Drift (7 page)

“You, too,” I replied.

I watched for a moment as they walked down the street. Squirrel looked back at me over his shoulder.

*   *   *

Sydney Bricker, Esq., had a brick storefront on the last commercial block at the center of town. If it wasn’t for the planter full of petunias out front I would have wondered if the place was technically still in the business district. Across the street was a row of stucco singles with big lawns.

Bricker wasn’t exactly what I had expected. First off, she was a she. Late forties, tall, blond, and striking, if not exactly attractive. Her legs were long and her skirt was short, and her blouse had enough buttons undone to show a little cleavage. She seemed incongruously polished, like someone had forgotten to tell her she was working in Dunston. I wondered if she was involved in local politics, maybe with an eye on Harrisburg.

“Mr. Carrick,” she said, shaking my hand firmly. “I’m Sydney Bricker.”

I smiled and shook firmly back. “Nice to meet you.”

“You were expecting a man,” she said with a knowing smile, leaning back against her desk.

I had pictured Sid Bricker as a short, fat, bald guy, but I wouldn’t admit that. “I was expecting a lawyer.”

“So, I understand you’re a detective,” Bricker said, leaning against her desk.

“That’s right,” I replied. “So, should we get right to it?”

I knew the meeting wouldn’t take very long. The will would be simple, and since the lawyer was a lawyer, I figured she’d be unlikely to waste much time with unbillable chitchat. And since I would be paying the bill, I knew I wasn’t going to waste much time on billable chitchat.

Frank and my mom had left everything to me. There were some stocks, some life insurance, and some money, and there was the house and the land. Bricker gave me a list of insurance and bank documents I should look for at the house.

After a brief recap of the will, I signed next to the red tab on a dozen pieces of paper. The whole thing took thirteen minutes. I figured Bricker billed in tenths-of-an-hour, six-minute chunks, meaning I had just crossed into the third tenth of an hour.

So when she asked me if I wanted some advice on what to do with the place, I figured if it took less than five minutes, I was all ears. I had time to kill before going to the funeral home anyway.

“By far the biggest asset left to you is the real estate,” she said. “You’re not in a great market right now, and there’s not usually much demand out here, even in the best of times.”

“But?”

“I know a developer putting plots together.” She shrugged, giving her hair a practiced toss. “Your property might be a little too far, and you might have missed the boat already, but if you were planning on selling, this might be a smart time to do it.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“I also have a real-estate license. If you’re interested, I might be able to broker that for you.”

“I’ll think about that.” I looked at my watch. “One more thing: Where can I get breakfast around here?”

“Branson’s is great. It’s over—”

“I know where it is. That’s the only place?”

“Unless you feel like driving.”

Sixteen minutes. Best not to cut it too close. I stood up. “Thanks.”

*   *   *

I got to the funeral home early, but they didn’t seem to mind. The place was called McClintock’s, and Alfred McClintock himself came to meet me. He was a gaunt man with thinning hair that had turned translucent on its way from red to gray. He gave the impression that he was ready to share whatever sorrow was around without soothing any of it.

He assured me that Frank had arranged everything, but still insisted on walking me through all the different options. He’d wait for me to say, “Okay, that one,” then he’d smile sadly and say, “Actually, Mr. Menlow selected this one.” Like it was some sort of quiz, a test to see how poorly I knew my deceased stepfather, to show what a terrible stepson I was.

I didn’t need that. I already knew it.

Frank had arranged for his remains to be cremated and his ashes placed in an urn matching the one he’d selected for my mother. There would be a memorial service on Wednesday, after which he would be buried beside my mother in the small plot next to the chapel.

He asked if I wanted a reception afterward, invite people back to the house.

I stared at him for a moment, remembering the excruciating awkwardness that had followed my mom’s funeral. “No.”

He nodded sadly, like he already knew the answer. “Mr. Menlow said you wouldn’t.”

When we were done, McClintock walked me outside, clapped a hand onto my arm and gave me what I think was a smile. I felt new respect for Frank, who’d had to deal with this guy to arrange my mom’s funeral as well as his own.

