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An Austin Girl Novel
(Inspired by a true story)
Read an Excerpt!
Excerpted from Candy Love: Former FBI Rookie by Austin Girl. Copyright 2004-2008. Excerpted with permission by Adventures of Austin Girl, a division of Two Crain Productions, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author.
The book will be out in paperback soon and will be available for purchase at www.adventuresofaustingirl.com and Amazon.com.
Illustrations by N.W. Designs
www.twitter.com/napwarden
CHAPTER ONE
Rookie in a Red Raincoat
1985. What a rotten year. The year of big hair and flashy clothes. I’m twenty-eight and a female rookie agent for the FBI in D.C. When you’re an attractive all-American blonde from San Marcos, Texas who possesses a killer left hook and shoots a Thompson Machine Gun better than her male chauvinist boss, well, life at the Bureau ain’t easy.
When I was a youngster, my daddy, Wayne, a highway patrol officer died. He was killed during a high-speed motorcycle chase. It is safe to say that motorcycles are my biggest fear. Mom eased my grief by telling me wild stories about Dad and his former army buddy, Dick Justice. She said Dad saved Dick’s life during Vietnam. And, that once you save a person’s life, a powerful bond forms.
Dick is an FBI agent now. Blame Mom’s stories or those dang James Bond novels, but I am became a sucker for good-looking agents who chase beautiful women and drink too much. In other words, am overly enamored with ‘complex guy gets girl’ stories. Tucked way in the back of my pretty head I confess I look forward to being a man’s weakness.
During my four years at the University of Texas, I thought of no one and no thing more than the enigmatic Dick Justice and the FBI. Who was this guy? What did he look like? My best friend, Lee Ann, said she heard former soldiers-turned-FBI-agents branded their women like cattle.
“Dick’s not a cowboy,” I said, giggling. “He’s from California.”
“So, he’s still a man, ain’t he?”
“He’s going to be my boss and my partner. And, besides there’s a seventeen-year age difference between us.”
She shrugged and handed me gift. It was a small box wrapped in pink paper and a pink ribbon.
“You know I love pink,” she laughs. “Go ahead, open it.”
I tear open the pretty packaging with little regard. Unlike Lee Ann, I despise pink. It’s too girly, too feminine. However; I love gifts! Inside was a pink leather diary with the words: ‘CANDY LOVE’S DIARY’ embossed on the front.
“It even has my name. Thanks,” I said.
“Write down all the juicy details of your torrid adventures, promise?” She hugged me.
“You betcha.”
“Candy, are you really going to be an FBI agent?”
I set the diary down and hit the floor with push-ups, followed by jumping Dicks.
“I have grades and Dick told Mom he got me in Quantico.”
Quantico is the FBI’s training headquarters in Virginia, recruiting only the brightest and the best. The Bureau investigates recruits’ backgrounds as if they were criminals. The feds interview your family, friends, neighbors and former school teachers. If a person so much as thought about swiping a two-cent piece of bubble gum in first grade, it’s unacceptable. Aside from being voted ‘Most Likely to Break a Man’s Heart’ my senior year in high school, I had a squeaky-clean record. The FBI and Dick Justice were going to love me.
“Is it dangerous?” she asked, while applying my Cover Girl fire-engine red lipstick.
“I don’t know. It couldn’t be more dangerous than the time I rode Diesel Limit’s bull back in high school. I lasted seven seconds. Hell, that makes me a professional,” I say with thunderous pride.
I stretched. Removing my tennis shoes, I slipped in a pair of red satin slippers and walked in the kitchen. I popped open a Dr. Pepper and ripped a bag of Frittos. Lee Ann stared.
“How do you stay in shape eating that crap?”
“Good genes,” I smiled.
The next morning, I visit Mom at the ranch in San Marcos. My ’79 “bumblebee,” a yellow and black Chevy Camaro is weighted down with personal belongings. A handwritten sign is taped to the back window: ‘FBI or Bust.’ The minute I entered the house, she started rattling about Dick Justice.
“Candy Love, Dick is a straight arrow now. Some people don’t take too kindly to his criticism, but he’s a genius. You watch his back and he’ll protect yours.” Then she put on her Betty Crocker apron and matching oven mitts and pulled a steaming hot rump roast out of the oven.
