It would be getting dark soon, so I peddled on home, feeling much deflated since this morning. The day had started with a killer in jail and things looking up. Now I was just about out of a job at the church and minus a killer to boot.
Not sure where to go next, I sat on my bike for several minutes thinking. Since the ice cream was most likely to have contained the poison, we had to figure out who’d had the chance to put something in it. I got off my bike, leaned it up against a pole, and pulled out my cell phone. It was time to call in a favor.
It was only one block from the Happy Mouth to the offices of the Kingsbury News. I locked my bike in the rack out front and went in. Our receptionist, Mary Miller, Bill’s daughter, was on the phone and waved as I went past.
I sat in silence for several minutes after Chief Harmon left. Inside of me was a battle between excitement and anxiety. I was thrilled that I had been given the chance to talk to the chief, yet a little shaken by his warning—not that I intended to let it stop me.
You’ve all heard them. They play during first period, both on the field and on the street. They rehearse every Thursday night from 7-9. They go to every football game and most recently put in an appearance at the Dinuba Raisin Day Parade and the Reedley Fiesta Parade.
Tuesday morning dawned bright and beautiful. The world was no longer on my shoulders and I felt great. I began my day as I had forgotten to do of late, in prayer and devotions. When it came time to head for the church I was ready and whistling an old Nat King Cole tune called Smile.
The first half of the 20th century was filled with difficult times—from World War I and the Great Depression, to World War II. Reedley did its part for the war effort by providing produce and sending its young men off to serve. In 1946, when it was time for the servicemen to return home to resume civilian life, the Santa Fe depot supervisor, Art Tabler, suggested it was time to bring the community together to celebrate its diverse ethnicity.
After Henry’s visit, I tried to work on my sermon, but the renewed excitement hadn’t translated to the written page. The pile of crumpled paper in the wastebasket was a sign of my frustration. At about five, I gave up, hopped on my bike, and headed for my apartment.
We crossed the street and went inside the bike shop. Alex was leaning over a bike with a young boy, and I was once again struck by his resemblance to his uncle Henry.
“You see, Manuel, if you keep skidding to a stop with your bike you’re going to go through a lot of tires. I don’t think your mom will be thrilled with that.”
