Irish Eyes

by Mary Kay Andrews

  We circled to the end of the shopping center. It wasn’t much of a center. There was a discount video rental store that seemed to specialize in Spanish-language movies, a closed-up Chinese restaurant called the Jade Dragon, and another closed-up storefront that had a For Lease sign in the window. “Call Parthenon Properties,” the sign urged, and a phone number was listed.

  “Parthenon,” I said. “Wonder if that’s Pete Viatkos’s company? It would be interesting if he owned the whole shopping center.”

  “Viatkos?”

  “Yeah. He owns the liquor store. Why, you know him?”

  “Of him,” Mac said. “He owns a parcel of land out in Rockdale County. It’s zoned agricultural, but he wants to put some kind of industrial park out there. The county commission is falling all over themselves to make it happen.”

  “That’s bad?”

  “It fronts on a two-lane county road. No way it could handle the kind of heavy traffic a park like that would create. We’re studying the proposal, but I can tell you right now we’d recommend the zoning request be turned down.”

  Mac turned the Blazer around on the backside of the shopping center. It was dark back there, and the asphalt was full of potholes. Abandoned grocery carts lay on their sides, and Dumpsters spewed trash.

  “Not exactly a garden spot,” Mac said as the Blazer crept forward.

  I pointed at a wall of cardboard beer crates that leaned against the back of one building. “That’s the liquor store,” I said. “Pull up.”

  He nosed the Blazer within five feet of the back of the store, his headlights shining on the heavy metal door. Something small and furry scurried by the door.

  “No wonder Deecie didn’t want to park back here,” I muttered. “It’s like something out of Stephen King.”

  “Seen enough?” Mac asked, yawning.

  “Almost,” I said. “Deecie said there was a road back here. I want to see where it goes.”

  At the far end of the strip the asphalt curved away, into a narrow driveway that dipped sharply below grade. Mac put his brights on and inched forward. Sure enough, at the bottom of the drive, a two-lane road passed by.

  “What street is this?” I asked. Even under good conditions I am what some would call directionally challenged. But it was late and dark, and I couldn’t picture exactly where we were.

  “Don’t know,” Mac said. “I don’t see any signs.” He turned to the right, and after a block, the road dead-ended into a trash dump. More shopping carts, burned-out mattresses, and junk cars spilled out of a thinly wooded area.

  He turned around and we passed the back of the shopping center again. This time, the road intersected with a real road. “Woodbridge Way,” I said, reading a street sign. “I never knew this was back here.”

  The houses on the street were modest one-story wood frame cottages, mostly of World War II vintage. Large expanses of weed-covered empty lots were sprinkled all down the street.

  “All these houses were condemned by the state when they were trying to put the Presidential Parkway through,” Mac said. “But the neighborhood associations fought the state tooth and nail, sued them in federal court, and eventually won. But it was too late for a lot of people. As soon as they started condemning, the state bulldozed a lot of the houses. That’s why all the vacant lots.”

  “I knew a lot of stuff was condemned over in Inman Park,” I said, looking around, “but I had no idea the property extended over this far. I wonder why nobody ever built on those lots?”

  Mac laughed. “The state still holds title. If you think it doesn’t pay to fight city hall, try fighting the State of Georgia.”

  “Let’s see where Woodbridge takes us,” I said.

  He turned right. “I can tell you where it takes us,” he said. “North Avenue. We’re not even two blocks from Manuel’s.”

  Manuel’s Tavern is an Atlanta landmark in a city whose idea of a landmark is anything built before the Gulf War. It’s a big dark barn of a place that sits at the corner of North Avenue and Highland, and it’s the closest thing the city has to a real old-fashioned beer joint.

  “You get any dinner?” I asked.

  “A package of mixed nuts on the plane. I came directly to your place from the airport. You want to get some dinner?”

  I was still full of cookies and milk, but a cold beer sounded good. Besides, Manuel’s is a cop hangout. It was a good bet there would be at least half a dozen cops inside, holding forth. I wanted to hear what the scuttlebutt was over at City Hall East.