DICK JUSTICE
Eighteen-months later, Dick is driving a brown ’65 Ford Galaxy 500 with me, his twenty-eight-year-old rookie agent, in tow. We drive out of D.C. and into Bethesda. I haven’t been out of D.C. since I took the job with the regional office last summer. Dick barrels down the road like a giddy teenage girl running off with her boyfriend. It’s Friday. Late. And, it’s winter. Winters in this part of the country are bone-achingly cold. Rain is tapping on the windshield. The blades squeak. I’m sandwiched uncomfortably in the back seat between two men: Tony English and Mike Brando. Tony is from Boston. His accent is as thick as his neck, and Mike is from Nevada. He’s the son of a wealthy senator, but you wouldn’t know it. He wears a conservative tie, probably from JC Penney’s and a diminutive Timex.
Dick pushes an eight-track tape into the deck. The Beach Boys, ‘California Girls’ begins playing softly. Dick’s from California. Everything about this serious guy suggests West Coast: hair, loafers and music. Tony and Mike know the routine. They sing along. I don’t. I don’t even know the lyrics. The fact that I don’t share Dick’s enthusiasm concerns him.
“Candy, it’s the Beach Boys,” he muses.
“I personally like Willie Nelson. Ya know, progressive country?” I smile, snapping my fingers in the air. Tony and Mike narrow their eyes at me while Dick glares through the rearview mirror.
“Candy, you’d raise your IQ twenty points if you’d lose that Texas accent,” he says.
I blink. I can’t believe Dick just said that to me. I’m sure it’s a test, his way of initiating me into the ‘good-ole boys club.’ Even so, I wanted to backhand him. Istead, I whistle the tune of ‘On the Road Again.’
Dick turns around, pointing his index finger.
“I’m keeping my eye on you,” he replies.
“Which eye?” I ask, playfully.
There’s an uncomfortable silence as he shakes his head and adjusts the mirror. He knows I’m different. Hell, I’m from Texas. Dick’s FBI background reads likes a Hollywood B-movie. His father was an FBI agent and his father’s father was a spy for the United States during WWI. This is my first bust — a real treat. We’re acting on a very hot tip from an informant. Of course, we’re dressed in business suits, which is standard FBI attire. Personally, I think four clean-cut Caucasians in black suits and shiny loafers amid truckers, hookers and druggies at a seedy truck stop are the definition of suspicious. But, what do I know. I’m just a rookie with a painful bunion and a red coat.
We exit the Beltway, down a dead-end gravel road and into a truck stop parking lot. There are thirty or forty eighteen-wheelers lined up. An emaciated dog forages in a trashcan nearby. The café’ is rundown, complete with a broken sign. At any moment, I expect a group of psychotic zombies with vampire fangs to rush out and give us a bloody bite of unforgettable love. The white-trailer trash place is a real dump. Dick stops the Galaxy in front of an unmarked eighteen-wheeler that is parked on the end. He cranes his neck.
“Love, get your ass up here in the front.”
He draws his 38. The sound intrigues me. I’ve been obsessed with guns since Dad taught me how to fire weapons at the police range when I was ten. I clear my throat and pop my head over the seat like I’m some kind of horny geek boy watching a porno movie for the first time. I glimpse Dick’s jagged scar snaked across his right hand. The scar is dangerously sexy. He catches me staring at him. Oh boy, now I’m in trouble. This is ridiculously embarrassing. I feel like a teenager with a silly crush. I can either continue staring or turn away. I run my hand through my long curly hair. I go for it.
“How did ya get that scar?” I ask.
There’s an awkward silence.
“Hazards of the job,” he says.
I gnaw on my lower lip. As he steps out of the car into the coolness, the wind sweeps Dick’s espresso-colored bangs across his chiseled face. He’s a vision of absolute perfection, and he’s single. Mom held out on me about Dick. But, I would never succumb to temptation. He winks. I turn away, humiliated. With or without his scar, Dick would get to me. He’s every erotic novel I’ve ever read.
“Your dad never asked questions like you do,” he adds.
“I’m not my dad,” I say.
“Clearly,” Dick answers automatically. His gunmetal eyes are locked-in on me like a missile closing on its target.
“And, he never wore a red coat like that either.”
I blush.
“It’s reversible,” I say excited because he noticed my clothing. I flash him the inside. “Black faux fur.”
“I don’t give a shit if you can wear it upside down. You look like a rookie. Rookies stay in the car,” he barks.
“What’s wrong with my coat?” I pout.
“Are you joking? A red coat screams, ‘Shoot me first.’ Maybe you like wearing lead,” Dick asks.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” I say, closing my jacket. Dick shakes his head. “It was in the manual at Quantico, rookie.”
