational skills.”
A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd as Antonio Miles approached the dunk tank. While Chains had told me Tonio Miles was the second in command of the Miles family, the biggest crime family south of the Mason-Dixon Line and East of the Mississippi, everyone else in Nashville knew him as one of the wealthiest men in the city. He certainly cut an imposing figure in his tailored charcoal suit, his chestnut hair immaculately styled. I felt my back straighten instinctively at the sight of him. While I knew the Miles family had business connections with Kiss of Death MC, I’d never met Antonio Miles.
Caleb’s eyes lit up with unholy glee as he spotted his new target. “Well, well, well,” he called out, his voice carrying across the park. “Look who it is! The man whose suit costs more than my mom’s car! Tell me, Mr. Miles, do you have to be surgically removed from that outfit at night, or does it just dissolve when it comes in contact with common people?”
A hush fell over the crowd, everyone wondering how the notoriously serious businessman would react. To my surprise, Tonio’s lips curved into a small smile as he stepped forward and handed a hundred-dollar bill to the volunteer manning the booth.
“I’ll take my chances, kid,” he said, accepting three softballs in exchange.
Caleb wasn’t deterred. “Ooh, big spender! That’s probably what you tip your shoelace dealer, right? I bet you’ve never thrown anything in your life except maybe shade, or money at problems.”
Tonio lined up his first shot, his expensive jacket stretching across broad shoulders as he wound up. The ball sailed wide, missing the target by at least a foot. The crowd let out a collective “Ooooh” as Caleb cackled.
“Wow! That was pathetic!” Caleb taunted. “Did you just throw that ball or release a wounded butterfly? Maybe you should stick to signing checks, Mr. Miles!”
Tonio’s second throw came closer but still missed, brushing the edge of the target. His normally impassive face showed a flicker of frustration as he prepared for his final throw.
“I’ll get you, you little punk.” The grin on his face as he yelled back at Caleb said Miles enjoyed the banter. Given the fact he’d just dropped a hundred dollars at the dunk tank, I guess he was having a good time.
“Last chance!” Caleb called. “Put some muscle into it! Oh wait! Do you pay people to have muscles for you too?”
The third ball missed by inches, and Caleb’s triumphant laughter rang out. “Strike three! Thanks for the donation! The children thank you for your complete lack of athletic ability!”
I moved closer, watching with fascination as Tonio stared at the target, his jaw tight even as he still smiled. Obviously, he wasn’t as far from “caveman” as I first thought. He didn’t like to lose. Miles turned to the volunteer, pulling out his wallet again. “Another round,” he said, handing over two hundred dollars this time.