A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book One)

by A.W. Hartoin

  Chapter Thirty

  I WAS DISCHARGED on Tuesday after the doctors decided that my severe concussion wasn’t going to kill me. Neither were my broken ribs, or dislocated shoulder. Dr. Houtin felt satisfied because I only had a little blood in my urine. Swell. A little kicking goes a long way.

  Gavin’s funeral happened on Wednesday and I missed it. I can’t say that I minded. I’d had enough of funeral homes. Mom and Dad went and that’s the important thing. Mom said Myrtle and Millicent were there and she managed to talk them in to dumping Mr. Cardiff as their lawyer. She couldn’t find out the particulars of Brooks’s case against them. I would’ve been more curious, if I hadn’t had so many painkillers on board.

  Instead of nosing my way into The Girls’s business, I spent the rest of the week lounging on The Oasis, watching baseball with Dad and Merchant Ivory films with Mom and Dixie. We ate popcorn, told stories, and looked through albums. Dad went through two cases of Belgian Trappist beer. It was our own private wake in our own private way. Gavin got a fine send off, and I think he would’ve liked it with the exception of the Merchant Ivory.

  After six hours into my first day home, I begged Mom to stop answering the phone. Every friend and a couple enemies called for a personal account of my ordeal as they put it. Most of them were impressed, but some were disappointed that my face was still intact. All agreed Chuck looked swell on TV. There were more than a couple of inquiries about his marital status. Chuck called to tell me to stop telling people that he had crabs. I promised, but I was on Vicodin, after all.

  On Friday, I decided to start weaning myself off the painkillers and celebrated by staying in bed all morning eating Ho Ho’s with Aunt Tenne. She left to replenish our supply when Dad peeked in.

  “Busy?” he asked.

  “Amazingly.”

  “You’ve got a phone call.”

  “Please, no. I can’t take it.”

  “It’s some Doreen woman. She wants to talk about her case.” Dad’s eyebrows were practically touching his hairline and he was vibrating with excitement. He’d been waiting for me to take a case voluntarily since my birth.

  “Get a grip, Dad. It’s Gavin’s case. I just helped it along.”

  “When you work a dead man’s case, it’s your case, baby girl. Do you need a ride somewhere? I’ll drive you.”

  “Yeah, right. I doubt you could push down the gas pedal.”

  “So I barfed a few times, get over it. I’m back to full speed. In fact, I’m going out today. Want to ride along?”

  I’d rather go to the gynecologist.

  “I need to rest,” I said.

  Dad passed me the phone and paused in case I changed my mind. It was a no-go. I knew there’d be a next time, but I wasn’t ready for it to be so soon and with Dad there was no such thing as just riding along.

  “Hello, hello?” a voice said from the phone.

  I’d forgotten I was holding it. “Hello. Sorry about that.”

  “Hi. It’s Doreen. You remember me?”

  “Of course. How’s it going?”

  “Great. I got the money,” she said.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Could you come by the Crab Shack today? I’d like to thank you properly. Give you all the crab you can stand.”

  Great. I’d just as soon eat a pile of fingernails.

  “Well, you know how it is. I’m not exactly having a good week,” I said.

  “Come on. You ain’t hurt that bad. I got beat up worse by my brother.”

  “What is with your family?”

  “We’re pretty normal.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t have any siblings, do you? Now get up. I want you to see my boys. I’ll make it worth your while,” Doreen said.

  “Alright. I’ll be over in a couple hours.”

  Doreen said she was thrilled and I pretended I was. A couple of hours, who was I kidding. If Mom didn’t come home, I’d have to wash my hair with a pasta spoon and rinse it with a ladle. That could take all day.

  Mom found me with my ladle an hour later, laughed, and finished up for me. She fastened my bra and picked out a stunning ensemble of sweatpants and one of Dad’s button-up shirts. I looked like a shlub, but a comfortable one. As for my face there was no hope. By some miracle my nose wasn’t broken, but it looked like it was with the black eyes, the bruising and the scratches from my close encounter with gravel.

  “We could try some base and cover stick,” Mom said.

  “Got some flesh-toned spackle?”

  “It’ll be fine.” Mom smeared cover stick all over my face.