  14

  We found a booth in the front room, ordered a J.J. Special for Mac and a cold draft for me. By now, I really, really needed a bathroom.

  “Be back in a minute,” I told Mac. He was watching the basketball game. Everybody in Manuel’s was watching the game.

  Everybody except me. I washed my hands twice in the ladies’ room. Instead of going back to the booth, I decided to make a loop through the back room. Every table was full. I saw a couple of people I knew—you never go to Manuel’s without seeing somebody. Tonight, there were a couple lawyers I knew from college days, a nurse who once worked at Grady with my sister, and a woman who works the checkout at the neighborhood video store.

  The cops were seated in the back corner of the room, eight of them, at two round tables they’d pushed together. They were all in street clothes, but there were three radios heaped in the middle of the table alongside two full pitchers of beer.

  I knew some of the guys. Ellis Washington and the other homicide detective named Parini were there.

  I stopped at the lawyers’ table, waved to my sister’s friend. When I got to the back of the room I tapped Ellis Washington on the shoulder and pointed at a vacant chair. “This seat taken?”

  Washington looked surprised to see me. “Uh, yeah. I mean, no. Go ahead. Sit down, if you want.”

  I sat. Washington found a clean glass and poured me a beer.

  “You guys,” he said. The others turned away from the game. “This is Callahan Garrity. A friend of Deavers. Used to be his partner. She was there last night—at the liquor store.”

  Parini gave me an acknowledging nod. “How’s it going?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Anybody call the hospital tonight? Last I heard, this afternoon, Bucky was listed in serious condition.”

  One of the uniform cops chimed in. “I called around six. No change.”

  “How’s Lisa Dugan holding up?” I asked.

  Parini and Washington exchanged looks.

  “Did I say something wrong?” I asked.

  “Captain Dugan doesn’t talk about her personal life,” Washington said. “We’re not supposed to know she’s been shacking up with Deavers.”

  “Oh.”

  “She’s still back at the office,” Parini said. “She hasn’t gone home since it happened. The only reason we’re here is to take a dinner break. She wouldn’t come. Said she wanted to be by the phone in case something breaks.”

  “How about that girl—Deecie Styles?” I asked. “Anybody get a line on her whereabouts yet?”

  Washington gave me a look. It said I should shut up.

  “I saw the news tonight,” I said, plunging ahead. “Channel Two is saying the chief asked internal affairs to investigate the shooting. They hinted that the chief suspects Bucky had something to do with what happened last night.”

  I looked around the table. Each of the men wore identical deadpan expressions.

  “Well?”

  Nothing.

  “Dammit,” I exclaimed. “I’m not a reporter. So don’t give me that no-comment shit. I’m Bucky’s friend. Can’t any of you guys give me an idea what they’re talking about?”

  Parini twirled his beer mug around. “Ask the chief.”

  “I’m asking you guys,” I said plaintively. “You were all at the hospital last night. So I’m assuming you’re his friends. I’m assuming you really did know Bucky.”

  “We know him,” Parini said. He glanced over at Washington, w
ho gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head.

  “That job Deavers was working at the liquor store—he was working two other jobs too. The guy was killing himself working all this overtime. We all work second and third jobs. We got families. We got to if we want to make a living. This friggin’ city don’t pay jack shit for wages. But you heard what the chief said when somebody asked her about a raise—right?”

  “She didn’t say anything,” I said.

  “Just my point,” Parini said, slapping the table with the palm of his hand.

  “I’m hearing rumors,” I said, looking around at the others. “Like what?” Parini wanted to know.

  “That there’s some kind of ATM robbery crew working the city,” I said.

  “We get ATM robberies all the time,” Washington said, interrupting. “Why not? A machine that spits out money on command? The things draw bandits like shit draws flies. I made my wife and daughter cut up their ATM cards. Too dangerous. But is that supposed to have something to do with Deavers?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “What I heard—”

  A hand gripped my shoulder. I turned halfway around in my chair. Mac stood glaring down at me, his mouth pinched in fury.

