by Jack Parker
As I crossed the threshold, she heard me and turned around, smiling warmly. "Hey, boss," she said. And then her eyes widened as she beheld my black eye and bloody face.
I grinned. "Honey, I'm home."
She crossed the distance between us in three steps, staring in abject horror at the purple swellings that made up the left side of my face. "Chance, what happened?"
Progress on the case had me in a good mood despite my injuries, so I decided to be facetious. "Funny story, really. See, I was at the supermarket and I grabbed the last can of Jolly Green Giant stringbeans. Next thing I know, this old lady is beating me with her cane, yelling something about respect to elders. Craving for stringbeans can be a bitch, I guess. Don't trifle with old farts craving their veggies."
Jill was laughing before I'd even finished. I swear to God, it was the most beautiful, melodic sound I'd ever heard – the very one I'd been longing to hear ever since the day prior. She wasn't laughing at the joke, however: it wasn't funny. She was laughing because relief and rectification mixed together create volatile giddiness in your guts.
"I'll go get an ice pack," she said, placing hands on my chest and pushing me forcefully into a sitting position on the sofa. "You sit here and warm up. Don't let me catch you doing any work."
I wonder if God will say that in Heaven? I thought. Maybe I was as close as I was going to get, in which case I had no alternative but to obey orders and relax. There might not be an eternal opportunity towards which to look forward, after all.
I closed my eyes and rested my head on the cushions. The throbbing there had not subsided. Instead, it had lapsed into a dull rhythm, like a metronome. "Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart," I mumbled, but of course Jill had already left the room.
She'd lit a fire in the hearth some time ago, and the warmth was simultaneously thawing me out and making me drowsy. I pulled my arms out of my trench coat and rested my hands on my belly, suddenly exhausted. There was something romantic about the whole scenario: saving lives, returning to the office after getting the stuffing beaten out of me, enjoying the care of a beautiful woman.
But I wouldn't quit my day job for it – not simply for the thrill of the chase.
Jill returned about ten minutes later to find me teetering on the edge of sleep. I felt her sit down beside me but kept my eyes shut, hovering at the door of unconsciousness and ready to tumble over that blissful edge into nothingness.
I jerked awake, however, when she gently pressed the ice pack to the sore side of my face. "Jesus Christ!" I yelped, jerking away.
She laughed, trying to push my hands out of the way. "C'mon – stop being a baby. It'll keep the swelling down."
"Swelling, my ass," I muttered, but relented.
She pushed the matted hair away from my forehead and gently laid the pack along the bloody split on my scalp. It had long since stopped bleeding and crusted over into a large, unsightly scab. "What happened, Chance? Seriously?"
I winced as she applied pressure with the ice pack and began reaching for the first aid kit with her free hand. "Ouch. I caught up with the murderers. The rest is history."
Jill's eyes flashed as she managed to unscrew the cap off the bottle of Peroxide with one hand. "Humor me."
"Well, we busted their hideout over in Deptford, but they got out before we got in, so we had to chase them down. I got ahead of the other cops, ran into their ambush alone. They beat me with a board." I shrugged, trying not to grin. "I've had worse, though."
She fixed me with a look that, loosely translated, said: "God knows why I put up with you, your antics, and your goddamned machismo". But it wasn't a serious look and there was a sweet little smile following it up, even as she sponged dried blood from my temple.
"You certainly have a way with people," she murmured.
I let the grin split my lips finally, unhindered. "You know it."
Keeping the ice pack against my skull, Jill dunked a cotton swab in the Peroxide and swapped the previous look for something much sterner. All of a sudden, her resemblance to my mother was uncanny. "Now, I'm warning you: this is going to sting –"
I had already begun groaning, so she had to speak over my protests.
"– so hold still!"
Chapter Eleven
Saturday, December 4th
Saturday dawned cold and gray with the promise of more snow. I wasn't sure whether or not to trust the forecast – which called for clear skies until late afternoon – so I threw my boots into the back seat of the Anglia before departing at the usual hour for the office.
My body was somehow managing to stay alert and awake, despite the beating it had taken the day prior. I prayed that I wouldn't quit on myself halfway as I turned down Crescent, headed towards the office. After all, there was a lot I needed to do before calling it a day.
I parked in my usual spot and hurried inside to escape the cold. Jill was already waiting for me, and understandably so – I was a good twenty minutes late, according to the clock on the wall. Jill told me she'd left a 16–ounce Poland Springs and two Aspirin on my desk.
"I wasn't sure if you still had a headache or not, so I got it out for you just in case," she said as she helped me out of my coat. "If you need more later, you know where to come."
I winked at her. "Thank you, Doctor Fereday."
She momentarily raked her gaze over my disheveled appearance, the worst of which was my purple jaw – shaded by both bruising and unkempt stubble. I hadn't been brave enough to risk shaving over the sensitive areas, so I'd neglected cleaning up altogether. I fancied that it gave me a rugged Indiana Jones type of look, but that was probably just delusion. There was also that possibility that I had a mild concussion and my brain was addled, but odd and random thought patterns were normal for me.
