Between the Plums Page 12

  “Yes.”

  “It could help in this situation. It’s just about qualified me to be a relationship expert. Plus I got a lot of expertise all those years when I was a ’ho. I bet I could relationship the ass off you.”

  “No doubt. Let me talk anyway.”

  Loretta made her way down to us. “Ladies?” she said.

  “Diet Coke and tuna on rye,” I told her.

  “I’ll have the Beetle special sandwich and cheese fries and a Coke,” Lula said.

  I looked at my watch. It was twelve-thirty. “What about your afternoon diet?”

  “It’s more like a suggestion than a rule. And anyway, I thought since we’re working on these cases I should keep my strength up. I might get all weak and hypoglycemic if I don’t have cheese fries.”

  “So,” Loretta said. “Working ladies.”

  “Yep. We’re relationship experts,” Lula said. “We fix up relationships. You got any that needs fixin’?”

  “No. I’m good with relationships. I’m in a dreamy one right now. He’s a lawyer.”

  “You don’t look like the lawyer type,” Lula said. “You look like . . . some other type.”

  Loretta drew my drink and slid it down the bar at me. “I’m lots of types. This is a really good job for meeting men. I go out with them and get them to buy me some jewelry and then when it looks like they’re gonna say the L word I split. I got this necklace I’m wearing from a veterinarian.”

  “It’s a good necklace,” Lula said. “And you look like the veterinarian type more than the lawyer type. Maybe you should go back with him.”

  “He was a loser,” Loretta said. “He kept talking about how he wanted a family.” She wrinkled her nose. “Eeeuw, kids. Ick. I hate kids. And he was always rushing off to save some dumb cat or dog. I mean, what’s with that? Who wants a boyfriend who makes you rush through dessert just because some cat got run over by a dump truck?”

  “What a creep,” Lula said. “Imagine rushing you through dessert. I wouldn’t stand for that.”

  “The lawyer’s a lot better,” Loretta said. “He has a wife and kids, so I don’t have to worry about the L word. The L word is okay if it’s insincere.”

  “Boy, you got it all figured out,” Lula said.

  Loretta moved off to the other end of the bar.

  “What was that?” I asked Lula. “You were supposed to let me do the talking.”

  “Well excuse me, Ms. Control Freak. It just worked out this way. You weren’t taking advantage of the moment.”

  Turned out it didn’t matter a whole lot anyway. I liked Gary Martin, and I hated Loretta Flack. Loretta Flack was bitchzilla. I couldn’t in good conscience fix things so that Martin was stuck with Flack.

  The sandwiches and fries arrived, and we dug in.

  “I’m liking this,” Lula said. “We didn’t get spit on or shot at all day, and I feel like a big Cupid. Of course, we haven’t gotten anybody together like we’re supposed to, but it feels like love is in the air. Don’t you feel love in the air? How many more cases we got?”

  “Three. Next up is Larry Burlew. He’s got his eye on someone but can’t get to meet her. I’ve already skimmed the file. Burlew is a butcher. Works at Sal’s Meat Market on Broad. The woman of his dreams works in the coffee shop across the street. According to Annie’s notes, Burlew is shy.”

  “That’s cute,” Lula said. “A shy butcher. I got a good feeling about him. And I wouldn’t mind some pork chops for dinner tonight.”

  3

  Larry Burlew was a big guy. He was over six feet tall, weighed maybe 230 pounds, and had hands like hamhocks. He wasn’t bad looking, and he wasn’t good looking. Mostly he looked like a butcher . . . possibly because his white butcher’s apron was decorated with meat marinade and chicken guts.

  The butcher shop was empty of customers when we entered. Burlew was the lone butcher, and he was slicing ribs and arranging them in the display case.

  I introduced myself as Annie’s assistant, and Burlew blushed red from the collar of his white T-shirt to the roots of his buzz-cut hair.

  “Real nice to meet you,” he said softly. “I hope this isn’t too much trouble. I feel kind of silly asking for help like this, but Ms. Hart came into the shop and left her card, and I just thought . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Lula said. “It’s what we do. We’re the fixer-upper bitches. We live to fix shit.”