  “That’s what you said when I got a huge fever blister an hour before Homecoming,” I said.

  “It was fine. You looked beautiful.”

  “My nickname was VD for the rest of the year.”

  “It isn’t anymore, so it’s fine,” Mom said.

  You can’t argue with that. Mothers. There’s no hope for them either.

  “Is Dad driving you?”

  “No. I want to live,” I said.

  Mom fussed with my hair. “I think he can do it.”

  “I have another plan.”

  After a fifteen-minute argument with Mom, she allowed me to walk to Kronos. By the time I got there I was exhausted and it felt like I had an elf sitting on top of my head hitting me with a tiny pickax. I’d planned on going in, having a refreshing iced tea and half a Vicodin, but the bar was packed. I’d forgotten the lunch rush and it was sure to be filled with cops eager to either condemn my lack of vision or congratulate me. I didn’t want to hear it. My high school volleyball coach already told me I was an idiot and that was bad enough.

  I circled the block and went in the kitchen entrance. Mario the head cook nodded to me and yelled for Rodney. Rodney rushed in through the swinging doors and stopped short when he saw me.

  “Man oh man. You look bad,” he said.

  “Thanks. I love you, too.”

  “You wearing makeup?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really, I am wearing makeup. This is what I look like with makeup applied.”

  “Damn, that’s something.” Rodney leaned forward to get a closer look.

  “Alright, that’s enough. Is Aaron here?”

  “You know you owe him big.”

  “So I’ve been told repeatedly. Is he here?”

  Rodney grabbed up a couple orders and went out the door. Aaron came back through with a platter filled with empty dishes and glasses.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.” I watched Aaron shove the dishes into the washer and restock Mario’s supply of clean ones. “You busy?”

  “Not bad,” he said.

  “Can you leave?”

  “Rod would kill me.”

  “Doreen at the Crab Shack wants to give me all the crab I can eat,” I said.

  “Let’s go.” Aaron took off his apron and nodded to Mario.

  “Aren’t you going to tell Rodney?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “Won’t he wonder where you went?”

  Aaron looked at me through his smudged lenses. He wasn’t following.

  “Never mind. You have to drive,” I said.

  Aaron took the keys for Rodney’s 1978 Charger and motioned for me to go out the way I came in. The Charger sat in the alley under a car cover that was made for a minivan. Rodney wasn’t taking any chances. It was his high school dream car and it didn’t matter that its rear bumper was rusted off and the paint was three shades of red. It was his baby. I had second and third thoughts about taking the Charger. Rodney memorized every dent and scratch, and he’d tell you about them, if you couldn’t get away.

  “Maybe you should clean your glasses,” I said.

  “What for?”

  “So you can see the road, other cars, stuff like that.”

  “I’m cool.”

  Yeah, real cool. He still had his hairnet on.

  I
almost told him, but Aaron’s hairnet was as much a part of his ensemble as his dirty glasses and stained tees. I settled into the seat, trying not to get pinched by the cracked vinyl. I’d forgotten all the other reasons why driving the Charger was a bad idea. The vinyl for starters, the radio on the floor, and the smell of condoms and cigarette smoke that I’m sure had nothing to do with Rod.

  I rolled my jaw trying to work up enough spit to swallow a Vicodin. No go. Isn’t that always the way? Vicodin gave me dry mouth and I needed spit to take a Vicodin. My headache increased to the point of nausea when Aaron pulled into the Crab Shack parking lot. The smell of crab drifting in through the vents was enough to make my stomach do a Gabby Douglas.

  “I can’t go in there.”

  “Huh?” Aaron looked dimmer than usual and my instincts were divided between shaking him and running away from the smell.

  “The crab’s making me sick. Go in and tell Doreen I’m out here.”

  I got out, leaned on the hood and studied the chips and scratches on it. A breeze kicked up and lifted the stink. Doreen trotted out with a big smile. She caught one look at me and stopped dead in her tracks. If our positions were reversed, I’d have stopped dead, too. Doreen was a changed woman. She’d had a makeover that was nothing short of shocking. She’d cut her hair short so that it framed her face and accentuated her eyes. The new hair was colored a true honey blond with intricate highlights and no green. She took a deep breath and started walking again. As she got closer, I could see her makeup was subtle and flattering, no more cakey orange.

