The interior of the restaurant surprised her. She relaxed. It seemed he’d invited her to one of those known-only-to-the-neighborhood-and-a-select-few places where the food is always good, never excellent, the service friendly, and the ambience informal. Unless she missed her guess, it would be owned, managed, or dominated by a character.
Charlie waved to her from the bar. He helped her off with her coat and scarf and took her elbow to lead her into the restaurant’s dim interior. She sniffed at the mixed aromas of garlic, onions, tomato sauce, and Italian sausage. Things were looking up.
“There’s someone I want you to meet,” he said, leading her to a booth away from the front door, the bar, and any but the most determined scrutiny.
“Well,” she said glancing around, “you’re right, I think. You will be invisible here from whoever it is you wish to be invisible from, if that sentence parses. You could hide Osama bin Laden in this joint.”
“The patrons of this establishment would dice him and put him in marinara sauce, were that so.” Charlie beckoned for a server. He ordered rye and water. Eden asked for Prosecco.
“We’re celebrating? Good.” Charlie canceled his rye and asked for a magnum of the sparkling Italian wine. “And bring us flutes, not the white wine glasses.”
“Tell me, what’s up with this place that I had to take a cab halfway to Iowa to meet you? Also, I came because the whole notion of a clandestine meeting intrigued me. So, why the cloak and dagger?”
“I could say force of habit. Ah, here he is!”
“Who?”
Eden followed his gaze and saw what she guessed was the character.
“Tony Agnelli, our host.”
Agnelli stood six-five. As nearly as she could tell, he had no neck. His shoulders simply bunched up and met his ears. He seemed nearly as wide as he was tall and moved with the assurance of one accustomed to having others step aside. Judging from his bulk, she guessed he may have exceeded three hundred pounds. Harry Potter’s Hagrid but without the beard. The closest thing she’d seen that massive and mobile was the USS New Jersey.
“Hey, Chucky,” Agnelli rumbled, and shifted course fractionally, enough to miss a table and chair, but not the waitress serving drinks next to it. Eden held her breath, expecting the crash of glassware and crunch of bone and sinew as USS Agnelli ran her down. But she pirouetted away at the last moment. An old hand, it seemed.
“Marie told me you made a reservation. What is this, you gotta make a reservation? This is The End Run. You don’t make a reservation.” He slowed his pace. Eden could almost hear the orders on the bridge. “All stop. Reverse,” and the clanging of the ship’s telegraph. He berthed gently at their table and his gaze settled on Eden. “How do you do.”
She got her second surprise. However massive and clumsy Agnelli appeared, his eyes were extraordinarily soft, kind, and a startling shade of Nile green.
“Tony, Eden Saint Clare.”
“Hi,” she extended her hand.
“Tony Agnelli. Nice to meecha. Any friend of Charlie here is a friend of mine.”
“Mr. Agnelli and I used to play football together. Tony was somewhat lighter in those days and we were both very much younger. Tony played every down, both ways, while I kept the bench warm for him for the rare moments when he needed a breather.”
“We played for the once-mighty Princeton Tigers, a lot of years ago.”
“You won a lot of games?”
“We had a few good years and a few not so good.”
“In the Dartmouth game, Charlie got mousetrapped and mashed his knee and was out of football forever.”
“It was the first and only time I actually got to play a down. I think we were losing forty–zip and the coach decided to rest the first string and most of the second, for that matter, and proceeded to clear the bench. One play and my march to the Heisman ended.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, but it sounds awful. What is a mousetrap?”
“You tell her,” Charlie said.
“Well, a mousetrap is when somebody on one side is maybe too good and coach wants to make him not so good. So instead of meeting him head-on like you’re expected to, you step aside and let him through. He thinks you missed your block. And then two guys who’re supposed to be somewhere else come from the right and left and bam, the guy who might be too good goes to the sidelines with his bell rung.”
“Or his knee filled with relocated cartilage and ligaments.”
“That’s awful.”
“That’s football.”
“What happened to you?”
“I ended my collegiate career with a limp as the team’s Assistant Manager.”
“Charlie was on an academic scholarship and put himself through college. He goes to Desert Storm with the Marines, gets medals, and disappears, only to come out in the spook business. You be nice to this man.”
“And what about you, Tony? Did you play any more football?”
“Oh yeah. I had the other kind of scholarship, so I played. The Bears drafted me in the seventh round. I sat on the bench a year and got traded to Miami. I sat on their bench two years and then moved to Buffalo and some other teams. Never made the big time. Quit when the only job I could get was on Al Davis’ Raiders and it looked like another year on the bench or maybe the practice squad.”
“Tony is being modest. He was a heavy-duty fullback. The game changed around him and runningbacks got lighter and faster.”
“I was a dinosaur.”
“So now you work here, Tony?”