  “I understand you want to get together with someone?” I asked Burlew.

  “There’s this girl that I like. I think she’s around my age. I see her every day, and she’s nice to me, but in a professional way. And sometimes I try to talk to her, but there’s always lots of people around, and I never know what to say. I’m a big dummy when it comes to girls.”

  “Okay,” I said, “give me all the necessary information. Who is she?”

  “She’s right across the street,” Burlew said. “She works in the coffee shop. Every morning I go in to get coffee and she always gets it just right. She always gives me the perfect amount of cream. And it’s never too hot. Her name is Jet. That’s what it says on her name tag. I don’t know more than that. She’s the one with the shiny black hair.”

  I looked at the coffee shop. It had big plate-glass windows in the front, making it possible to check out the action inside. There were three women working behind the counter and a bunch of customers lined up waiting for service. I shifted my attention back to Burlew and saw he was watching Jet, mesmerized by the sight of her.

  I excused myself and swung across the street to the coffee shop. Jet was at the register, ringing up a customer. She was a tiny little thing with short, spiky black hair. She was dressed in a black T-shirt, a short black skirt, black tights, and black boots. She wore a wide black leather belt with silver studs, and she had a red rose tattooed on her arm. She looked to be in her early to mid-twenties. No wedding band or engagement ring on her left hand.

  I ordered a coffee. “It’s for my cousin across the street,” I said. “Maybe you know him . . . Larry Burlew.”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “He’s a butcher. And he said you always give him perfect coffee.”

  “Omigod, are you talking about the big huge guy with the buzz cut? He comes in here every morning. He talks so soft I can hardly hear him, and then he goes across the street, and he stares in here all day. I’m sorry because he’s your cousin and all, but he’s kind of creepy.”

  “He’s shy. And he stares in here because . . . he’d like more coffee, but he can’t leave the shop.”

  “Omigod, I had no idea. That’s so sweet. That’s so sad. The poor guy is over there wishing he had a cup of coffee, and I thought he was one of those pervert stalkers. He should just call over here. Or he could wave, and I’d bring him a cup.”

  “Really? He’d love that. He’s such a nice guy, but he’s always worried about imposing.”

  Jet leaned on the counter and did a little finger wave at Larry Burlew. Even from this distance I could see Burlew’s cheeks flush red.

  I brought the coffee across the street and gave it to Larry Burlew.

  “I’ve got it all set,” I told him. “All you have to do is wave at Jet, and she’ll bring you a cup of coffee. Then you’ll have a chance to talk to her.”

  “I can’t talk to her! What would I say? She’s so pretty, and I’m so . . .” Burlew looked down at himself. He didn’t have words.

  “You’re a nice-looking guy,” I told him. “Okay, maybe the chicken guts are a turnoff, but you can fix that by changing your butcher apron before she gets here. And try not to stare at her so much. Only stare when you want a cup of coffee. Staring sometimes can be misconstrued as, um, rude.”

  Burlew was bobbing his head up and down. “I’ll remember all that. Wave for coffee. Don’t stare so much. Change my apron before she gets here.”

  “And talk to her!”

  “Talk to her,” he repeated.

  I didn’t actually have a lot of confidenc
e that this would work, so I wrote my cell phone number on a scrap of paper and left it with him.

  “Call me if you have a problem,” I said.

  Burlew did some vigorous head nodding. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Before we go I need to buy some pork chops,” Lula said. “I have a taste for pork chops.”

  Diesel was on the couch watching television when Bob and I got home. There was a six-pack of beer and a pizza box on the coffee table in front of him. Some of the beer and pizza were missing.

  “I brought dinner,” Diesel said. “How’d it go today?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m living here.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Sure I am. I have my shoes off and everything.”

  “Okay, but I’m not sleeping with you.”

  “No problemo. You’re not my type anyway,” Diesel said.

  “What’s your type?”

  “Easy.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I’m a jerk,” Diesel said, “but I’m lovable.”

