Mr. Softee (27 page)

“Yes, the bartender, Jimmy
. Then of course everyone I bought a drink for.”

“And their names?”

“I only have first names, and some of that is a little foggy, but they’re probably at The Spot right now, or they certainly will be later today.”

For the next two to three hours Manning reviewed the questions he’d asked the day before
. Eventually the interview concluded.

“
Do you have anything you wish to add, Mister Haskell?”

“Only that I wish I had neve
r been hired by Weldon Sofmann, Mister Softee, in the first place,” I answered.

“Thank you
, Mister Haskell.”

Aaron was waiting for
us outside in the hallway.

“Miste
r Haskell, thanks for your time. If you two will excuse me, I have a mountain of paperwork on this,” Manning said, then walked away without another word.

Aaron watched hi
m for a moment, then shook his head and without looking at me said,

“You’re bu
ying dinner.

Chapter Seventy

Over dinner Aaron explained
some things to me.

“Look, Manning has a really full plate
. You can start with Bernie Sneen, then Mister Softee. He’s got Pinky Ackerman…”

“Who’s that?” I asked.

He shot me a suspicious glance.

“Pinky Ackerman, a player
, sort of like Tony Soprano only for real and a lot more vicious.”

“Oh
, that Pinky Ackerman.”

“Yeah
. So he gets tossed out a window and shot…”

“No kidding?”

He ignored me.

“T
hen there’s three dead in some apparent ice cream truck robbery we still can’t get a handle on what that was about.” Aaron eyed me for a long moment.

“T
he car accident with the ice-cream truck?”

“Yeah,
amazingly your buddy Softee, again. Then last night, this Lola broad and some other guy, in the house of a known associate.”

I waited, but Aaron had stopped talking
. A minute or two later he asked,

“Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“About what?”

“About what happened to her.
”

“Did you guys arrest her?”

“She was shot,” Aaron said.

“How?”

He stared at me again for a long moment, clearly not sure.

“She was
shot, along with some two-bit low life named Monty Norling. Looks like they may have been hiding out over in Frogtown, in some dive house. That Benton guy’s as a matter of fact. Anyway, someone blocked the doors, then set the place on fire, both of them were shot as they came out a window.”

It was my turn to look
unsure.

“Then someone seems to have calmly walked up and put another round right between their eyes.”

“Professional?” I was still searching my foggy, drunken recollection of the previous night. Dog had been with me, I think.

“Professional
? No, whoever it was just got lucky. Yes professional. Head shots look to have been fired from a distance of about six inches, pretty hard to miss at that range.”

“Any suspects?”

“One, but he just eliminated himself with a stack of ATM receipts and a bar full of witnesses.”

Chapter Seventy-One

I met Dog outside
The Trend bar. It was the first time I’d seen him in almost a month.

When we stepped in
side there was a noticeable drop in the conversational hum. Although there had been a statewide smoking ban for years, I immediately smelled cigarettes and maybe smoke from another source, completely illegal.

W
e walked to the back of the bar toward a neatly dressed black gentleman. This time he was wearing a dark green polo shirt, matching trousers, and highly polished shoes. The same expensive watch. He looked like a prosperous business man, just stirring a spoonful of sugar into his coffee as if waiting for his tee time.

“
Thank you for seeing us, Walter,” I said.

He gave a friendly nod and t
he conversational hum immediately rose four notches. He stared at my nose for a long moment.

“You look different
, somehow,” he said.

“No, it
’s still me.”

“I don’t mind telling you this has been one
of my more unique transactions,” he chuckled.

I palmed the roll of cash as we shook hands
. Walter gave us the usual directions to our new vehicles.

“I don’t know, man
,” Dog said, shaking his head as we crossed the street to the Rainbow Food parking lot.

“What?”

“Well, let’s just say you’ve done some pretty stupid things in your life, but this has to be up there, maybe the top one or two. It just ain’t necessary.”

“I think it’s the least I can do.”

“Seems pretty goddamn extreme to me, but what do I know?”

“
Exactly. Besides I feel like I owe it for some reason.”

The keys were under the floor mat
s, just like before. We started the two vehicles, Dog signaled with a thumbs up and then followed when I drove off. Not that I’d want to do it for a living, but it was a fun fifteen-minute drive racing through the streets and across the High Bridge.

We swung onto
Ohio Street, the contractor’s trailer was parked in front of the Giant Scoop Office. We pulled into the parking bay. I honked the horn, and Dog rang the bell on his truck a couple of times.

Jill
stepped out of the office area. She was splattered with paint and held a roller in her hand.

“What
in the hell is this?” she asked wide eyed.

