T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril (7 page)

“No, I mean with you. Are you okay?”

“It’s just not the same around this place.” She spied a beer can that had missed the trash bin and bent to pick it up. “Ah, well. It’s only for another month or so.”

So I wasn’t the only one feeling the absence. Ruby patted my shoulder motherlylike and headed for the kitchen. Normally, the veteran server sashayed when she moved. Today, she walked. Even Cracker was docile, not bothering to circulate and beg for peanuts. Some people say that animals don’t have emotions, but I know better.

Wiping down counters, I allowed my thoughts to wander to Morgan and his motivations. Most people, I’d learned, could be evaluated by whatever it was that motivated them. Profiles sketched, relationships discovered, and future courses of action revealed—all based on an individual’s motivating factors. In Trish’s world, a man’s motivation boiled down to a sexual rendezvous with a mistress. The overriding constant in his daily routine was how, where, and when he’d next hook up with her. The window of opportunity could be quite brief, but still, it was the mark’s main motivators that allowed Trish to get the goods on a cheating husband and collect a fat fee from the wife.

Of course, the cheating spouse is a simple example. Your average person is motivated by a much wider host of factors. Yet Morgan remained a mystery, and it didn’t appear that
anything
motivated him, other than seeing Argo’s succeed. I couldn’t find anything outstanding or unusual or even commendable about the man, other than he’d been a law abider. No record. No arrests. Not even a traffic violation. Problem was, he didn’t have
any
type of record. No social clubs, memberships, favorite vacation spots, or best friends. He drove an average car, had spent many years in an average job earn
ing an average salary, and had lived in an average neighborhood in Dallas. Why he’d decided to relocate his life to run a restaurant—an eatery previously held by a father he hadn’t spoken to in years—remained a mystery to me. A shrink I’m not, but maybe Morgan’s unremarkable past
was
his motivation. Maybe he’d grown weary of a dull life. The bigger question that spun inside my head was this: What did he know that he wouldn’t share with his own sister? He’d obviously stumbled into something perilous, something he meant to keep a secret. Your average citizen would not so easily dismiss a home break-in.

I washed out my bar rag and went to work on the blender base. Sticky dried globs of something whitish had attached themselves to it, like barnacles on a pier post. Probably margarita. I never knew that lime juice and Cointreau, when dried, had concretelike properties. Seemed like the tequila would have counteracted them.

“Is this where the NABs are meeting?”

I straightened up from my scrubbing to see a woman in a tie-dyed turban. I couldn’t tell whether she was fifty or eighty. “Excuse me?”

“The New Age Babes. Is this where we’re meeting?”

I rinsed and wrung out my rag. “Sorry, ma’am, I think you’re in the wrong spot. What’s the name of the place you’re looking for?”

A fellow NAB appeared next to Tie-Dye. She wore a knee-length flowing skirt and sandals. The hoops in each ear were the size of appetizer plates, and both thumbs were adorned with turquoise rings.

“This is the Block, right?” Tie-Dye said.

I nodded yes. A clump of people filed in and stopped to take inventory. I could tell without asking that they were part of the same group.

“Well, some dude named after a potato is our new president, and he said we could have our next meeting at his place,” Thumb Ring told me.

“He told a women’s group they could meet here, at the Block?”

“We just voted to start accepting men. That’s why we elected the potato man our new president,” Tie-Dye explained.

Before I had a chance to dial my number upstairs, Spud came clopping down the stairs, his cane running interference with each step. Wearing a blinding neon yellow hat and an untucked Tommy Bahama shirt, he blended right in with the ladies standing in front of me, hands on their hips. More people ambled in during the time it took my father to reach us, and the buzz of voices fired up as they greeted one another.

“Dammit, Spud, what have you done now?”

“Frannie told me I need to join some social clubs, so I did.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of the Lions Club? Or the Elks? Maybe the American Legion?”

He limped behind the bar and helped himself to an O’Doul’s beer. “I ran into these delightful ladies at the flea market and they recruited me. Me and Bobby and Hal and Trip. All four of us.”

His poker buddies. “And you volunteered to be their next
president?”