  This was true.

  I dragged Bob off to the kitchen, gave him fresh water, and filled his dog bowl with dog crunchies. I returned to the living room, helped myself to a piece of pizza, and joined Diesel on the couch.

  “Eat up,” Diesel said. “We need to work tonight. I’ve got a line on Beaner.”

  “No way. I’m the relationship person. I’m not the find-the-crazy-Unmentionable-nutcase person.”

  “I need cover. You’re all I’ve got,” Diesel said.

  “What makes Beaner special? Can he whip up a tornado? Can he levitate a Hummer? Can he catch a bullet in his teeth?”

  “No, he can’t do any of those things.”

  “Well, what can he do?”

  “I’m not telling you. Just try not to get too close to him.”

  Bob padded in from the kitchen and stood looking at the leftover pizza. I gave him a piece; he ate it in three gulps and put his head on Diesel’s leg, leaving a smear of tomato sauce. Diesel scratched Bob behind the ear, the tomato sauce not worthy of registering on Diesel’s slob-o-meter.

  It was eight o’clock when I parked my yellow Ford Escape in the small lot attached to Ernie’s Bar and Grill. I’d been to Ernie’s before, and I knew it was more bar than grill. The grill was mostly wasabi peas and pretzels. The bar was mostly middle-aged white guys who drank too much. It was just one block from the government complex, so it was a convenient watering hole for enslaved bureaucrats who were putting in their hours, waiting for death or retirement, whichever came first. At eight o’clock the bar had emptied out the merely desperate and was left to console the truly hopeless.

  “Beaner’s been here for two nights running,” Diesel said. “He’s in there now. I can sense it. Problem is, I can’t approach him in a public place. I know he’s holed up somewhere nearby, but I can’t get a fix on it. I want you to try to get him to talk to you. See if you can find out where he lives. Just don’t let him touch you. And don’t get too close.”

  “How close is too close?”

  “If you can feel his breath on your neck, it’s too close. He’s five feet, eight inches tall, weighs 180 pounds, and looks late forties. He has brown hair, cut short, blue eyes, and he’s got a raspberry birthmark on his forehead that extends into his left eyebrow.”

  “Why don’t you follow him when he leaves the bar?”

  “Not an option, unless he leaves with you.”

  I gave Diesel a why not look, and Diesel mumbled something.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I can’t.” More mumbling.

  “You want to run that mumbling by me again?”

  Diesel slumped in his seat and blew out a sigh. “I keep losing him. He’s really sneaky. He turns a corner on me, and he’s gone.”

  “The stealth Beaner.”

  “Something like that. He scrambles my radar.”

  “You don’t actually think you have radar, do you?”

  “No, but I have GPS. And sometimes ESP. And Monday nights I get ESPN.”

  Okay, he was a little nutty, but at least he had a sense of humor. And hell, who was I to say whether or not he actually had ESP. I mean, I sort of believe in ghosts. And I sort of believe in heaven. And I sort of believe in wishing on birthday candles. I guess Diesel and ESP aren’t too far removed. Sort of in the area of radio waves, spontaneous combustion, and electricity. After all, I don’t understand any of those things, but they exist.

  “Sometimes you just have to go with it,” Diesel said.

  I left Diesel on that note and sashayed off to the bar. It was easy to spot Beaner in the lineup of losers. He was the only one with a raspberry birthmark on his forehead. The stool next to him was unoccupied, so I climbed onto it and made sure there was some air between us.

  Beaner was drinking something amber on ice. Probably scotch. I ordered a beer and smiled at him.

  “Hi,” I said. “How’s it going?”

  He didn’t return the smile. “How much time do you have?” he asked.

  “That bad?”

  He threw back the liquid in his glass and signaled the bartender for more.

  I took another stab at it. “Do you come here often?” I asked him.

  “I live here.”

  “Must be hard to sleep on that barstool. How do you keep from falling off?”

  That almost got a smile. “I don’t sleep here,” he said. “I just drink here. I’d drink at home but that might indicate alcoholism.”

  “Where’s home?”