“Geez, you sound pissed.”
“A lot of help you’re going to be,” he snaps.
Jon turns his attention to me. “Don’t worry, kid, he’s always like this right before a bust.”
I nod numb.
“Keep the car running and honk if anyone looks suspicious,” Dick says.
“We look suspicious Dick,” I mumble, as I spill over from the back seat with self-consciousness. My butt pokes up in the air like I’m performing a yoga move. Dick sneaks a peak out of the corner of his eye.
Tony steps out of the car, punching his stopwatch.
“We have a short window of opportunity. Gotta go, Mike,” Tony says in his Boston accent.
I shiver behind the wheel. The temperature is a plunging thirty-two degrees. I like hot things: preferably Frito Pie. Dick is still standing near the driver’s side, giving instructions to Tony and Mike. Dick signals for me to roll down my window.
“There’s a Tommy in the trunk, but don’t go getting all Machine Gun Kelly on me, rookie.”
I nod lightly. Dick is competitive and resents that I’m a better shot with the Tommy.
“Dick, I know I’m a rookie and not allowed to ask questions,” I say.
“Then don’t,” he interrupts.
I ignore him. Maybe I’m a little bit sassy and arrogant, but then, all FBI agents possess these traits. I just happen to be a little more so, since I’m from Texas and wearing a pipin’ hot red slicker.
“Whose semi?” I ask.
“The mob,” he utters.
“The mob?” I repeat. I sound like a parrot with a Texas drawl. He becomes annoyed.
“Teamsters, same difference, Candy. They’re controlled by the mob. We’re here to recover stolen property from Philly,” he says, marching off in long confident strides.
I roll up the window and watch Dick in action. Approaching the double doors to the semi, he pulls a pair of bolt cutters out from his pocket. He breaks the lock then climbs inside. Mike and Tony run on either side of the semi towards the front. They’re checking the perimeter. Inhaling, I wince and wave my hand in front of my nose. Dick wears too much cologne. His car smells of a pungent, toxic odor so strong it borders on cruel. Tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, I’m bored. I open up the glove box and retrieve a packet of Taco Bell hot sauce. Dick is obsessed with fast food, which is difficult to believe. He’s in terrific shape: not too skinny, not too fat. He either works out or has excellent metabolism. I rip the package open with my teeth and squirt the juice on my tongue. Adrenaline rushes through my petite body.
Suddenly, from out of the darkness, a bald burly man rounds the semi. The shine from his Philadelphia Eagles jacket temporarily blinds me. I wipe my eyes and stare again. I don’t know what’s worse, that he’s holding a handgun like he knows how to use it or the face that the Philadelphia Eagles are losers. They haven’t won a national championship since 1960. I slam my palm on the horn. Nothing. Silent.
“Gawd damnit!” I yell. Typical government-issued junk car with nonworking horn. My mind races. I get out and unlock the trunk. I grab the Tommy with sadistic pleasure and haul ass towards this guy with bad taste in football teams, careful not to slip in my slick leather flats.
The man in the Philadelphia Eagles jacket, or Mr. Philly, as I conveniently nickname him, pokes his cone-shaped head inside the semi. He’s about to climb inside, so I start running with confidence because I’ve got the Tommy, my favorite weapon. There’s something brazen about a female packing a machine gun. I plant my feet firmly on the ground, point the gun and yell.
“FBI, freeze fatso!”
He turns and examines me.
“Watcha you gonna do about it?” He laughs.
The full moon lights up my turquoise eyes. My red slicker flaps in the midnight wind. He continues laughing. I double check to make sure I’m still holding the machine gun. Yep. The gun is pointing right at this dude’s obnoxiously-over-sized pitted nose. The scum has acne and a lot of it and he’s amusing himself at my expense. The last time a crater faced fat man laughed at me, I decked him. (It was the mall Santa. I was seven and had requested a Buffalo Rifle. Apparently, Santa didn’t think girls should have rifles. He chuckled and told me to ask for a Barbie doll. I plowed my left hook deep inside Santa’s fake beard. He tumbled off his thrown and crashed into the tree. Daddy snickered while Mom was a bit taken aback. She didn’t know I had so much spunk.)
