Saturday, December 31 #3
With no argument over the order, she nodded, her head crowned with wavy, dye-job-jet-black hair, and disappeared, swift and light in her Sketchers.
“Is it worth two?” Garrett asked, lifting his brow and the corner of his mouth.
The guy fluffed up his hair and shrugged. “Depends.”
Garrett grunted, watching his wallet grow emptier by the minute. None of it was tax-deductible. He settled in and crossed his arms on the table. Somewhere in the distance, the jukebox was now cranking out an old Billie Ray song.
“It seems a body shop owner, with a Houdini act, might have been serving Coke during his show,” Garrett divulged in a language only they were fluent in. “What do you think?”
PJ bent over the table, and amid the music and chatter, he didn’t lower his voice. “His Coke tableside service is old news …”
“All we have on his service is a bit of word of mouth. No facts about the quality of his performances or the location of his show.”
“You guys are holding expired tickets,” PJ chuckled. “Look, I like you, Fitz … but some of the guys in your shop aren’t the sharpest crayons in the box. Report to work for the check and pension because Shuster’s Moving Company wouldn’t hire them. No offense to you …”
Garrett would agree with that. Preston locked himself out of his patrol car; Sanchez ran out of gas during a high-speed chase; Kohl forgot to load his service revolver before responding to an armed bank robbery …
Yeah, sharp they weren’t. That was yet another reason he had moved over to homicide. More brain cells in that squad.
So, if Jenkins was a major operator or oversaw a large operation, and this transaction led to his unfortunate demise, he could wash his hands of it and call Vice in the capital.
“Here, I got one for you! Heard from a most reliable source ... Operator killed … This is outside of my jurisdiction. Happy to oblige.”
That would remove him from the case, and he’d be back to seeing Angelica. Problem solved.
As the weight on Garrett’s shoulders was airlifted and thrown in the trash, the guy across the table added, “But the flow of soda didn’t give that man health issues.”
Ah, shit!
The wannabe Hooters girl in the tight shirt returned in a flash with a tray laden with a tall glass, almost packed to the brim with ice, and two foamy mugs. She set them down on the scratched tabletop, which didn’t look all that clean. Neither of them said anything until she left.
With his elation bursting like a balloon, Garrett grudgingly quizzed, “What’s your advice then?” He hoped there was a quick fix. Real quick.
“Forget the soft drinks and the sideshow. Stick to basic stuff like in the Bible. Think David, Uriah, and Bathsheba, and what two of them were cooking over the fire.” PJ reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
His informant was now a biblical scholar.
Luckily—nothing seemed lucky right now—Garrett was familiar with the story.
Well, not the name of the fair lady’s husband.
But he got the gist and the twist, even in code.
Just as he had suspected. Never screw a man’s wife.
It will catch up with you sooner or later.
“So, do you think I should shop locally for my barbecue, even stop at a church, temple, or mosque food pantry?”
The chain-smoking man lit up again, sucked in, and turned his head to empty his lungs, with a cough, toward the bar.
“You should stick to one faith for your shopping. The food pantry might be near the pastor’s office. I hear someone’s wife has been making a lot of house-to-house deliveries lately.” PJ winked.
Hauling in a pastor. That’ll be a first. Wait until Bickney and Talbert hear this. This is right up their alley and something they’d love to bet on. At any rate, this eliminated priests, rabbis, and the guys from the mosque, whatever you call them.
“Do you know which church has the best pantry?” Garrett asked, his teeth aching from the sip of the too-sweet, carbonated drink.
“I haven’t heard. You’ll have to do your own shopping to find out,” PJ said on an exhaled cloud.
Garrett ducked to the side, avoiding the noxious, fast-moving incoming London fog. There goes his hope of a quick fix.
Greenhill County was a very faithful and “worshippery” place.
Churches were everywhere—standalone, storefronts, even in defunct fast-food places.
There had to be over a hundred sanctuaries to choose from to get down on your knees.
He’d need to “rent a homicide team” to find his pastor who flunked the Ten Commandments.
This would take him and Bickney forever.
Perhaps Garrett should light candles once again.
“Gotcha! Always enjoy running into you and shooting the breeze,” Garrett said, unsure whether he meant it tonight.
“Me, too. Happy New Year, Fitz, and here’s to a long life for both of us.” The man across the table lifted his mug, ale dripping down the sides, and drained it in one gigantic gulp.
It was a good thing Garrett ordered two.
As for the advice, was it worth $60 plus a tip? Quoting PJ, it “depends.”
Still, even that seems overly optimistic.