I said thanks as I approached my car, then I got out of there as fast as I could.

15

When I walked into Branson’s, I expected one of those scenes where the music stops and everyone turns to look at me. But there was no music, just the buzz and bustle of breakfast. That didn’t stop, either.

The
PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF
sign was still up, so I sat in the same table as the day before and hid behind a menu.

I knew I was getting the two eggs, wheat toast, and home fries, but as I was trying to decide whether to get bacon or sausage or both, a cup of coffee appeared on the table, and I looked up to see the guy from behind the bar standing there holding a second cup.

“Sorry,” he said. “A little short-staffed.” I was about to give him my order when he said, “Mind if I join you?”

I moved the menu out of his way, and he sat, sipping his black coffee before putting it on the table. “Sorry about yesterday,” he said, taking another sip.

“Me, too.”

“You’re Frank Menlow’s kid. Doyle, right?”

Close enough, I thought, as I nodded.

“Sorry. Frank was good people. Meredith, too. Classy lady.”

“Thanks.”

He put out his hand. “I’m Bert Squires.”

“I thought maybe you were Branson,” I said, shaking it.

He laughed. “Branson died thirty years ago. But yeah, this is my place. I didn’t want you to think that what went on yesterday was normal behavior around here.”

“It isn’t? Didn’t seem like the first time that guy had pulled something like that.”

“Who, Dwight?” Squires laughed and scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, Dwight Cooney is a piece of work, but he’s mostly harmless.”

Let him punch you in the head, I thought, then tell me he’s harmless. “He didn’t seem harmless when he grabbed the lady’s arm.”

“Yeah, well. He’s got it bad for her.”

“He’s got a strange way of showing it.”

He leaned forward, the wooden chair creaking under him. “I’m afraid Dwight never got past the pigtail-pulling phase of male-female relationships.”

It seemed like more than that to me, but the guy was making an effort, so I let it go.

“Anyway,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “What’ll you have?”

I went with the bacon. The food came out fast, and it was excellent: eggs a little runny, bacon crisp and even. When I was done, Squires came back and told me it was on the house.

“Thanks,” I said. “If I’d known ahead of time, I would have gotten the sausage, too.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

*   *   *

Stepping outside Branson’s, I practically bumped off of the heat. Nothing like a big fried breakfast to help you enjoy the summer weather. Still, the way the grease was sitting in my stomach, I figured a quick walk around town might help. The retail district was barely two blocks long, and I’d already walked half of it. I turned in the direction away from Bricker’s office and walked past a handful of shops and a bank before I came to a vacant hardware store and a rusty but operational gas station. That was it. I turned the corner and started heading back along the next street up, figuring I’d circle back to my car.

The street was more like an alley, a couple of fenced yards on the left, some Dumpsters and the backs of the stores on the right. Someone was leaning against a utility pole halfway up the block, smoking a cigarette. He was doing something with his hands, but I couldn’t figure out what.

He was big, maybe six-four. As I got closer, I saw sunlight reflecting off something shiny on his face and I recognized him as the guy from George Arnett’s Escalade. He looked like he recognized me, too, staring at me with that bored expression some people think is intimidating.

I looked back at him with a steely gaze that I thought was intimidating, but he looked away from me, uninterested, and went back to what he was doing with his hands.

As I got a little closer, I realized he was holding a pack of matches, and he was flicking them, lit, toward a row of fences. When I was twenty feet away, he put the cigarette to his lips and took a long pull, like there was more than one drag left in it, but he needed to finish. Then he flicked it onto the ground between us.

I watched it bounce on the cement. Then I looked up at him. “That’s littering,” I said.

He gave me that same bored stare and as he tore off another match, I heard a raspy mewing sound. Following both the direction of the sound and the trajectory of the matches, I looked down and saw a scruffy gray tabby backed into a corner where two sections of fence met. Its ears were flat against its head and its spine was arched. The ground in front of it was littered with matches, a few of them still lit.