  He made a vague gesture with his hand. “Out there.”

  “Out there is a big place.”

  “My wife kicked me out of the house,” he said. “Changed the locks on the friggin’ doors. Married for two hundred years, and she kicked me out of the house. Packed all my clothes in cardboard boxes and put them out on the front lawn.”

  “Jeez, I’m sorry.”

  “What am I supposed to do now? Things were different the last time I dated. It was simple back then. You found someone you liked, you asked their father if you could marry them, then you got married and climbed on board.” He took possession of his new drink and tested it out. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m saying that was right. It’s just the way it was. And I knew that way. Now it’s all about talking and sensitivity. I’ve been married for all this time and suddenly she wants to talk. And it turns out we’ve been having bad sex, and now she wants to have good sex. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to find out you’ve been doing it wrong for two hundred years? I mean, how friggin’ annoying is that? She said I couldn’t find my way south of the border with a road map.”

  “I might know someone who could help you.”

  “I don’t need help. I need my wife to come to her senses. This whole mess is the result of someone trying to help. Things were fine until some meddler stuck her big fat nose into my marriage. If I get hold of her I’ll fix her good. It’ll be the last time she meddles in someone’s marriage.”

  “But if she was trying to help—”

  “She didn’t help. She made things awful.” He chugged his drink, dropped a twenty on the bar, and stood. “I’ve gotta go.”

  “So soon?”

  “Things to do.”

  “Where are you going? Are you going home?”

  My eyes flicked to the bartender when he took the twenty and the empty glass. A beat later, I turned my attention back to Beaner, but he was gone.

  “Where’d he go?” I asked the bartender. “Did you see him leave?”

  “I saw him get off the stool, but then he got lost in the crowd.”

  I left money on the bar and went outside to Diesel.

  “He’s gone,” I said. “We were talking, and he got agitated, and he split.”

  Diesel was lounging against my car. “I saw him for a second when he walked through the door. A couple people came out with him, and somehow he disappeared behind them before I could get to him.”
Diesel pushed off from the car, went to the driver’s side door, angled himself in behind the wheel, and turned the key in the ignition. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait a minute. This is my car. I drive.”

  “Everybody knows the guy gets to drive.”

  “Not in Jersey.”

  “Especially in Jersey,” Diesel said. “The testosterone level in Jersey is fifteen percent higher than it is in any other state.”

  4

  It was still early, so we stopped at a supermarket on the way home.

  “What about the shopping cart?” I asked Diesel. “Do you have to drive that, too?”

  “I’d get my nuts repossessed if I didn’t drive the shopping cart.”

  A half hour later, we loaded our food onto the checkout belt, and Diesel gave his credit card to the checker.

  “Boy, you’ve got lots of food,” the checker said.

  “A man’s gotta eat,” Diesel told her.

  I took a peek at the card. “There’s no bank name on this card,” I whispered to Diesel.

  “It’s an Unmentionable card,” he said. “Good in three solar systems.”

  I was pretty sure he was kidding.

  I crammed the last of the food into my kitchen . . . lunch meat, beer, cheese, peanut butter, pickles, bagels, ice cream, cereal, milk, orange juice, apples, bananas, bread, cream cheese, coffee, half-and-half, crackers, cookies, chips, salsa, carrots, mixed nuts, and God-knows-what-else.

  Diesel took a bag of chips and a beer into the living room and remoted the television on. “This is great,” he said. “I can catch the end of the hockey game.”

  I settled next to him and reached into the chip bag. Bob had been sleeping in the bedroom, but the rustle of a chip bag was a Bob alarm, and in a beat Bob was up and expectantly standing in front of me. I fed him a couple chips, and he flopped down on the floor with his head on my foot.

  “Beaner isn’t such a bad guy,” I said. “He’s just frustrated. He’s been married for a long time, and all of a sudden his wife isn’t satisfied with the status quo. I think Beaner would like to fix things, but he just doesn’t know how to get up to speed. He doesn’t know how to go about talking to his wife. And he says, according to his wife, he sucks in the sack.”