by Sharon Joss
DESTINY BLUES
SHARON JOSS
* * *
DESTINY BLUES Copyright © 2013 Sharon Joss
All rights reserved.
Published 2013 by Aja Publishing
ajapublishing.wordpress.com
Book and cover design Copyright © 2013 by Aja Publishing
Cover design Copyright © 2016 by Lou Harper
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any similarity to real persons, living or dead, or incidents or events is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This book is available in print at most online retailers.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9896382-9-6
For my best beloveds
CHAPTER 1
It was a stretch, but I just managed to slide the parking citation beneath the wiper blade of the white Freightliner refrigerator truck. I’d never had to crawl across the hood of such a big-assed truck to issue a parking ticket before. I half-fell, half-jumped to the ground, and dusted the grime off the front of my uniform.
“Give him another one, Miss Mattie,” Mr. Yousef insisted. The truck was parked directly in front of Mr. Yousef’s Paradise Garden Cafe, taking up three parking spots, which Mr. Yousef liked to think of as reserved for his customers. “Give him two more! He’s ruining my business!”
He was right, of course; I should write two more tickets. But I wasn’t altogether certain that Mr. Yousef wasn’t trying to get another look up my culottes while I sprawled across the hood of that truck again. I’d barely started my shift, and I was already dirty and sweaty. Upstate New York is especially humid in July, and beneath my helmet it was like a sauna.
“How long has the truck been parked here?”
He flapped his apron; his chin jutted toward at me like a bulldog’s. “It was here when I arrived at six this morning. That’s five hours without paying! I am certain it was parked there all night. Why you won’t tow it? What are you waiting for?”
Mr. Yousef was usually such a jovial man; I’d never known him to be this agitated. The Paradise Garden Café was a popular spot for lunch in Picston. They served the best Greek-Middle-Eastern-North-African food in town. Most of the crew from Parking Control were regular customers. His home-made Koshari in particular was legendary. I sure didn’t want to upset him any further.
I walked around the truck again, looking for an oil leak or problems with the tires, but couldn’t spot anything obvious. The truck was in rough shape. A couple of gashes appeared to have compromised the insulation, and there was a lot of rust. The refrigeration unit wasn’t working. The rank aroma of rancid meat was already beginning to overwhelm the good smells emanating from the café. I could see Mr. Yousef’s point.
“He’s got twelve hours to move the truck. If it’s still here tomorrow, we can do something then.”
The scowl on Mr. Yousef’s face deepened.
I began to fill out the second ticket. I should have filled out all three citations from the get go; that way, I’d only have had to crawl over that stinking truck once.
“Wait! Please, miss; I’ve got the money right here.” The parking violator jogged toward me; jay-walking across the street from the Buzztown Café.
The guy in the summer linen suit was blonde, tanned, and fit. No socks. He looked like he belonged behind the wheel of a sleek Italian sports car. He flashed me a mouthful of the most perfect set of chompers I’d ever seen, and slammed a quarter into the meter. No kidding, this guy could have been in a toothpaste commercial.
No way he was the driver of this beat-up hulk.
He glanced at my nametag. “Officer Blackman. Does the “M” stand for merciful, by any chance?”
I blushed; glad for my helmet and mirrored shades. I recognized him.
I didn’t exactly know him, but I’d seen him at my gym. Older guy, maybe early forties, but in great shape. As in, really great shape. Underneath that business suit, lurked the broad-shouldered body of a gymnast. I’d been trying to catch his eye for weeks, but this wasn’t how I’d imagined our first meeting. I hoped he wouldn’t recognize me, parking control officer uniforms being what they are. My formerly-crisp white shirt and navy culottes were already damp with perspiration, not to mention truck grease.
The odor of rotted meat wafted over me. He’d probably already lost the whole shipment. A couple of fifteen dollar parking tickets would be the least of his worries. Somehow the suit and the meat truck didn’t seem to go together.
“This your vehicle, sir?”
He glanced up the street. “Ah, I’m helping out a friend. The truck conked out early this morning and he left to get another. He asked me to come and wait for the tow.” He held up a Styrofoam coffee cup. “I stopped for a coffee; didn’t realize the time. This is my fault, officer. Please don’t write that ticket. The tow guy said he’s on his way.”
Up close, he was even better looking. I echoed his grin, with interest.
Mr. Yousef flapped his apron and glared at me.
Focus, Mattie. Technically, I was obligated to write three tickets, but with a tow truck on the way, maybe a little leniency was in order.
I nodded my head to the ticket on the front windshield. “I’ve already issued the first citation, sir. But I’ll give your friend a break on the others this time.” I gave him my best professional smile. “I hope your friend doesn’t lose all that meat,”
He gave me a quizzical look. “What meat?”
“Isn’t that what’s inside the truck?”
“No, pretty lady. It’s flowers. From the flower market. Tear up that ticket, and I’ll give you a whole armful.”
I rolled my eyes. What a flirt. Maybe I liked him better from a distance. “No thank you.” I recognized the truck coming up the street and waved to the driver, Chad, who worked for my brother. “Here’s your tow. You have a nice day, sir.”
I left Mr. Wonderful and Chad to their business, nodded to Mr. Yousef, and walked back to where I’d left my scooter. The distinctive smell of rotten meat and licorice seemed to trail after me. Flowers my ass. It didn’t take a detective to know he was lying through his teeth. I told myself it wasn’t my concern.
Don’t get me wrong, most of the time, Parking Control is a good gig. It’s just that sometimes my Scooby detective hormone goes into overdrive. I have to remind myself that I’m not paid to investigate, I’m paid to write tickets. Then again, maybe it wasn’t the detective hormone at all. I hadn’t even kissed a man in six months.
With my thoughts still so preoccupied by Mr. Wonderful, I didn’t notice my three-wheeled scooter until I was practically standing next to it. I stopped in my tracks and stared at the transparent apparition seated just behind the driver’s seat.
It was no larger than a three-week-old kitten; grey-brown and hairless, with yellow bulbous eyes and a face like a gargoyle.
The bottom fell out of my stomach. Suddenly, the extra-strength dose of putridity in the air made sense. I groaned. They call it teratosis, or, ‘breath of the demon’. That was no cat. That was an un-materialized demon. And somehow, he’d attached himself to me.
