The Dearly Departed (18 page)

“Yeah, white is good. With jelly.”

She yelled the order to Gus, then turned back to the teenager. “Where you from?”

Billy met the waitress's stare. “Why?”

“ 'Cause I know everyone who comes in here. Are you passing through?”

“Yeah.”

“On vacation?”

“Sort of.”

“Heading north?”

“South.”

“By yourself?”

“Yeah,” said Billy. “But I'm not sure where I want to go next.” He brightened and said, “Maybe the Basketball Hall of Fame. That's south. I may go there next. To Springfield. I have my uncle's truck. . . .”

“Nice uncle,” said Winnie. “Wish I had one.”

“He's in a nursing home, so I get to use it anytime I want. As long as I pay for the gas.”

“What kind of truck?”

“A Ford F100.”

“New? Old?”

“Medium.”

“What's your name?”

“Mike.”

“Yours will take a little time, because the steak's frozen, Mike.”

“No problem,” said Billy.

When Gus called from The Dot saying Winnie was waiting on a kid wearing the late Miles Finn's Rolex, Joey groaned. Winnie watched
America's Most Wanted
; it wasn't the first time she'd fingered an innocent tourist at the counter.

“What do
you
think?” Joey asked Gus.

“Want me to put her on?”

“Not really,” said Joey.

Seconds later, without preamble, Winnie hissed into the mouthpiece, “I wouldn't have suspected anything if it was just the watch, but he's wearing a T-shirt that Miles wore all the time.”

“A T-shirt?”

“Penn State. Faded pink, with bleach spots. Believe me, it's his or else I'm living in the Twilight Zone.”

“Did you say anything?”

“No! I asked him where he was from, but I didn't want him to think I was on to him.”

“No one's reported break-ins at the lake,” said Joey.

“Dead guys don't call 911! You interested or not?”

“You know I can't do anything official without backup. How much longer will he be there?”

“Long enough. He ordered the Presidential, and I'm giving him free refills on his root beer.”

“Look. Tell Gus to stall on the order. I'm radioing Claremont.”

“And then what?”

“Then I'll check it out.”

“Couldn't you just pretend to drop by for a cup of coffee? Then if you noticed something fishy, it would seem like you just stumbled across it.”

Joey closed his eyes, reclined his desk chair back as far as it would tilt. “Is he alone?”

“Alone and half your size. Mainly hungry. He's got the ketchup and the A-1 Sauce all lined up. You could just slip in next to him and start a conversation.”

“Any sign of weapons?”

Winnie said, “He's sitting here fishing for ice cubes with his straw and staring at the Sof-Serve.”

“Lots of people went to Penn State,” said Joey, “and lots of people own Rolexes.”

“Not in this joint,” she said.

He jogged the two hundred yards to the diner, removed his hat, smoothed his hair, and opened the door. The teenager, drumming at the counter, didn't turn around. “ 'Morning,” Joey sang in his pleasantest off-duty voice. “Or I guess I should say good afternoon?” He swung his leg over the stool next to the kid, who flinched at the sight of the uniform.

“Whoa,” said Joey. “Take it easy.”

“No big deal,” the kid managed. He looked down at Joey's gun. “My father's a cop. So I'm used to them.”

“Really? For what town?”

“Not around here. In California. Hollywood.”

Joey didn't respond, except to stare at the teenager's thin, familiar face.

Winnie came over, pencil and pad in hand. “The usual?” she asked.

Joey barked, “No”—odd for him, no
please
or
thank you.

She retreated to the far end of the counter and watched. The look on Joey's face—fury and hatred combined—was one she'd never seen before. His hand shook on its way to his water glass, and his lips moved silently.

The boy swiveled a quarter-turn away from the police officer, then glanced skittishly back to his neighbor. “I just remembered—” he called to Winnie. “I gotta meet someone.”

Joey jumped to his feet and, in a tone no one at The Dot had ever heard him use, ordered the teenager to sit the fuck back down and put his hands flat on the counter.

The boy steadied himself, hands gripping the edge of the counter.

Joey was behind him now, holding him by the belt, his right hand drawing his gun. “You're under arrest for the attempted murder of Chief Joseph Loach”—he yanked the belt hard, causing the boy to yelp—“which is
me,
you little prick.”

Billy's eyes darted back and forth between Winnie and the door. A whimper escaped each time he exhaled.

Winnie was torn between delight at being right and dismay at inciting Joey's overkill. She hadn't said anything about murder; the kid had stolen a watch and a T-shirt from an empty house.

“Ronnie! Get over here,” Joey yelled. A tall, round-shouldered man in gray work clothes rose from a booth, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“I'm deputizing you right now, under my authority as chief, to be my special assistant. I need you to pat him down.”

“Really?” said Ron. “You don't want to?”

“I'm asking
you
to, okay? Like now.”

Ron came to Joey's side. “Sorry . . . can you walk me through it?”

Joey said through clenched teeth, “You ever watch TV?” He pulled Billy off the stool by the belt and kicked his legs apart. “You start with the chest, go down his body, up the legs. Okay? You're looking for guns, knives, anything. I'll cuff him when you're done.”

Ron traded places with Joey. After every few inches, he looked toward Joey for approval.

