The Big Bad Wolf

ahead to a different drummer, a faster, more insistent beat. Man, I really loved this boy. Except for his fashion sense. That morning he was wearing long jean shorts, Uptowns, a gray T with an Alan Iverson “The Answer” jersey over it. His lean legs were sprouting peach fuzz, and it looked as if his whole body were developing from the feet up. Large feet, long legs, a youthful torso.
    I was noticing everything that morning. I had time to do it.
    Jannie was typically put together in a gray T with “Aero Athletics 1987” printed in bright red letters, sweatpant capris with a red stripe down each leg, and white Adidas sneakers with red stripes.
    As for me, I was feeling good. Every now and again someone would still stop me and say I looked like the young Muhammad Ali. I knew how to shake off the compliment, but I liked to hear it more than I let on.
    “You’re awfully quiet this morning, Poppa,” Jannie laced her arms around my free arm and said. “You having trouble at school? Your orientation? Do you like being an FBI agent so far?”
    “I like it fine,” I said. “There’s a probationary period for the next two years. Orientation is good, but a lot of it is repetitive for me, especially what they call ‘practicals.’ Firing range, gun cleaning, exercises in apprehending criminals. That’s why I get to go in late some days.”
    “So you’re the teacher’s pet already,” she said, and winked.
    I laughed. “I don’t think the teachers are too impressed with me, or any other street cops. How’re you and Damon doing so far this year? Aren’t you about due for a report card or something?”
    Damon shrugged. “We’re acing everything. Why do you want to change the subject all the time when it’s on you?”
    I nodded. “You’re right. Well,
my
schooling is going fine. Eighty is considered a failing grade at Quantico. I expect to ace most of my tests.”
    “
Most?”
Jannie arched an eyebrow and gave me one of Nana Mama’s “perturbed” looks. “What’s this
most
stuff? We expect you to ace
all
your tests.”
    “I’ve been out of school for a while.”
    “No excuses.”
    I fed her one of her own lines. “I’m doing the best I can, and that’s all you can ask from somebody.”
    She smiled. “Well, all right, then, Poppa. Just as long as the best you can do puts all
A
s on
your
next report.”
    About a block from the school I gave Jannie and Damon their hugs—so as not to embarrass them, God forbid, in front of all their cool-ass friends. They hugged me back and kissed their little brother, and then off they ran. “Ba-bye,” said Little Alex, and so did Jannie and Damon, calling back to their brother, “Ba-bye, ba-bye!”
    I picked up Little Alex and we headed home; then it would be off to work for soon-to-be Agent Cross of the FBI.
    “Dada,” said Little Alex as I carried him in my arms. That was right—
Dada.
Things were falling into place for the Cross family. After all these years, my life was finally close to being in balance. I wondered how long it would last. Hopefully at least for the rest of the day.

Chapter 4
    NEW-AGENT TRAINING at the FBI Academy in Quantico, sometimes called “Club Fed,” was turning out to be a challenging, arduous, and tense program. For the most part, I liked it, and I was making an effort to keep any skepticism down. But I had entered the Bureau with a reputation for catching pattern killers, and I already had the nickname Dragonslayer. So irony and skepticism might soon be a problem.
    Training had begun six weeks before, on a Monday morning, with a crew-cut broad-shouldered SSA, or supervisory special agent, Dr. Kenneth Horowitz, standing in front of our class trying to tell a joke: “The three biggest lies in the world are: ‘All I want is a kiss,’ ‘The check is in the mail,’ and ‘I’m with the FBI and I’m only here to help you.’” Everybody in the class laughed, maybe because the joke was so ordinary, but at least Horowitz had tried his best, and maybe that was the point.
    FBI director Ron Burns had set it up so that my training period would last for only eight weeks. He’d made other allowances for me as well. The maximum age for entrance into the FBI was thirty-seven years old. I was forty-two. Burns had the age requirement waived for me and also voiced his opinion that it was discriminatory and needed to be changed. The more I saw of Ron Burns, the more I sensed that he was something of a rebel, maybe because he was an