  “Please tell me that Bart didn’t kick the shit out of you.”

  “He’s innocent for once,” I said.

  “Thank God almighty.” Doreen leaned against the Charger and lit a cigarette. “What happened?”

  “I guess you haven’t watched the news lately.”

  “Nope, I been a busy girl. You too, I guess.” She stole a sidelong glance at me. “That Aaron didn’t mention your face or the cast.”

  “I doubt he noticed,” I said.

  “It’s hard to miss, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  I shrugged and said, “I’m not feeling that great and I need to take a Vicodin. Could you get me something to settle my stomach?”

  “Vanilla shake do it?”

  I nodded and Doreen got me a shake. It was excellent, real ice cream, whipped cream and a cherry. I downed my pill and said thanks.

  “When your stomach settles, you got to come in and see my boys.”

  “Why aren’t they in school?”

  “Teacher work day, so they’re here, slinging crab with me. Are you gonna tell me what happened or what?” Doreen wiggled her pedicured toes and admired her gold ankle bracelet.

  “I found the guy that killed Gavin, I mean, Mr. Flouder.”

  “What did he find you with, a bat?”

  “Pretty much,” I said.

  “The cops got him?”

  “Yes. Thankfully.”

  We leaned against the car in silence and Doreen took a long drag on her cigarette.

  “I love the hair by the way,” I said.

  “Thanks. A customer told me to go to this Aveda salon and they gave me the works. Everybody acts like it’s a big difference, but I thought I was good before.” She looked at me for confirmation.

  “I think it makes you look younger,” I said.

  “Younger than thirty-one?”

  Err…

  Some guy yelled for Doreen from the door, and I was spared the lie that was sitting on the edge of my swollen lips.

  “You better?” Doreen asked.

  I said I was and we went into the Crab Shack. Aaron sat at a table with two young boys sharing an obscene pile of crab legs and fries. Doreen went to the kitchen and I walked over to the booth. About halfway there I discovered a definite advantage to going facedown in gravel. No one mistook me for Marilyn. I didn’t get a single second look. I did get a few grimaces and I heard one guy say, “Whoa, bad accident,” but that was it. I’d finally achieved something I’d been going for since breasts. I was wallpaper and I have to say I dug it.

  “Dude, what happened to your face?” one of the boys asked.

  “Accident. Always wear a seatbelt,” I said.

  Both of the boys nodded slowly and went back to the crab.

  Aaron slurped the meat out of a leg. “Want some?”

  “No, man. It’s all for you.”

  Aaron smiled at me with juice dripping down his chin. He wiped it with his shirt and kept going. Doreen introduced her boys to me. They were more impressed with Aaron’s crab-eating abilities than me, but I liked meeting them. The broken wrist was worth it.

  We left in an hour after Aaron decimated Doreen’s crab leg supply. I was worn out and the Vicodin had taken full effect. Aaron helped me to the car and belted me in. Doreen told us to come back soon and Aaron drove out of the parking lot, revving the engine until the seats vibrated. My cell starting ringing and ignoring it wasn’t going to fly. Whoever it was kept calling back and Aaron pulled over to answer it.

  He handed me the phone. “Tommy.”

  After a deep breath I said, “Hey Dad.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Eat,” I said.

  “What?”

  “My client’s restaurant.”

  “You finished?” Dad asked.

  Hmm. Was I finished? I didn’t want to say yes, but my head was too thick to lie.

  “I guess,” I said.

  “Good. I need you to go home and pick up my camera and laptop and bring them to 1109 Shiloh in Chesterfield. You getting this?” I could hear Dad tapping a pencil against the phone.

  “Dad. I’m really tired. Can’t Mom do it? You have people. What about your people?”

  “Everybody’s busy. We’re backed up since I’ve been out and Mom’s shopping for the cruise,” he said.

  I guess shopping trumps multiple injuries.

  “Mercy, do you have that?”

  “Dad, come on. Why do I have to do it?” I asked.

  “It’s for the family,” he said.

  Isn’t it always?

  The End

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  THIS IS AN excerpt from Diver Down by A.W. Hartoin.