"The swelling went down since last night," Jill observed, sounding pleased.
"Certainly doesn't feel like it," I grumbled as I headed for my office.
But Jill said it looked better, and I figured she was a better judge of appearance than I was. When I'd observed myself in the mirror that morning, I'd honestly wondered whether it would be wise to go walking around in public. My left eye had finally decided to open again, but the entire socket around it was completely black. My lower lip was also darkened by dried blood – despite the fact that I'd cleaned it up as best as I could – and my scalp was scabbed over from left forehead and upward about five inches. But I could conceal the worst of that with my fedora – which I'd stuffed with crumpled newspaper the previous evening so as to restore its shape.
As I stepped into my office, I clicked the light switch up and down twice, stupidly wondered why the light wasn't going on, and then headed directly for the fireplace, feeling ridiculous.
Must get new light bulb, I thought. Must get new light bulb.
Lunchtime came and went so fast that I wondered if I'd gone through a time warp. Jill offered to run down the street to the Heritages to get sandwiches, but I declined. After a brief back–and–forth argument that I won (a Pyrrhic victory, but a victory nevertheless), she let me get back to what I'd been doing. Ten minutes later, she reentered with a salami sub in hand. I pretended to be outraged when she laid it on top of my paperwork, then promptly devoured it when she wasn't looking.
Kevin Slyder rang me up around two thirty. "Reviews are up," he said by way of greeting, characteristically abrupt.
I smiled wearily, leaning back in my seat. "We're the most–watched public broadcast now, are we?"
He ignored the joke. "Dempsey's thrilled with the progress. You just might have redeemed yourself, Stikup."
"Or at least bought myself a few more days," I said, determined as always to be cynical. "We've still got a lot to do."
And that was the truth. There was still at least one criminal still at large, and as of that morning, we didn't have a clue. Our conversation was brief and largely unimportant. I hung up barely four minutes after answering without really knowing why he'd called in the first place. Yet my mood had imp
roved somehow, and that was something for which to be thankful.
At four o'clock sharp, I wrapped things up. I had a house call to make so to say, and I wanted to hurry before it got dark out. As it was, the sun was already sinking wearily when I slammed the Anglia door against the frigid wind and pulled away from the curb, headed south towards 295.
It took me about thirty minutes from my office to get to the Shootin' Shack. The sky was beginning to pink with nightfall – the beginnings of a spectacular sunset – as I pulled into a faded parking place outside the shop. The air was frigid and sharp, like a heartless reprimand, and I hurried towards the front door without lingering by the Anglia.
77 was a four–lane highway, heavily traversed by commuters and vacationers alike. The Shootin' Shack itself was one story, a run–down little building with wooden siding painted white. The big front window, which looked out onto the street, was in need of a good cleaning, but the velvet beyond displayed some fine–looking hunting wares. The sad little parking lot obviously saw a lot of wear from the weather and frequent u–turns in addition to the regular traffic from paying customers: it badly needed to be re–paved.
Pausing at the entrance with my hand on the doorknob, I briefly checked the hours in the dirty window. The store was open every day except Sundays and Wednesdays, and hours ran from 3 to 10 on weekdays. Saturday's hours were 10 am 'til 5 pm.
I checked my watch. It was two minutes past 4:30, so I made to enter the shop: assuming Mendoza was in, I'd made perfect timing. However, I found myself hesitating once again. As I mentally reviewed the facts, some of my suspicions of Robert Mendoza were resurfacing.
Damn it, I thought furiously, fumbling in my coat pocket for my notebook. Once I'd managed to get it out, I flipped through the pages to the ones containing the observations I'd gleaned during my initial interview the hunter. He had told me that the robbery had occurred on Sunday the 28th at precisely 9:12, so if I cross–referenced that with the times in the window…
A cool relief filled me. Mendoza's alibi held true – the shop was closed on Sundays, which meant he could indeed have been home at the time of the robbery.
So you can only assume he was telling the truth. Stop worrying – you're not here to arrest the guy, after all.
I let myself into his shop.
The smell of oil and leather met my nostrils as I let the door swing shut behind me. Somewhere in the back, a bell tinkled faintly upon my entrance. Other than that, there was no sound in the store – not even the radio was playing over the ceiling–mounted speakers. Just the now–muffled hum of traffic from the freeway behind me.
I stuffed my hands into the trench coat's pockets and wandered down the cramped aisles towards the glass counter. A moment later, a familiar–looking man came out of the back room to meet me. His face lit up when he recognized me, but then clouded again almost instantly.
"Detective Stikup," Robert Mendoza said by way of greeting. He was clearly preoccupied. "You were the last person I expected to see walk in my door. What happened to your face?"
"I'm trying something new," I said offhandedly. "I'm thirsty. Do you want to go get a drink? I'm buying."
Mendoza seemed taken aback by the offer – not that it was so much an offer as a relatively polite "suggestion" – but then he grinned and nodded. "Sure." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Let me go get my coat."
