Walking toward the bar, Joe noticed a solitary figure sitting at a table in the corner of the dining area, reading a book, sipping a drink. It was the woman from Friday. What was her name? Ginger? No, Gillian. Nice name. He hadn’t thought about the sound of it before. Gillian. Smooth.
Mickey grinned and whipped out a frosted mug from under the counter. “Evening, Joe. What’s the good word?”
“The guys will be around tonight. They had an arrest.” Joe felt awkward attending the ritual, since he hadn’t been invited that morning, but he didn’t want to come off like an angry little brat, even though what he really wanted to do was break their toys and throw a tantrum.
“Anything I’ll see in the paper?”
“No. Just the usual. Sex, lies, and video-streamed preliminary hearings.” As heinous as some of the crimes were on the reservation, very little of it found its way into the newspapers or the evening news.
Mickey filled the mug from the tap. “Too bad. A good juicy case is just what you need. Get a little media attention and—boom. The job offers come pouring in. Everybody loves a celebrity. And you’re probably due your fifteen minutes of fame.”
Joe checked out the customers. A balding middle-aged man with glasses and a bad comb-over sat four stools over, reading from a binder and gnawing his pencil between sips of beer. In the dining area, a young couple worked on a pair of Combos. He glanced at Gillian’s table. Serafina, a young Hispanic waitress who yelled at Mickey in Spanish when they fought, collected a glass and napkin and wiped down the surface. Gillian was no longer there.
He turned back, to see Mickey pushing a mug toward him, a perfect one-inch foam head fizzing quietly atop it. The beginning of a slow decompression. Exactly what he needed to do. Blow off some steam. Chill out. Relax. A fellow barfly had once shared a mantra with Joe: “Be the beer. Be the beer.”
Joe stopped. What just happened? He’d thought of himself as a barfly. Was he? Had he fallen so low that he’d actually started to commune with drunks? Had he joined the Church of the Golden Barley? He didn’t need this beer. He grabbed the handle and raised it chest-high, then told himself to put it down. He’d promised Melissa he’d cut back. He lowered it, so it hovered over the wood counter. Condensation coated the outside. Inside, tiny bubbles broke free, rising to the top, joining their brethren in an orgy of effervescent bliss. Just one sip. He licked his lips. And then regretted it. That was a sure sign of hunger. Craving. Need. A tug-of-war battled in his mind. Put it down versus take a sip.
“You all right, Joe?” Mickey picked up a dish towel and flipped it over his shoulder. The quintessential bartender, tools ready, senses sharp, prepared to offer sage advice at a moment’s notice. It wasn’t just the alcohol that kept Joe coming back. It was Mickey. He was one of the few friends he had left. One of the few he hadn’t alienated since losing Christine.
“The usual,” Joe said. He put the mug down and wrote friends in the condensation. Then a woman’s voice came from behind him.
“They say the eyes are the windows to the soul.” Gillian placed her purse and a book on the counter. “In your case, I think it’s your beer mug. Stilettos and friends. Freud would love to get inside your head.”
She knew how to wear a smile. He returned it, feeling a tingling in his stomach. Maybe it was because he hadn’t eaten. Maybe. For a moment, he was at a loss for words. Surprise, he guessed. He started to tell her that he thought she had left but then decided not to. She might think him a stalker for noticing.
“Who needs Freud when I have Mickey here? He’s held more therapy sessions than Dr. Phil. And he makes an incredible roast beef sandwich, too.”
“You guys should open a PR firm. You sell each other so well. Last night, Mickey pitches you. Today, you do a commercial for him.”
“Yeah, well, let me warn you that Mickey tends to color things a bit.”
Mickey piped up: “I’ll have you know I was a Boy Scout. And we never lie.” He stood up straight, raised his right hand with two fingers extended, looked at it, and then added one more.
“He colors things, huh? By how much?”
“Think housepainter.”
She laughed, and he realized he liked making her laugh.
“So, how is Joe the Despondent Spelling Bee Champ today?” She pointed to the mug. “Working on another missed win?”