  “I thought you were coming right back,” he said. “Your beer’s warm. I already ate.” He reached in his pocket, brought out a wad of bills. He took my hand and folded my fingers over the money. “When you get ready to go home, call yourself a cab. This one’s going off duty.” He turned and walked rapidly out of the bar.

  I felt my face go hot. Shit. I’d done it again. I’d gotten carried away, trying to pry information out of these cops. But Mac had to know that was why I wanted to stop in at Manuel’s. He had to know how torn up I was about Bucky. Damn him. He’d turned everything around. All because I was selfish enough to tell him I didn’t want to give up my life in Atlanta to move to Nashville with him. Screw him, I thought. Screw him and the horse he rode in on.

  I turned around and looked at the cops. They were busily trying to act as though they hadn’t witnessed Mac’s little temper tantrum.

  One of the radios in the middle of the table squawked. Parini reached gratefully for it, held it up to his ear, gestured at Washington.

  “That’s it. Boss lady calls.”

  They put their money on the table and left.

  The other cops looked down at the table, embarrassed at being left alone with me.

  “It’s okay,” I said, managing a weak smile. “I’m out of here, too.”

  I made as graceful an exit as I could, went to the bar, and asked Bishop, one of the waiters, to call me a cab. He raised an eyebrow but did as I asked.

  15

  Edna was in the kitchen playing solitaire when I came in the back door.

  She looked pointedly at the clock. It was past midnight. “Who was that let you off at the curb?”

  I should have known she’d been peeking out the window at me. The woman was a mastermind at surveillance. Keeping a secret from her is a hellish experience.

  “It was a cab. I took a cab home from Manuel’s.”

  She laid a row of cards on the table. “Did I tell you Mac called last night?”

  “No, you didn’t mention it,” I said.

  “Well, he did. And he said he had some big news for us. What kind of big news?”

  I slammed my purse down on the table. “He’s moving to Nashville.” Then I got the Bushmills bottle, some ice, and a glass, and stalked off to bed.

  It was the same dream I’d had the night before. The music was faint, and I was dancing, and each time I’d come close to the ghostly piper, the clouds would swirl around, obscuring his face.

  The song the piper was playing was sad. I was dancing and crying at the same time, the teardrops falling on the clouds and sending up shafts of mist. If I tried hard, I could hear the words. Something about the flowers dying, and someone saying a prayer near a grave. At some point I realized the song was “Danny Boy.”

  All night long I did the cloud dance and sang that song, the same lyrics over and over; familiar yet strange. And when I woke up in the morning, my pillow was soaked from all the unknowing tears.

  16

  “What’s this about Mac moving to Nashville?” Edna demanded.

  The phone had been ringing off the hook. A typical Friday at House Mouse headquarters. It was ten A.M., the first lull we’d had all morning.

  “He’s been offered a job there. Director of regional planning and zoning,” I said, spreading jelly on my biscuit.

  “Why would Mac want to move to Nashville? He’s got a job here. A home, the dogs. You.” She gave me a sharp look. “You two haven’t been fussin’ again, have you?”

  You’d think my own mother would be partisan. But no, Edna is ardently pro-Mac.

  “He walked off and left me at Manuel’s Tavern last night,” I told her. “That’s why I had to catch a cab home.”

  “Well, if Mac left you, it was probably because you provoked him.”

  “Whatever.” I didn’t feel up to debating Edna. I’d already called the hospital. Bucky’s condition hadn’t changed. I’d talked to my sister Maureen, too, and that had gotten me in an even darker mood.

  I had my yellow legal pad out, writing up my notes of the previous evening’s research. Something was way out of kilter with this shooting. That much I knew.

  I reached for the phone, but Edna pushed it away from me.

  “Before you go off on this wild-goose chase of yours, I want some answers to my questions,” Edna said. “Now. Tell me straight. What’s going on between you and Mac?”