“Not work, own. People might have thought I was a big, dumb jock, but while all those high draft choices were out buying pimped-out Caddies, trophy wives, and swimming pools, I bought tax-free munis and blue chips. I built a nest egg big enough so my family can live up north of Winnetka and I can lose money on this restaurant.”
“You have a family?”
“Six kids, wife, two dogs, a cat, a rabbit, no mortgage, no car payment, no worries. Football was good to me…Marie!” Tony bellowed so loudly three men at the bar spilled their drinks. “Menus. These people are hungry.”
“None for me,” Charlie said. “I know what I want already.”
“You really don’t need a menu, Charlie?”
“No, I always have the house specialty.”
“Then make it two.” Eden declared.
“Uh, I don’t know,” Tony said, “it’s kind of like, you know, a guy thing.”
“A guy thing? You don’t mean for men only, do you?”
“Oh no, it’s not that. It’s just that girls usually don’t—”
“Girls? Whoa, this woman can eat anything a man can, ex-football players included.”
“Well, sure, but…”
“Eden, you should at least look at the menu.”
“Don’t need to.”
“Sight unseen?”
“Blind.” Oh God, she thought, please don’t make it mountain oysters.
“Okay, be right out.” Tony, engines full ahead, set off toward the kitchen.
Eden studied Charlie.
“Okay. What did I just order?”
“Liver and onions.”
She let it sink in a minute. “You did it to me, didn’t you?”
“Did what?”
“You guys just mousetrapped me.”
Charlie grinned. Eden sat back and twisted her wine glass by its stem. “Can we be serious for a minute?”
“Certainly. What is it?”
“You’ve known Ike for a long time, right? You’re his friend. You’d do anything for him?”
“Probably.”
“I worry about him. It’s like he’s obsessed with this search for the person who hurt Ruth.”
“Don’t
you want to catch the guy, too?”
“Sure, but I want a whole Ruth and a sane Ike more. Look, finding the person isn’t going to change anything. And I swear, I sometimes think Ike’s head will explode if he doesn’t slow down. Tell him to call it off.”
“He’s a tough guy, Eden, he won’t explode.”
“Tell me the truth, Charlie. Is all this running around looking for an antigovernment crazy going to work?”
“Probably not—no.”
“Then why…?”
“You need to know how personal this is for him.”
“You are referring to what happened to his wife in Switzerland, I guess. Ruth told me the story.”
“There is that, yes, and other things. Ike is a very righteous man. I mean that in the Old Testament sense. When he sees injustice, he wants to make it right. At the moment, unfortunately, justice is looking like a needle in a haystack. A needle, by the way, that probably isn’t really there.”
“But why, then, are you all spending so much effort when you don’t believe it will work?”
“He will not rest until he’s satisfied he’s done everything possible. And if you’re sincere about wanting him sane, you will understand, it’s the way he is. He needs to hunt. After a while, when he steps back from the thing and lets his intuition rather than his emotions run the case, he will focus and finish it. So, that’s why I am helping him. He will be okay, trust me.”
“I guess I must. Listen, Charlie, I have a big day tomorrow. If you’ll call me a cab, I’ll take a miss on the house specialty. Tell Tony I said thanks, but no thanks.”
“Stay. You have to eat and he won’t bring you liver. He will have a small filet and a house salad out here in five. Stay.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Ike stared at his second cup of coffee, oblivious to the sounds and mixed aromas of the Crossroads Diner. On a normal day, if any of a policeman’s days can ever be considered normal, those olfactory stimuli would be comforting, a good beginning to the day. But not this morning. Frank Sutherlin eased into the bench opposite and waved at Flora, who rolled her eyes and brought him his cup of tea.
“Any progress on your dead hay thief, Frank?”
“The news is, there is no news, well, nearly none. The drug-sniffing dog did not find a trace of marijuana or anything else. Not even an aspirin. Our guy and his accomplices—we assume there were more involved—were actually stealing hay. Is that weird or what?”
“Maybe guys like Duffy who are attempting to go straight have to do it gradually. Going ‘cold turkey’ may not be possible, so they move from risky drug felonies with major incarceration consequences to dealing items that can bring punishments approaching misdemeanors, like a smoker and his nicotine patches.”
“It’s a thought. Not a good one, I think, and it does not explain the ‘big score’ he bragged about. I guess I should follow your other scenario. He saw something that he believed would net him some money.”
“Or, if he’s a partner as you surmise, he got cut loose for some reason.”
“There is that, too. We, that is the dog, did at least find a wallet buried in the hay. ID and money intact. Probably dropped. Could be the colleague or a customer.”
“Whose?”
“A guy named Smith—tricky name—and he lives over in Buena Vista. I’m heading out there today to see if I can determine which of the two he is, thief or customer.”
“If he turns out to be one of the hayseed gang and, God forbid, he’s an associate of Jack Burns, do not tell Essie or Billy. Please.”
“Got it. How’s your search going?”