Spud threw back his head to chug, gripping the edge of the bar for balance. “I’m on painkillers for my pulled leg muscle, for crying out loud. I ain’t thinking real clear.”

“Spud, you’re as adorable as ever!” Thumb Ring said. “Where should we all sit?”

My father looked at me. His mustache twitched.

“What exactly does your group do, Spud?”

“Beats the hell out of me. I told you, I’m on painkillers,” he said. “I might have taken two at the same time yesterday.”

“We’re a social club, sweet pea.” It was Tie-Dye. “Retirees who want to find meaning in their lives.”

“We do aura adjustments, tarot cards, astrological sign readings, Reiki therapy, dating nights,” Thumb Ring added. “We’re going
on a cruise in two months. That’s what we’re doing today. Planning our cruise activities.”

I glared at Spud, but like Cracker when he knew he was in trouble, my father wouldn’t look at me. I saw Bobby, Hal, and Trip amble into the Block. They wouldn’t make eye contact, either.

I clapped my hands. “Okay, all you NABs out there, listen up! Feel free to make yourselves at home over there”—I pointed to a far corner area of tables that were separated from the main dining area by a row of quarter-slot pool tables—“and welcome to the Block. Somebody will be by in a minute to get your drink and food orders.”

Tie-Dye patted the top of my hand. “Oh, we always bring our own refreshments to our meetings. But Spud did say that all our drinks would be on the house.”

Spud limped back around the bar to join the New Age Babes, still not meeting my look. Not only had he sprung a group on me, but the Block wasn’t selling any food. And giving away free drinks.

“You want a veggie wrap, dear? We have plenty for everyone.”

Immersing himself into
other people’s lives—albeit in hourlong chunks—busied Morgan’s mind just enough to keep his thoughts off of Maria and her amazing abilities of deception. He’d been a blockhead, he knew. Used like a reliable but boring loaner car while Maria waited for the real thing—the sporty luxury model—to be fixed.

To keep from thinking about what a total loser he was, Morgan gobbled the Green Table’s savory slices of life as though they were his favorite dessert: cheesecake. Plain cheesecake, caramel-drizzled cheesecake, chocolate-crust cheesecake, or vanilla-bean-coffee cheesecake. The varieties were endless. He knew that the Johnson couple was trying to spice up their marriage, for example, and that Nina Johnson regularly had intercourse with another man while Jamie Johnson watched. Morgan learned that Realtors from the Max-Sell Agency loathed their broker-in-charge, who happened to be afflicted with an enlarged prostate, and they brutally made fun of him each and every
time he left the table to find a urinal. Morgan discovered that another couple of regulars, retirees in the design and printing business, had two grandsons in prison for arson, twins. He found out that a professional women’s group of stock market investors were gleaning insider information from one of their members who owned a commercial cleaning business and had after-hours access to professional office buildings. And of course, there were the romantic dinners where futures were planned and dreams discussed. For those who’d already spent a great deal of their lives together, Morgan detected an intimate and overriding familiarity marred by the occasional fight. And gossip about others. Lots of gossip about neighbors, friends, co-workers.

Argo’s drew its share of visitors, too, and there was always the random tourist group from Ohio, West Virginia, or a province in Canada who got lucky enough to score a seat at the Green Table because of a last minute cancellation. Morgan didn’t find their conversations as tantalizing as those of the regulars, but still, cheesecake was cheesecake. Decadent calories for the mind.

Transients always brought a unique set of dilemmas to the Green Table: which attractions were worth the money, how they hated the thought of going back to work, in-laws and family issues, and guilt about spending so much money on vacation. Inevitably, their conversation always turned to food. The incredible food they were currently spooning into their gullets, a rehash of the food they’d eaten last night, and a discussion over where they might have dinner tomorrow.

Yes, Morgan thought, tourist conversations are usually predictable, and he was glad that the Green Table usually played host only to local VIPs. The current table’s occupants weren’t VIPs, however. They were parents of an employee. Just ordinary locals, one of whom was bitching instead of enjoying the food. He categorized their conversation as cheesecake of the key lime variety: bittersweet with an overriding aftertaste of sour.