“I guess spelling bee fame is not as fleeting as I once thought.”
“Hey, everybody’s entitled to their fifteen minutes.”
“That’s funny. Mickey just said the same thing. And he doesn’t even know I’m a frustrated spelling bee runner-up.”
“I think she’s got the gift, Joe.” Mickey said. “You know, can sense things like one of them psychics.”
“No, I’m just an Andy Warhol fan,” she said.
Mickey leaned in conspiratorially. “Well, I’ve been told I got the gift. And right now I’m sensing I need to order you two a couple of my one-of-a-kind, incredibly delicious roast beef Combos, some red wine, soft music, and put you in that quiet corner over there.” He pointed to a small alcove.
Joe said nothing.
Gillian laughed. “I’ll have to take a rain check. My sister is picking me up.”
“Did I say my one-of-a-kind, incredibly delicious, never refused roast beef Combo?”
“I would love to, but I really do have to go.”
Mickey was a war hero. No surrender. “I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow, you two be here at five thirty and I’ll make my wife’s secret recipe for penne alla vodka.” He put his fingers together, kissed them—smack—and flicked his wrist. “Bellissimo.”
“Mick, for an Irishman, your Italian sucks,” Joe said.
“Hey.” Mickey waved his hands around and spoke in a thick Italian-immigrant voice. “I look Irish, but I cook Italian.”
Joe and Gillian both laughed.
“I don’t know,” Gillian said.
“Let me tell you. This recipe’ll knock your socks off.…” Mickey leaned over the counter and looked at her feet. “I mean knock your pumps off.”
“Well, if you’re promising to knock my pumps off, Mickey.” She gave him a mischievous grin. “How can a girl refuse?”
Mickey placed both hands over his heart. “You’re making an old man very happy, missy.” Then he pointed to Joe. “You keep quiet. I don’t want you blowing this.”
“You’re right,” Joe said. “He is a good PR man.”
“Told you.” Gillian picked up her book and purse. “I’m sure my sister’s outside by now. I guess I’ll see you both tomorrow. Toodles.” She spun around and walked away. Joe thought he’d seen some redness in her cheeks. A blush? Excitement? He liked toodles. He liked a lot of things about her.
Joe turned back to Mickey. “Maybe I should take you along on my job interviews.”
“Man, drop the funk. You need to wake up, smell the coffee, and mingle with some babes. I look at you and I feel like a teenager.”
Joe was getting tired of hearing the same thing from everybody.
“What’s getting old is that speech.”
“Do yourself a favor. Reach for the life preserver, or else you’re going to drown in your own self-pity.”
Mickey limped off to check on the pencil chewer. Good riddance.
Joe took a sip from his mug, forgetting the battle that had waged in him only minutes earlier. He should be happy. Dinner with a beautiful woman. What’s not to like? But it wasn’t about not liking it. He was afraid. He hadn’t been on a date in twenty-two years. So he told himself it wasn’t a date. It was two adults having dinner. What was the big deal? They seemed to get along. And she was easy to talk to. It should be fun. Nothing to it. A fine meal, some chitchat, a little wine, talk about family, career, movies. Tomorrow would be a nice change.
Then why was he still afraid?
SEPTEMBER 27
MONDAY, 5:00 P.M.
OTHMANN ESTATE, SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO
Books placed a small cardboard box on Othma
nn’s desk.
“How much?”
“She wanted three thousand,” Books said. “I gave her a grand.”
Othmann opened the box and unwrapped a dirty hand towel, careful not to drop the item within. It was a mortar and pestle made of stone.
“Any problems?”
“She smelled. Maybe she’ll bathe now that she’s got some money.”
Othmann took out several photographs from his top desk drawer. They were images taken at the Acoma Museum. They showed a four-hundred-year-old mortar and pestle used by the tribe to ground ceremonial corn. He smiled. Maybe he could use it to grind up some of his Christmas powder. Have his own sacred ceremony.
“When they find it missing, all the cleaners will be questioned,” Books said.
“She knows I’m good pay. She’ll keep quiet.”
“Like Eddie?”