“Don't just tickle him,” said Joey. “Squeeze.”

Winnie felt a stab of pity for the teenager, who was too stupid not to have left town once he'd burglarized a dead man's house. Ron's search stalled along Billy's right jeans pocket.

“Anytime today,” said Joey.

Ron reached gingerly into the pocket and brought out a plywood squirrel that was attached to a key.

“Where'd you get this?”

“It's mine. For the hotel across the street.”

Invigorated, Ron resumed his search. “Spread 'em,” he growled, then checked with his audience—two guys in the farthest booth. They waved.

“That's good enough,” said Joey. “Can you get between him and the door? I'm cuffing him.”

“What'd I do?” the boy cried. “I have money. I was going to pay for my breakfast.”

Joey smacked the kid's elbow with the back of his hand. “You stupid asshole. You didn't think I'd remember who shot me?
That's
what you did, dickhead. You tried to kill me, and now you're under arrest.”

“What's he talking about? I didn't try to kill anyone. I didn't do anything. He must be crazy.”

“One block away! And then you stick around for a couple of days? Are you retarded or what?”

“It wasn't me,” cried Billy. “And whoever it was, he mustn't have killed you.”

“Whoever it
was
is looking at attempted capital murder. I don't care how old you are or how retarded.”

“Joey, easy,” said Mrs. Angelo.

“Maybe you should just go without a fuss,” Winnie said to the boy.

“It wasn't me. I was never here before. I was with my girlfriend.”

“When was that?” asked Winnie.

Joey glared at the waitress, who pursed her lips and retreated another foot.

“Do you have to use the gun?” said Mrs. Angelo from the cash register. “He's only a kid.”

“You might want to consider leg irons,” said Ron. “He can still run in cuffs.”

“He's not running anywhere,” said Joey. “He knows what I'll do if he moves one inch.”

“You need a real deputy,” clucked Mrs. Angelo. “I don't know how one police officer is supposed to do everything in this town.”

“Need any more hands, Chief?” asked one of Ron's booth mates, whose ten fingers remained wrapped around a lumpy pita.

“Don't I get a lawyer?” asked Billy.

“Call his parents,” said Mrs. Angelo. “They're probably frantic.”

“My parents! That's a laugh.”

“Ron,” Joey said impatiently, pointing with his gun.

“What?”

“The door?”

Ron pressed his back against the glass panel to open it, sucking in his stomach as they passed.

“Stay here and watch for the Claremont cruiser,” Joey told him.

“Joe—I'm already late. Leo was covering for me just so I could get an iced coffee.”

“Okay,
go.
Jesus. Can I trouble you to find another volunteer?”

“I'll keep an eye out for the cruiser,” said Mrs. Angelo.

“What're you gonna do to me?” asked Billy.

“Shut up!”

Billy flinched, grew smaller. Two wet streaks shone on his cheeks.

Winnie walked out to the top step holding a Styrofoam container. “Should we send over his steak and eggs?”

“Do you understand what he did?” Joey yelled, giving Billy a shove for emphasis. “Because your consorting with the enemy is getting on my nerves.”

“He's got rights,” said Winnie. “Anyone who watches TV knows that.”

“Maybe you'd like to bring him take-out in prison,” Joey grumbled.

“You didn't even want to
come,
Joey Loach,” Winnie threw back.

“Prison!” wailed Billy.

“Do you know if there's a reward?” Winnie asked.

 

S
unny stopped by the bar to thank Chester Gobin for the beautiful spray of American Beauties and the lovely sentiments on the card. “It was Evette's idea to make it look like one of her opening-night bouquets,” he said. He had shaved his veiny head and sprouted a stiff, red mustache since Sunny's last visit to the clubhouse. His hug was huge, unself-conscious; he filled a wineglass to the brim as Sunny slipped a five-dollar bill from her pocket onto the bar.

“Put that away, Sun. It's the least I can do. Want anything to eat?”

“No thanks. I'm going to make it quick.”

“Plans?”

She shook her head. “I don't think it looks right to be hanging around a bar the day after your mother's buried.”

“Not to argue with you, Sun, but you're not in any danger of looking like a disrespectful daughter. You have a pretty long way to go before you'd give off that impression. Besides, we're alone.”

“Where is everyone? Isn't this happy hour?”

He shrugged. “People listen to the weatherman talking about the heat index and they stay inside.”

“It's nice this time of night,” said Sunny. She smiled. “Or maybe it was the easiest time of the day to sneak on—now and sunup. But then I'd have to dodge the sprinklers.”

“How about some mozzarella sticks? Or some salsa and chips?”

“Maybe chips and salsa,” she said. “Thanks.”

Chester ripped open a bag of taco chips with two hands and poured its contents into a plastic basket. “How's your game?” he asked.

“Good.”

“Are you getting close to scratch?”

Sunny said she didn't know; didn't want to know; didn't think it mattered in the great scheme of things.

“Your mom, you mean? It puts hazards and double bogeys into perspective? I wish more people saw the big picture.”

“Actually,” said Sunny, “I've been doing this for a while—where I just get out there and enjoy nature.”

“No you don't. This is Chet you're talking to. I've seen you break an iron against a helpless tree after you hit one off the hosel.”