A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries) (11 page)

“Since when do you have a car?” I asked.

“Thursday,” he said.

“What happened to your scooter?”

“Front wheel fell off.”

“No kidding.” As long as I’d known him, Aaron rode a scooter manufactured during World War Two. He rode it in all types of weather and looked it. I had thought his hair was the result of scooter riding, but apparently not. He looked the same that day, as every day before. The front of his hair was plastered to his head. The back stuck straight up. The enormous lenses of his thick glasses were smudged. He probably bought the glasses in 1983. They went well with his Izod shirt (collar up) and stonewashed jeans. Put the whole look on a five-foot-four, moderately obese body, and you get the picture.

He stood in front of me, blinking slowly, and fiddling with his belt loops. If he was thinking at all, Dungeons and Dragons strategy was my number one guess.

“Do you need a ride?” I asked.

“Great. Where’s Pete? Have you seen Pete lately? I want to run something by him.”

Oh Lord!

He scratched his head and said, “You see, I’ve been working on this new character, and she’s got these wild powers.”

He went on and on through the entire drive. Half the time, I didn’t know what he was talking about. Aaron didn’t notice when I pulled out my cell and called Pete. I told him to meet me at Kronos and then went back to nodding and grunting answers to Aaron.

I parked in front of Kronos fifteen minutes later. It was hard to believe, but Aaron was a successful restaurateur. Kronos was a Star Trek-inspired burger joint renowned for its sandwiches and décor. Aaron owed Kronos with Rodney, a Dungeon and Dragons pal, and close friend of Uncle Morty, which is how I knew both of them. Rodney was a taller and slightly more sophisticated version of Aaron. Rodney said Aaron was the brains behind the glamour. I’d never figured that one out. Neither one of them showed a tremendous amount of brains and, as for glamour, forget about it. It’s doubtful Kronos would even be in business, if it wasn’t for my dad.

Fifteen years earlier, Rodney had the brilliant idea to open Kronos. It turned out not to be so brilliant because nobody ate there. In a fit of desperation, he asked Dad what to do. Rodney saw my father as the solver of all problems. I’d like to think that wasn’t true, but I couldn’t think of a problem he hadn’t solved. Kronos was a case in point. Rodney painted what Dad told him over the inside of the front door in English and Klingon.

“Make Good Burgers.”

 
Det. Tommy Watts, STLPD

So Rodney set to work on the perfect Tommy Watts burger. It took eight tries, but he nailed it, and Dad said he’d send some business over. Dad never does anything by halves, he told the class he was teaching at Saint Louis University about a weird little burger joint in the Central West End and the rest was history.

Aaron and I walked into the evening rush. Every night is a good night for Kronos. The twenty-five-foot walnut bar, salvaged from a turn-of-the-century pub, was packed with off and on duty cops, firefighters, and paramedics. They clumped in groups and told tales with large hand gestures and laughter. The tables were full, but with civilians. There was a lot of head swiveling at the tables as the customers checked out the décor. Rod was right about the Star Trek decorating. People loved it. The walls were covered with everything from vintage movie posters to cases containing Spock ears. Star Trek did good by Rod until he had a second brainstorm. He added cop memorabilia. So between autographed pictures of Captain Picard and Data there were framed newspaper clippings like, “Rookie Cop Solves Triple Homicide.” The cop business, never lacking, boomed. Soon he added paramedic and firefighter garb and clippings. If there was a place to expand, Rod and Aaron would’ve expanded long ago.

We only got a few feet in the door before a hush settled over the crowd and the sound of my heels clicking on the hard wood filled the empty air. Then the entire bar stood and cheered. A group of cops my dad worked with stood on their chairs and whistled. Aaron and I looked at each other. I think my face mirrored his dumbfounded expression. Usually, Kronos clientele didn’t pay much attention to me. I was in there all the time. They knew me.

After a good five minutes, the crowd calmed and went back to their groups. They laughed and patted each other on the back while stealing glances at me. It felt like an out-of-body experience. Was I really in Kronos? Did that really just happen?

“Hey you!” Pete yelled over the din and waved me over. Aaron disappeared into the kitchen, and I sat down under a new display suspended from the ceiling in a Plexiglas box, a complete firefighter’s uniform including boots, a small shovel, and several framed photos of firefighters looking grim beside a burnt-out factory hung over our heads. Pete leaned over the table and kissed me. He smelled terrible, a mixture of sweat and disinfectant, but I enjoyed it just the same.

“Okay, what the hell was that all about?” I asked, brushing his dark blond off his wire-rimmed glasses.

“You don’t know?”

“Obviously not.”

Pete picked up his phone off the table and pressed a couple of buttons. He handed me the phone and sat back like he expected something to explode.

“Check it out,” he said.

I looked down at the small screen and saw myself bending over an old guy with my leopard bra showing. The tiny caption said, “Marilyn Lives.”

“Oh my God,” I said, clapping my hand over my mouth.

Pete leaned forward. “It gets worse.”

“How can it get worse?” I asked from behind my hand.

“There’s a website and you’re all over YouTube.”

 
I dropped my hand. “YouTube? Mom’s going to kill me.”

“It’ll blow over. You want to see more?” asked Pete.

“God no,” I said, shaking my head.

Stanley Thigpen, a paramedic, swaggered over, put his hands on the table, and leaned over me, filling my airspace with the stench of sour beer.