“No. Not like Eddie.”
Othmann picked up the precious artifact and cradled it in his hands. He removed a small card from the printer by his desk. On it, he had documented the history of the item as well as the date he acquired it. He was a meticulous collector and record keeper. At the display cabinet closest to his desk, he pushed a tiny lever underneath the bottom shelf. Click.
Books pulled the display cabinet forward to reveal stairs, which led down to Othmann’s private gallery.
SEPTEMBER 27
MONDAY, 5:15 P.M.
MICKEY’S BAR & GRILL, ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO
A hand clasped Joe on the shoulder and squeezed.
“I see you beat us to the drinking hole,” Tenny said. He took the seat next to Joe.
Cordelli parked himself on the other side of Tenny. “What a surprise.”
“Cordelli,” Joe said. “I didn’t see you. I’ll be right back. I left my hemorrhoid cream in the car.”
Tenny laughed. “Zing.”
“I’ll give that to you, Joe,” Cordelli said.
“Aren’t you the philanthropist.”
Tenny whooped. “That’s two. What’s gotten into you tonight?”
“You know”—Cordelli’s voice went solemn, professorial—“they say people are most funny where they feel most at home. Is that it, Joe? This where you feel most at home?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Hey, it’s all in fun. Don’t get mad. You look like you’re running dry over there. Let me buy you another.” Cordelli slapped the counter. “Hey, Mickey. You got some thirsty people over here.”
The bar was starting to fill as professionals from nearby offices trickled in. Joe’s squad would stay at the bar most of the night. There was something about sitting around a table that made a get-together more sober, more real. Maybe it was because people felt the need to control their volume, in order not to disturb the other diners. The bar kept it loose, allowed Joe to pick and choose his conversations. But it sometimes got tiring, avoiding getting cornered in a discussion, bobbing and weaving through the banter like a boxer working the ropes.
He was on his second beer, courtesy of Cordelli, when Stretch and Sadi showed up. Stretch plopped down on Joe’s left; Sadi sat one seat over. She didn’t look happy. Not so unusual. But she seemed more sullen than normal, if that was possible.
“What’s wrong?” Joe asked.
Stretch spun on his stool to face him. “Sadi checked with Begay’s family. No one’s seen him since last week.”
“That little prick better show tomorrow,” Sadi said, anger oozing. “Or I’m gonna slam his ass so fast with charges, he’ll be Bubba’s prison bitch by Halloween.” She clobbered the counter with her fist.
Stretch gave Joe a sideways look. No one laughed. They knew better. She didn’t see herself as funny, so if anyone laughed at one of her comments, she thought the person was laughing at her, not with her.
Joe and Stretch talked a little more about the case. Sadi remained silent, resting her jaw on her right hand, fist clenched, her pinkie tapping a beat on her chin to an unknown tune.
They placed their orders. Mickey returned a short time later with five Combos, and they all dug in. When they were done, each plate sat covered in used napkins.
Joe leaned back, his belly full and his spirits buoyed. A good meal had that effect on him. Christine was an excellent cook—had been an excellent cook. After a rotten day at work, he’d come home to a set table, his plate piled with whatever feast suited her fancy. Joe, Christine, and Melissa would sit around eating and talking, discussing the day’s events, joking, laughing, enjoying one another’s company and the time spent together. The grime from his job, which had built up throughout the day, would be washed away by the time they cleared the dishes. On the nights that Joe cooked, it was usually something thrown together. Looking back, he wished he had spent more time preparing those meals. He knew now that dinnertime had been important to her. To her, it had been family time. There was so much he would have done differently if he had known.
Tenny’s loud voice brought Joe back to Mickey’s. “What kept you? We already ate.”
“The usual,” Dale said. “Crime and politics.”
“What’s happening, cappy?” Mickey said. “You keepin’ these miscreants you call a squad in line?”
“Twenty-three years in law enforcement, and I end up a zookeeper.”
Mickey cleared away the plates. “Should I order you up a Combo?”
“Of course,” Dale said. He grabbed an empty stool and wedged it between Joe and Tenny.