The asshole leaning against the pole was pressing another match to the flint strip on the cover. Before I really thought about it, about how I was suspended and out of jurisdiction, I reached out and slapped the matches away from him.

Before they hit the ground, his hand shot out and smacked my face, enough to sting. I brought up my right, a tight fist with a little too much behind it.

One moment he was there, then suddenly he wasn’t.

One moment I felt his arm on my neck, then suddenly—well that was about it, really.

Technically, I wouldn’t call it a K.O., but the next thing I knew, I was horizontal on the sidewalk, and I was alone. The spent matches were less than a foot from my face. One of them was still lit, but it went out as I watched, releasing a thin thread of smoke that made little loops in the turbulence from my breath.

The cat was gone.

I sat up slowly and looked around, but the street was empty. My head felt like it was full of overcooked oatmeal. I checked myself for injuries and found no lumps, no bumps, nothing other than a tingle where he’d slapped my face, and a similar sensation on the left side of my neck. I’d heard of martial arts moves that could put a man out with a slap on the carotid artery, cause the blood pressure to go haywire. I’d read that they were frowned upon because while the victim usually woke up unharmed moments later, sometimes the victim didn’t wake up at all, having bled out from a torn carotid artery. I guess that was a chance my new friend was willing to take.

The world sloshed unpleasantly as I pushed myself up off the ground. I steadied myself on the utility pole and dusted off my shirt and pants, keeping my anger in check and directed at myself. Walking stiffly back toward my car, I thought about how much I hoped to run into that guy again, and how much that town was starting to seriously piss me off.

Halfway home, I came upon a figure walking along the side of the road, looking as pathetic as I felt—shoulders slumped, feet dragging, and a big wet spot in the middle of his back.

I pulled up next to him and lowered the window. “Moose.”

His skin was blotchy, and his face was dripping, like he’d been walking in the heat long enough to remember how much he’d had to drink the night before.

He walked around to the passenger side and got in. Without asking, he reached over and cranked up the air conditioning, moving the vent in his direction. “I feel like crap.”

“Mmm,” I said with a sarcastic smile. “Squish.”

Normally, I might have piled it on a little thicker, but having your ass handed to you is humbling, and I still felt a tiny bit woozy. He sank back in his seat and closed his eyes.

“So that’s your friend Carl?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t mention he was a junkie.”

“What?” He opened his eyes and sat up a little. “Squirrel’s not a junkie. Are you kidding? He’s like, Mr. Healthy Natural. That’s why he makes his own hooch. He doesn’t want to put chemicals into his body.”

“He wouldn’t be the first to make an exception for drugs.” I shrugged. “Maybe it’s organic junk, but he’s using.”

“Dude, you are so wrong. You’re just thinking like a cop.”

I gave him a look. “His eyes were half-closed, his pupils were constricted, and his nose was runny.”

“That’s probably hay fever or something. Squirrel’s just high on life.”

“You don’t think he seemed stoned?”

Moose shrugged and closed his eyes again. “Maybe he was a little more high on life than usual, but that’s all.”

*   *   *

Moose was practically asleep by the time we got home. His head had left a smudge where it slid down the window.

I was feeling a little worse for wear myself, and after I stopped the car in the driveway and shut off the engine, I let my eyes rest for a moment.

When I opened them, I saw Nola Watkins charging up the driveway toward me with a look of murderous rage. My brain scrambled through everything I had said or done in the last twenty-four hours, but I couldn’t think of anything particularly egregious. That scared me even more, because usually it was the infractions you didn’t know about that got you in the most trouble.

I put the key in the ignition to start the car, but she walked around to the passenger side. That’s when I realized she wasn’t coming for me. She was coming for Moose.

16

“Uh, Moose…” I said, giving him just enough warning to open his eyes before she opened the door and he tumbled onto the ground.

“You
idiot
!” she shrieked.

Moose put up his hands like he thought she might actually hit him. “What?”

I climbed out of the car and hurried over in case I needed to get between them. Nola held up her left hand, and I saw that she was holding an ear of corn. “Look at this!”