"I'll wait," I said.
Rita's was a nice little diner close to Glassboro that I often frequented. I knew all the waitresses employed there – funny how none of them were named Rita – and they all knew me. In a weird sort of way, it was kind of like having a second family: the girls all knew the type of coffee I preferred, my favorite spot in their restaurant, my opinion on sports, and my profession. Mendoza had never heard of the place. He told me he generally stuck to making his own coffee because it was cheaper. I told him he needed to get his priorities in order as I pulled the Anglia into a spot between a blue Buick and a black Lincoln. We climbed out and hurried inside, eager to get out of the cold.
As always, the diner was filled with the scent of pancakes. The aroma filled my head the moment we stepped inside. I inhaled deeply and began unbuttoning my trench coat.
"Come here when you have a cold," I advised Mendoza sagely. "Clear your nostrils right up."
Upon our entrance, a pretty, blonde–haired waitress came over to greet us, abandoning her seat on a barstool by the counter. Sherry Heights had a baby face, rosy cheeks, and dimples when she smiled. She still bore the naivety of an adolescent despite her twenty–six years, but when it came to book smarts she was a wiz.
"Welcome back, Detective," she said pleasantly, fumbling with an armful of menus as she approached. "You haven't been in since… Sunday? Sunday afternoon – you came from church with your mother. A week's absence is pretty abnormal for y–" Suddenly, as she looked up again, she caught sight of my mug and almost took a step back. "God, what happened to your face?"
I smiled wearily. "Ahh, I walked into a door. Wasn't watching where I was going. Actually, I've been working on a case since Tuesday, so I've been a little busy." I shot a sideways look at Mendoza, who was busy studying the menu over the bar and wasn't paying attention.
Sherry arched an eyebrow, still staring insensitively. A lesser man than me might have been offended. "You've found something more important than coffee? I didn't think that was possible for you."
"Hey, my secretary makes a decent cup," I said with a shrug. "I'll refer her to you guys if she ever gets tired of my tyrannical ways."
We shared a laugh, and then I introduced Mendoza. He was polite and shook Sherry's hand, and then the young waitress showed us to my favorite table – the one with the biggest window that looked out onto the bustling route 45, now engulfed in evening. I ordered my usual and Mendoza ordered his black.
"You like the pure stuff?" I asked as Sherry headed into the back.
Mendoza returned my grin with one that was almost wolfish. "It's what I live on."
Somewhat uncomfortable with small talk, I removed my coat and hat and then leaned back in my seat. "So, how's business?"
He sighed and ran fingers through his graying hair, suddenly looking years older. "Nothing to brag about, that's for damn sure. Sales have been steadily dropping, so a lot of the big companies I buy from have become too expensive for me to keep. I only have a few name–brand things left on my shelves."
Somehow, I wasn't surprised. To me, it didn't seem like a tiny, no–name hunting shop could survive for long in New Jersey, the industrial garden state.
I dug into my coat pocket and pulled out one of the handguns that I had gleaned from my search at the hotel, now contained in a marked plastic baggie. Slyder had leant it to me for the day along with the gruff admonition not to lose it.
"Is this one of those brands?" I asked, setting the pistol down on the polished tabletop. I watched him carefully for a reaction – guilt or surprise perhaps, but I was hoping neither. The connection between him and the weaponry was inevitable, but there was the chance that he had simply been an innocent bystander.
A good citizen. The nameless extra who gets stepped on by Godzilla.
The hunter blinked once and took the weapon in his gnarled hands when I slid it over to him. He knew it was evidence, and was therefore smart enough not to open the bag. "I think so. GunMetal… Yeah, that rings a bell. What does this have to do with my shop?"
I folded my hands and leaned forward, watching him intently. "We arrested two more of the thieves yesterday, and all the guns they had on them were of this same type. The receipt was still in one of their duffel bags, and it was from your Shootin' Shack."
"No kidding." Mendoza had been turning the weapon over in his hands, studying its contours. He stopped and looked me in the eye. "So you got 'em then? Does that mean you have my car back too?"
I nodded. "Yeah, but it's impounded. We can head there next to pick it up if you'd like."
Mendoza chuckled. "Kind of a dumb quest
ion, Stikup."
I hesitated with a retort on my tongue, but then sat back instead. "Right. Anyhow, I just need to nab these guys' employer, and then this case'll be closed. I only have a few leads right about now, but I'm pretty confident in 'em."
"Oh yeah?" Mendoza started to say, but at that moment, Sherry came over with our coffees.
"Here you are," she said, setting steaming mugs in front of each of us. "Black for the nice gentleman, and a Dick Tracy for the detective."
"Dick Tracy" was the name we had given to my specialized coffee. I wasn't sure entirely of how the girls made it since it had been specialized for me and not by me, but I did know for a fact that a shot of whiskey went into it. The owner of the diner was actually thinking about putting it on the regular menu – not for minors, of course. Fortunately, I was off the clock for this errand.
