“It’s perfectly all right. I can’t even imagine all the things that must be going on in your head right now.” I was at least glad of that. “Any breakthroughs in the case?”
“Nothing that I can relate, as the investigation is ongoing at the moment.”
“Certainly.”
“Anybody else said anything that might be of any use to me?”
He blinked; it’s possible I derailed him by asking him a question. I watched as he stared at the little train tracks. “There have been a number of unfortunate statements concerning the young man. It is still an accidental situation, isn’t it?”
I thought about it. “Yes. Nothing strong enough to lead me to believe otherwise, at this time.”
It was close enough to publicspeak to get me through. I half turned toward the door. “Anything else?”
“Oh, no.” Lost in thought, he tapped the notebook with the pink, oversized eraser pushed onto the end of his pencil. “Do you ever get the feeling that the world is tired, Walter?” I stood there, not quite sure of what to say next. He looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I sometimes forget myself and wax philosophic in the afternoons.”
I walked over to the door and pushed it open, pausing to lean against the frame. “I don’t know about the world, but I sure as hell get that way.” He smiled, I smiled, and I left. It was only eleven forty-five.
I climbed the hill and turned the corner on Main and became untired. The jaunty, little red Jeep sat at the curb just outside the Crazy Woman Bookstore. I went over and sat against the fender. It was a long walk back to the office, and I needed a rest. After about three minutes, she came out.
“Hey, you.” She was wearing a black cashmere sweater, a fancy western jacket all of fringe, vintage jeans, and a pair of high-heel boots. Her hair was loose and kind of rumpled. She looked great. “What, am I parked illegally?” She opened the door and tossed her paper bag of books onto the front seat. She did not come back around the door.
I continued to smile, but I was worried. “How’s your dog?” That at least got a partial smile.
“He scare you?”
“Yep.”
She smiled at a young couple walking up the street. “He has that effect on people.” She pulled her keys from her purse and then tossed it on the same seat as the books. Her eyes came up, steady. “Do you really want to talk about my dog?” I wanted to talk about anything. I wanted to run for my life. “Look…” I dreaded female statements that started with “look.” In my limited experience, there was nowhere to hide after they were made. “You’ve probably been pretty busy lately
…”
“That seems to be the consensus.”
She flipped the butterscotch hair back and laid those frank, lupine eyes on me again. “I’ve been thinking that this is probably a really bad time for both of us to think of starting a relationship.”
I nodded and pushed off the fender and thought about sweeping her into my arms and giving her a big wet one right on Main Street. Fortunately, I always check my shots, just buried my fists deeper in my jacket pockets, and stood with my legs apart on the other side of the door so that I could absorb the impact. “I thought we already had this conversation.”
It was the wrong thing to say, I could tell that right away. Her eyes sharpened along with her voice. “Maybe we weren’t clear.” I looked around to see if anybody was around to watch the sheriff get gunned down at what I’m sure was approaching high noon. “Walt…”
“Before you say anything else, let me get this out, because I might not get a chance later, or I may not want to…” I drove ahead, looking for light. “That measly, little, pathetic attempt at the beginnings of a romance, I refuse to use that word relationship, are all I’ve had to go on for the last three years. It may not seem like much to you, but for me it was giant steps, and if you think that you’re going to take it away from me with a few curt words here on the sidewalk, then you’ve got another think coming.” In my limited experience, women dreaded male statements that ended with “then you’ve got another think coming.” It usually meant there was a lot more coming, but in this case there wasn’t. It had taken everything for me to get that out; so, I just stood there, watching the tired world fall apart around me.
I’m not sure what I had hoped to accomplish with this particular outburst. I was just being honest and, to my utter surprise, she placed her hand under my chin, leaned over the door on tiptoes, and kissed me on the mouth, slowly and gently. As our faces parted, and my eyes were once again able to open and focus, she whispered, “You should call me, very soon.” As the little red Jeep skimmed away, I felt the thought of a mobile phone growing on me.
On the way back to the office, I picked up three chicken dinners from the Bee and fended off Dorothy’s questions about what had just taken place on Main Street across from her restaurant. She reminded me that hers was a family establishment and that such overt demonstrations of lust might be better served in a more private setting, by getting a room.
Ruby took one Styrofoam container and one iced tea out of my hands. “You keep this up and I might vote for you myself.”
I continued on my way to the door of Vic’s office. She was sitting with her feet up on her own desk for a change; folders and clipboards with legal pads ran the distance from her hips to her ankles. She was writing on one of the tablets with the phone cradled between her chin and shoulder. I carefully placed her tea and lunch on the desk. She nodded thanks, and I sat down to open mine. It was when I realized I hadn’t gotten any napkins that Ruby appeared in the doorway and handed me a roll of paper towels from the kitchenette in back: fine dining at its best. The steam rolled out as I opened the container and prepared to eat Dorothy’s famous Brookville, Kansas, recipe chicken. It was a religious experience.
Vic nodded and grunted a few agreements before she hung up. “This is a really fun job you’ve got me doing here.” She looked at me again. “Do you have lipstick on your face?”
I wiped it off with a paper towel and picked up a thigh. “Don’t be silly, what’ve you got?”
She looked at me for a moment longer, then continued. “Guess where the majority of these replicas are made?”
I momentarily paused on the batter-covered thigh. “New Jersey.”
She began placing the folders, clipboards, and paraphernalia on the desk. She fanned the information she’d gathered across the surface and placed her chicken container on her lap, taking the lid off and sipping her iced tea. She never used a straw. “Italy. The damn things are made in northern Italy by some firm called Pedersoli.”
“Sounds dirty.” That got a look. I continued to eat.
She picked up a breast. “What?”
“Only thing I know about Italian war rifles is you can buy ’em cheap, never fired, only dropped once.” She cocked an eyebrow and bit into her own chicken. “Sorry, old World War II joke.” She stuck a hand out, and I tore off a paper towel. “It’s chess night with Lucian; got me thinking about it.” I nodded toward the desk. “What’ve you got, other than a nation of origin?”
She got that predatory look on her face, unimpeded by the way she was dismembering the poor chicken. “There are a few made in this country, the most famous being the Shiloh Sharps made up in Big Timber.”
“New Jersey?”
“Montana.” Her eyes flattened. “Are you going to behave so we can get through this in a reasonable amount of time?”
“What happened to your good mood?”
She wiped her fingers off on her pants and picked up one of the clipboards. “My boss gave me this shitty job to do.” She took another sip of her tea. “The Shiloh version is the top of the line, with a waiting list of about four years. The only one sold in our area as far back as registration goes is one to a Roger Russell, about two years ago.” I stopped chewing. “Bingo?”