  “Nothing,” I snapped. “He wants me to sell my house, sell the business, and uproot both of us and move us off to some damn subdivision in Nashville, Tennessee. I told him, ‘I like my life in Atlanta, I like my home and my business, and I’m not moving.’”

  Edna’s nostrils quivered. “Who said anything about me moving?”

  “Mac. He knows I wouldn’t go off and leave you behind.”

  “So,” she said, hands on her hips. “The two of you have been having a nice big fight over whether or not I’ll move to Nashville—but nobody bothered to consult me on the matter.”

  I stared at her. “I knew you wouldn’t want to move.”

  She stomped her foot. “What the hell makes you so sure you know anything, little missy? What makes you so sure I wouldn’t move to Nashville?”

  My jaw dropped. “But … Maura’s here. And Maureen and Steve. And Kevin and his boys, and your friends and the girls and the bingo babes. I just assumed—”

  “You know what happens when you assume?” she asked.

  It’s one of my mother’s favorite mantras. “You make an ass out of ‘u’ and ‘me,’” I recited.

  “Right,” she said.

  She pulled a chair up and sat down beside me. “Really, Jules,” she said, pushing a strand of hair out of my eye. “I don’t want you jeopardizing your relationship with Mac based on where I’ll live. I’m an old lady, but not so old I can’t fend for myself. Here or in Nashville. You know what I think?” she asked gently.

  “You probably think I’m afraid of making a commitment to Mac,” I said, echoing one of her favorite lecture themes to me. “And I think you’ve been watching too much Oprah.”

  I reached for the phone again. This time she gave up without a fight.

  “Secure Services.” Linda Nickells’s voice was crisply professional. Not a hint of a Southern accent, even though she’d been born and raised in Ocilla, Georgia. She is C. W. Hunsecker’s most valuable asset—personal and professional—and she never lets him forget it.

  “What are you doing for lunch today?” I asked.

  “Hmm. Tuna fish with low-fat mayo, carrot sticks, and for dessert, half a big old juicy apple.”

  “Boring. Don’t tell me you’re dieting again.”

  “Always,” she said. “Little Wash is going into kindergarten next year and I’m still in a size eight.”

  “My heart bleeds,”
I said. “How about you feed the tuna to the cat and we go to Sundown for lunch instead? My treat.”

  The Sundown Grill on Cheshire Bridge Road is Nickells’s favorite restaurant. She loves any kind of Mexican food, but I happened to know she’d kill for one of their crabmeat quesadillas.

  “You’re bad,” Linda said. “But how come you’re treating me so nice?”

  “It’s Bucky,” I said.

  “I am so, so sorry, girlfriend,” Linda said softly. “C. W. stopped by the hospital last night. They wouldn’t let him see him. What can I do?”

  “Your husband was bragging on your skills with that computer of yours,” I said. “I know you guys do a lot of pre-employment checks and that kind of thing. I’ve got somebody I want to find who doesn’t want to be found. I think you can help me.”

  “Who?” Linda asked. “Just a minute. Let me get a pencil.”

  “Her name is Deecie Styles,” I said. “I’m not sure how it’s spelled. Better check Styles with a ‘y’ and an ‘i.’”

  “Who is she?” Linda asked.

  “She’s the only witness to the shooting,” I said. “She was working in the liquor store when the bad guy shot Bucky. Saw the whole thing.”

  “Where’d she go?” Linda asked.

  “That’s what I need to find out,” I said. “She took off as soon as the police got to the scene. And if Washington is telling the truth, she took the videotape from the security camera as well as twelve hundred dollars from the safe. Just disappeared.”

  “Washington?” Linda said. “Ellis Washington?”

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  “I know him.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We dated a few times before I started going out with C. W.,” Linda said. “Nothing wrong with that.” “Did you part on friendly terms?”

  “Sure,” Linda said. “I was friendly, but he was brokenhearted. Ellis is all right. A little bit stuffy, but his heart’s in the right place. He’s a stand-up kind of dude.”

  “Maybe you could call him, wangle some information out of him,” I said. “He won’t tell me jack.”