“Badly. There are too many people, too many places to look and, in taking the long view, an unlikely scenario to boot. If I had the FBI’s resources on the case, I might be able to wind it up in a month. As it is, if I am going to catch this guy, it will be as much a matter of luck as skill.”
“Umm, about that, I…So what’s next?”
“I’m thinking a trip to Dallas, but I’m not looking forward to it, I can tell you. Long run for a short slide. What were you about to say just now?”
“Well…There’s something else I need to tell you. The mayor has tumbled to the fact that we are talking and he’s guessed about that van behind Lee Henry’s. He’s declared you absent without leave and has declared your office vacant by virtue of desertion. He’s aiming to appoint Jack Burns as acting sheriff. If we do anything with you, including having conversations like this one, he says we’ll be fired. So, this will probably be the last time we talk—sort of.”
“You know, of course, he can’t do that. But this close to an election, and given what I’m dealing with, he knows I won’t take action, so don’t risk it, Frank. I will be available on that cell phone number I gave you earlier if you need anything. Thanks.”
Frank left for the office and Ike resumed his concentration on his now-empty coffee cup. The crowd at the office had not been doing much to help his search anyway, but he did enjoy their moral support. Now that had been taken away, and Charlie had run off to Chicago as well. Flora cruised by and refilled his cup.
Ike felt alone. He’d been fighting the feeling for days. Stiff upper lip and all that but…Ruth was his anchor, the job was his ship. Now the anchor had slipped and the ship had started to sink. What next?
He opened his store-bought phone and called Charlie, who once again was not answering. Ike lifted an eyebrow at that and left a message.
“Charlie, I only hope you are not answering because you are gainfully employed and are about to strike a blow for peace and freedom. If not, shame on you. Listen, I have the data for the list of names associated with LSD. I extorted it from the executive officer of Let States Decide. I have no doubt that the minute I left his office he was on the horn to the people he’d just given up, and warned them away from me. I think it will require someone no one knows is in the hunt to flush them out. Maybe you could do that or persuade one of your colleagues looking to get out from behind a desk for a few hours to do it for you. One of the men Yeats gave me is near where you are, or where you said you’d be. With you it’s never a certainty. Here’s the list and what you need to know. The last is supposed to hang out on the South Side near the university. Oh, and where in the hell are you, really?”
Ike read him the information, spelling the names that might pose a problem, and hung up. He left his coffee on the table and headed out the door to the hospital. If he had to fly to Dallas, he was going to get in some serious time with Ruth first. Was any of this making any sense, or was he simply yielding to a combination of anger and the need to do something, anything to stay sane?
***
Ida Templeton had spent the previous week in Roanoke and today marked the first time she’d worked the ICU at Stonewall Jackson since her run in with Harris’ doctor. The head nurse greeted her, and ran through the new admissions and alerts.
“So how is Ms. Harris doing? Did I tell you, I met her doctor? What a good-looking man. He was trying to fix her IV.”
“He was? Harris’ neurologist is Doctor Neena Patel and she’s a woman. I don’t know who you saw, but it wasn’t her.”
“Oh, then he must have been in to visit another patient.”
“You’re sure it was a doctor?”
“Yeah, pretty sure. I’ve seen him in a hospital, I know, but I can’t remember right now which one. I’m in and out of so many, but yep, he’s a doc.”
“Good. The trouble with this business is you put somebody in a white lab coat and nobody questions if they belong in the corridors or not. You did see his ID badge?”
“He had one, yes. Anyway he didn’t stay long. Maybe he’s the new intern I heard was coming.”
“Tall lanky guy?”
“Yes.”
“That’s him. You can’t be too careful. Like you said�
�guy in a lab coat, who’s going to question? Okay, Harris had a bad night so keep the visitors to a minimum today, okay?’
“What happened?”
“Oh last night that silly woman Miss Ewalt brought in a bunch of her co-workers, from Harris’ office, I think, and it must have gotten loud or something. Her BP and heart rate shot up, the alarm went off. The attending showed up and shooed them all out. Stupid. I don’t know what the night shift was thinking about.”
“She’s okay now?”
“Peaceful. We need to keep her that way. Next week she will be evaluated, and if she has slipped into a vegetative state, Doctor Patel will recommend she be moved to hospice.”
“Gee, that’ll be rough on the sheriff, won’t it?”
“You know what they say, ‘Life’s a bitch, then you die.’ Oops, speak of the devil. Good morning, Sheriff Schwartz.”
“Good morning. How is she?”
“About the same. She had a bad night so go easy with her today, okay? No parties, loud singing, or dancing.”
“No problem. What caused the bad night?”
“Too many visitors at once, we think. Miss Ewalt brought some university people by to cheer her up and it had the reverse effect it seems.”
“Or maybe it was a good sign.”
“Mmm-mmm.” Ike hated it when nurses and doctors assumed a we-know-it-and-you-don’t attitude. “How do you figure that, Sheriff?”
7 - Rogue: Ike Schwartz Mystery 7 Page 13