“Hey, Mickey,” Stretch yelled. “Joe’s promising to give me a date so we can start planning his retirement party. I’m thinking second week in December. That’s when his daughter comes home.”
“You tell me when and I’ll have the back room available.”
Mickey had a reception-size private dining area in the rear that he used for special events and meetings. The room easily accommodated a hundred people. Joe doubted his party would fill more than twenty seats.
“All I want is something private with the squad,” Joe said.
“Too bad,” Stretch said. “I already have people calling to attend. We’re gonna give you a nice send-off.”
“I say we give him a full-blown roast, dais and all,” Cordelli said. “I’ll write some material.”
Stretch shook his head. “I heard your material. My gang informant would be embarrassed by it, let alone Joe’s daughter.”
Tenny came to Cordelli’s aid. “I think a roast would be a blast. We’ll keep it in good taste. What do you say, Joe?”
“I don’t think I’m allowed to have much say in what you guys decide. But keep it small. I’m not into crowds much anymore.”
Cordelli took the opportunity. “That’s strange. You like happy hour.”
The group laughed.
“Good one,” Joe said. He was in a better mood now that he had eaten.
Cordelli stood up and moved to the center of their little group. They all turned in their seats to face him. He held up his beer. “Down a thug, down a mug.” This was the squad’s arrest ritual.
“You’re a son of a bitch, Cordelli.” Dale said, grinning, a full glass in his hand. Everyone else had half or less. The others quickly finished theirs and watched Dale chugging. He slowed at the halfway point.
The squad started chanting, “Down. Down. Down.”
Dale drained the last gulp and put down the mug. Then he gave a slight bow.
Cordelli raised a hand. “Hey, Mickey. Another round on me.”
Dale leaned into Joe. “I was late because I got a call from Chief Cornfield over at Navajo Nation. He’s angry. He thinks you’re cutting his office out of the case.”
“That’s because it goes from his ears to the front page of the paper.”
Dale nodded knowingly.
“So how is the Edgerton case going?” Tenny asked. But before Joe could answer, Tenny turned to Dale. “And by the way, boss, why’d you give it to him? He’s leaving. I’d have worked it.”
“Yeah.” Cordelli stood behind them. “Joe’s
on his way out. That could’ve been a high-profile case. Now it’s as good as dead.”
Stretch put his beer on the counter and turned to face Cordelli. “Why don’t you back off.” Sadi also turned, but she kept quiet.
Cordelli smirked. “Well, it’s the—”
“Shut up, Cordelli,” Dale ordered. “I assigned it to Joe. It’s his. End of story.”
Joe stood and walked off toward the restrooms. The talk was turning ugly.
Cordelli yelled, “Hey, if you need a real investigator to work that case, call me. My number’s in the book.”
“It’s over the urinal, too,” Joe shot back.
Tenny whooped.
When Joe returned to the bar, Cordelli was recounting the detention hearing for today’s arrestee.
“… so the marshals are shorthanded and they ask me to help take the perv back down to holding. We’re on the elevator and he turns to me and says, ‘I don’t understand why the judge thought I was a flight risk. I don’t even live near an airport.’” Everyone laughed, including Mickey.
Cordelli saw Joe. “Hey, seriously, why don’t you give me the Edgerton case?”
“Put it to bed, Cordelli,” Dale said.
Sadi, who had been twisting a napkin and tearing it to pieces, turned her attention to the argument. “I agree, dude. Give it a rest.”
Cordelli looked around at everyone. “What? It’s a good case. He’ll just run it into the ground. No offense, Joe, but you ain’t exactly sprintin’ these days.” He smiled. “I’m guessing some of the higher-ups don’t want the Edgerton case going anywhere. That’s the only reason that explains why they gave it to you.”
Joe stepped up to Cordelli. “You’re an asshole.”
Stretch raised a hand. “I second that.”
Dale stood up and grabbed Joe’s elbow, steering him to the front door.
When they were outside, Joe said, “I was wondering the same thing. Why did you give me this case originally?”
Dark Reservations Page 8