I deck Mr. Philly just like I had decked Santa. He collapses on the gravel; his gun is tossed a few feet. There is a frozen moment as he regains ground and takes a violent swing at my head with his fist. Luckily, for me, I have a black belt in karate. Self-defense is mandatory growing up in West Texas. Hell, there are varmints and wild cowboys running loose galore. I block the blow with my right arm. He staggers backwards. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dick run a hand through his luscious mound of dark hair. He stares in utter disbelief. I know what he’s thinking. How can a woman my size beat up on a man who appears to have grown up on greasy burgers injected through a syringe. I smile and deliver a devastating left hook to his crooked jaw. The portly douche bag is knocked out cold, like an overweight boxer on amateur night. Mike and Tony come around the corner. Finally, I think. Where the hell have these two chumps been? They gawk, mouths agape. Dick tosses a set of handcuffs to Mike.
“Read the scum his rights.”
Mr. Philly struggles to get up. Tony pushes a foot in his back and cuffs him then, pats him down.
“You have the right to remain silent…” he says.
Mike retrieves the tossed gun. He puts it in safety mode and slides the piece carefully inside the breast pocket of his jacket. The man grunts. Tony and Mike hop in the back of the semi and I follow.
Dick is rummaging through a large crate marked ‘Electronic Warehouse.’ He hands Mike a record, elated like a little boy on Christmas Day. Mike flips it over, impressed.
“Cool! The White album.”
Dick proceeds to dig, setting records on the floor. He picks one at random, hands it to Tony.
“Sergeant Pepper?” Tony asks in disappointment. He looks over at Mike, who is smiling and gawking at his album.
“Why does Mike get the White album?” Tony whines.
“Politics,” Dick answers.
Tony shifts his weight and loosens his tie a bit.
Dick lifts the top of the crate open. He is surprised and amused.
“Look what we got here boys,” he says.
Tony and Mike move in for a closer look. I am still wondering what we’re going to do with all this electronic merchandise. I scan the semi. Boxes are stacked four deep. There are televisions, stereos and speakers. Dick bends over the crate and tosses me a first-edition Playboy magazine.
“Hey Candy, thanks for watching my back. Here, catch,” he grins. “Marilyn Monroe. They’re autographed. She’ll be plenty valuable one day.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say with mock gratitude.
“The mob has decent taste in women. You can have the entire bundle. My fiancée would kill me and the men back at the Bureau will only fight like a bunch of horn dogs over these. I don’t need that pressure,” he says, lighting a cigarette.
I turn upon hearing the word fiancée.
Mr. Philly glares at me from the ground.
“Cupcake will be after your pretty ass,” he threatens. I look at him oddly. It ain’t natural to name a girl cupcake. She must have big boobs.
Dick tosses his cigarette at Mr. Philly. It burns out before it reaches him.
I gaze at the open crate, noting the endless copies of the December 1953 first copy of Playboy magazine.
“Sure. I understand. I love alluring blondes humping animals,” I lie.
“Is that sarcastic?” he asks.
I don’t answer him. Instead, I give Marilyn Monroe riding a circus elephant my undivided attention. Dick notes my sudden interest in the magazine.
“At least one hundred copies here,” he says.
“I can’t take these, it’s illegal,” I say in a high-pitched squeaky voice.
Dick kicks the crate with his foot. “The insurance company doesn’t want this shit. It’s our job to recover stolen merchandise. The FBI distributes the goods as it deems necessary,” Dick confesses.
It was clear Dick had a soft spot in his heart for me and it made me feel an intense hunger to show him my appreciation. Mom was right. If I watched Dick’s back, he’d protect mine. I hug Dick as though he’s a rock star. I bury my face in his chest. He smells of bad cologne, but I overlook this flaw because at this moment, he is the nicest smelling man on earth. He stands there, confused.
“Hug me back, cowboy,” I say.
It takes him some time to mull over my request. Finally, Dick pats my head lightly. His difficulty showing me affection makes me feel like an injured kitten. He tears away quickly and looks over at Mr. Philly.
“Let’s take him in boys,” he groans.
The next day, I receive a raise for saving his life. Like father like daughter. The following week, my department is reprimanded for not having backup on the bust. The semi belonged to Joey “Cupcake” Patron from the infamous mafia family who own the Cupcake Casino in Vegas.
JOEY “CUPCAKE” PATRON
Because Dick’s been with the Bureau since the Hoover administration, he knows the routine: if someone has to get fired, make it the one who got the last raise. This is what the FBI refers to as ‘taking the hit.’ But, I figured if he knew the routine, he would have called for back-up; he would have forfeited my raise. I am not a happy camper. For the first time in my life, I had felt a sense of purpose.
I pack up my diminutive apartment and head back home to San Marcos, Texas, a former FBI rookie agent. 1985. What a rotten year.