The woman sitting at the Green Table lowered her voice, and Morgan automatically adjusted the volume of his earbud. “I don’t care if this is Argo’s,” she said to her husband. They were the parents of a college student who worked in the kitchen, a kid named Brent who had given them an Argo’s gift certificate for their wedding anniversary. “He’s a glorified busboy, for goodness’ sake. He should be doing something to get ready for a real career, something he can make a living at. Something he can list on a résumé.”

Morgan watched the monitor and saw the man pat the woman’s forearm. “Brent still has a year of college, Helen. A lot of kids his age work at restaurants. You should be glad that he has a job.”

“Beth Plowden’s son is a year younger than Brent and he’s working an internship at the television station. A paid internship.” The woman paused to chew a bite of food. “Even Laura’s boy has a good job. He earns enough money to pay for his own apartment.”

The soothing tone of the man’s voice told Morgan that such conversations between husband and wife were commonplace. “If you want Brent out of the house, we can set him up in an apartment near the campus.”

“That’s not the point! I just… I just wish he had a little ambition. I wish he was more like his older brother.”

“Honey, Brent is a great kid and I think we should enjoy this wonderful meal, which, by the way, is thanks to him. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said. “But I doubt Brent actually
paid
for the gift card. I’m sure he got it free since he works here.”

Disgusted at her attitude, Morgan abruptly stood, almost knocking over his desk chair. The woman was like a female version of Garland, he thought. She didn’t recognize her son’s abilities and talents. She was probably always too busy berating the kid, just like Garland used to ride Morgan’s ass when he was a teenager. Some people are effervescent, others aren’t. But an outgoing or shy per
sonality had absolutely nothing to do with ambition, he knew. Morgan would have bet money that the kid had ambition, and plenty of it. He could tell by Brent’s work ethic, even if it was only a part-time job bussing tables. The boy was never late, did his job well, and never complained.

Compelled to intervene, Morgan pulled on his suit jacket and left the tiny office. The door’s lock was designed to engage automatically any time the door was closed, and he was careful to check his pocket for the key before pulling it tight. He found Brent unloading one of the commercial dishwashers. The boy was tall and stringy, with reddish hair and long bangs that almost concealed an acne-riddled forehead. Once his skin cleared up and his body had a chance to fill out, Morgan thought, Brent would be a fine-looking man. He motioned the employee over, and they walked outside through a rear delivery door. Startled by the appearance of her boss, a server stubbed out a cigarette, popped a mint in her mouth, and hustled back inside. A small piece of wood was wedged into the frame of the door to prevent it from shutting fully. The air was refreshingly cooler than that in the kitchen, and the night sky held an early moon. Much more pleasant than the confines of his office, Morgan thought. Although not nearly as interesting.

“Yes, sir?” the kid said once they’d positioned themselves against the metal railing that lined the loading ramp.

Morgan looked into the kid’s face. “What exactly is it that you want to do in life, Brent? Or, at least, what would you like to do for a career after college?”

“Uh, I’m not really, uh, into the restaurant scene,” Brent said. “I’m working here to save money. With the tip share and all, it’s more than a lot of my friends make, you know what I mean?”

Morgan knew he’d caught the kid off guard and Brent had over-thought the question. He tried again. “I’m not asking because I
want you to move up the ranks at Argo’s. I’m curious. What do you have planned for the future?”

Brent took a step back and squinted at his boss in the yellowish glow from the building’s security lighting. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I’m going to Alaska for eight months to intern for the Department of Fish and Game. They provide housing and everything.” The kid studied his shoes for a moment, shuffled his feet. “It’s a very cool deal. After that, I’ll go through a criminal justice program while I work in their wildlife conservation division. And then I’ll be set up to become a park ranger. I can stay in Alaska or apply to work at any state park in the country.”

Morgan’s instinct had been correct. The woman sitting at the Green Table was a dolt. “That’s great. You’re going after what you want.”

“I guess so. I’m already accepted into the program.”

“But you haven’t told your parents?”

Brent’s expression changed, and Morgan realized his mistake. “Just a guess. I know what it’s like to deal with a demanding parent,” Morgan explained. “I was afraid to tell my father anything when I was your age.”