“How much for a dance?” he asked.

“Shut up, Stanley,” I said.

Stanley made a move like he was going to sit down next to me. “Are you saying I can’t afford you?”

Pete stood up and towered over Stanley. “No, I am.”

Stanley backed off with his hands up. “Come on. Your dad could always take a joke.”

“You’re lucky he’s not here,” I said. “You’d be taking your teeth home in a cup.”

“Get back here, Stanley, you dumb fuck,” yelled an EMT at the bar.

“Sorry, sorry. Jesus, a guy can’t even make a joke around here.”

“He can if he’s funny,” said Pete.

Stanley shrugged and walked away.

“Still think it’s no big deal?”

“It’s a medium deal, but it will blow over,” Pete said.

“It better blow over before Mom gets back because it will hit the fan. How did you find out?”

“I heard a couple of techs talking about you this morning. It was like they found out Batman’s secret identity.”

“I think this might be Mom’s worst nightmare, everyone looking at me, thinking things about me,” I said.

“But it’s not yours, I mean, not your worst nightmare?”

“I’m not crazy about it, but there are worse things.”

Pete pushed my glass of water to me and raised his own. “To worse things,” he said.

I drank to that and ignored the catcall coming from the other end of the bar, not to mention the grimace on Pete’s face.

“She’s a beauty, ain’t she?” said a voice.

Pete’s grimace disappeared. “Yes, she is.”

“They don’t make rubber like that anymore.” Pete and I looked up to see Rodney standing with his hands on his hips, grinning at the ceiling.

“Er, I guess not,” Pete said.

“Damn shame,” I said.

Rodney looked at me. “I can take it out if you want to touch it.”

“That’s okay.”

“Fine then. You hungry or what?” He looked disgruntled that we didn’t want to touch his rubber.

“I’ll have a triple tribble platter and a Coke,” said Pete.

“Worf burger, cheese fries, and a metamorphosis malt,” I said.

Rodney turned and waded through a large group of cops screaming with laughter about a guy named Cleason.

“I was starting to wonder what happened to you,” said Pete.

“Sorry. I got a little sidetracked,” I said.

“I thought that was my line.”

“You’ll have to share. How long do we have?”

“A half hour or so. Slow night. How are you doing?” he said.

“Okay, I guess. I still can’t believe he’s dead though.”

Pete picked up my hand and stroked it with his long fingers. “You’re sure it was murder?”

“That’s what the M.E. said. Plus, Dad had a feeling.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means something isn’t right,” I said.

“He could be wrong,” Pete said.

“Yeah, right. I’ve been waiting for that for twenty-five years and I bet there are some guys here that have waited a hell of a lot longer than that.”

“Who’s the M.E.?”

“Simon Grace,” I said.

“I know him,” Pete said.

“Oh yeah?”

“Well, I know who he is. He’s good. Makes me think about specializing in Pathology.”

“Ick.” I made a face.

“What, you don’t want to date a cutter?”

“Not just no, but hell no.”

“I thought you love me no matter what,” Pete said with a smile.

“I do, but let’s not get crazy,” I said.

“What about surgery? You’ll barely see me for the next five years. What then?” Pete asked with a look bordering on serious.

“At least I wouldn’t have to smell dead people in your hair,” I said.

“I’ll wash it.”

“There’s not enough shampoo in the world.” I wrinkled up my nose and made a hacking noise.

“You know you don’t always smell rosy.” He made a hacking noise of his own and pinched his nose.

“You really know how to sweet-talk a girl.”

Aaron came with our platters and started jabbering about a flame-throwing goblin as I plowed my way through a mountain of cheese fries. I looked around the bar and caught the eye of a few friendly faces. They waved and, thankfully, stayed where they were. Then I heard Pete ask a question, a real question, not just a grunt or a vague agreement. I turned back to Pete and Aaron in time to see Pete arrange his face into a look of studied boredom. Rodney came out from behind the bar and yelled for Aaron. He kept on about aerial tactic until Rod threw a roll at his head. Nailed him, too. Right in the ear. Aaron left, dragging his feet.

“What was that all about?” I said.

“What?” Pete stared down at his plate and pushed his house-made tator tots into a line opposite a row of garlic green beans. The whole thing looked like a chessboard or dare I say a battle plan.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You were starting to actually sound interested.”

“I’m not interested. I’m polite. You should try it some time,” Pete said.

“Sorry. Point taken.” I wasn’t sure I was buying it, but sometimes it’s better to let things lie and hope they go away.

“Alright then. If we eat fast, we could go back to your place for a little while.” Pete cocked one of his eyebrows at me.

“How long is a little while?” I asked.

“Long enough.”

“Oh, yeah? Long enough for who?”

“You, me, mostly me, but maybe you too. I’ll throw in a foot rub.”

“Fifteen minutes isn’t long enough for a good foot rub much less anything else,” I said.

“I had to try,” said Pete with a low-wattage smile.

“I understand.” I waved to Rodney behind the bar.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting to-go boxes.”

“Really?”

“You know I can’t resist you in your lab jacket. Especially with all those stains,” I said.

“Thank God for that,” he said.

Chapter Eight

FIFTEEN MINUTES WAS not long enough, but since we bagged dinner we managed to stretch it to twenty-five which bordered on reasonable. It goes without saying that I didn’t get my foot rub.