“Little something to help you get restarted,” I said.

“But, but, where? God, they look brand new. I, I holy shit!” she said walking around the two ice-cream trucks.

Fortunately Walter’s team had painted over the
pink and blue Mister Softee logos, removed the Softee hood ornament. Switched over the dreadful “Little Dog Gone” chime to a simple bell sound, then installed new coolers and the twelve treats menu on the back.

“I really don’t know what to tell you
. Except, oh god I’ve been such a…”

“Don’t,”
I said.

Chapter Seventy-Two

We were sitting at
my kitchen counter, sipping chilled, cheap white wine. Heidi and me.

“You know, in
a weird way having the head cut off sort of improves the look of that fish. Now if you’d just take it down all together, it would really spruce the place up.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Oh for god’s sake, Dev, get over her. Look, you’ve been mopping around for the last couple of weeks and everyone has…”

“Well I mean, maybe just a phone call or something.”

“Look, what can she say? You gave her two ice-cream trucks for god’s sake. I mean you barely know her, right? If you’re really being honest?”

“You know
, I’ve been asking myself to do that a lot lately, be honest.”

“Will
you stop it? Look, you’ve been an absolute downer for weeks now.”

“You think my idea for breast milk ice cream might have put her off?”

“Look, I can’t take this. When the pity party is over give me a call. But it’s not much fun seeing you like this. I better get going anyway, I got a hell of a day tomorrow.”

“Thanks for stopping.”

As a mark of my depression I left the wine unfinished, wandered out to my living room, stretched on the couch and dozed off.

The
ringing bell woke me. A bright yellow ice-cream truck was parked in front of my house. Jill was just climbing out. She saw me looking out the window, waved, gave a big smile then held up two bottles of chilled wine.

The End

If you enjoyed Dev’s adventuress in
Mr. Softee
, check out the sample of
Russian Roulette
just after my thank you and list of other available titles.

Hey, thanks for
taking time to read Mr. Softee. If you enjoyed this book please tell 2-300 of your closest friends and don’t miss these other titles;

Bab
y Grand

Chow For Now

Slow, Slow, Quick, Quick

Merlot

Finders Keepers

End of t
he Line

Russian Roulette

Mr. Softee

Bite Me

Bombshell

Tutti Frutti

Email
; [email protected]

Here’s a Free sample from
Russian Roulette
, happy reading,

Russian Roulette

Chapter One

I was sitting in
The Spot bar, minding my own damn business, content in a mild and steadily growing alcoholic haze. A client had paid me. The check was enough to cover my overdrafts and fund a night or two of partying.

I saw her come in the side door and look around for fifteen seconds
. She was blond, hot looking, thirty something, maybe wearing a little too much makeup and dressed in a delightfully slutty sort of way. Conversation didn’t stop but heads turned as she walked past. She headed toward an empty stool. There were four on either side of me. Her chest was like the prow of a battleship and plowed a firm, bouncy course down the length of the bar. She passed the first three empty stools and pulled out the one next to me. It was red vinyl and edged in worn duct tape.

“Is anyone sitting here?”

I caught the slightest hint of an accent.

“Not that I can see.”

“You are Mr. Devlin Haskell, right? The private dick?”

She batted her eyes a few times, which at the moment struck me as extremely sexy
. Her perfume wafted over me like a plastic dry cleaning bag and forced me to gasp for breath. It was strangely spicy.

“Yeah, that’s me
. Although it’s not all that private,” I joked.

Incredibly she smiled but didn’t comment
. After a moment she said,

“Mr. Haskell, I’ve been looking for you
. Of course the other places were a little nicer than this,” she said, gazing around at the dingy brown, nicotine-stained ceiling. Maybe she caught the two bullet holes in the front door now filled with putty and supposed to have been painted sometime just before Obama took office. Maybe it was the 60s-style cheap wood paneling on the walls, or the ode de beer reek of the place. Maybe it was the worn wood-grain Formica tables in the booths or the twenty-watt bulbs in the light fixtures. Maybe it just didn’t matter, I thought as she sat up straight, spun toward me on her stool, and thrust her death-defying cleavage in my face.

“You were looking for me?” I asked, wondering if my luck had finally begun to change.

“Yes, a friend gave me your name.”

“Really, what can I do for you?” thinking maybe a getaway weekend to a quiet lake
place, or a bed and breakfast with a Jacuzzi in the room, or just your basic tawdry night at my place with licorice ropes.

“Well, I hope you won’t think I’m strange.”

At this point Grace, the bartender, stepped in front of us. An experienced little voice inside my head said
just smile, finish the drink and get the hell out of here before you get in real trouble
.

“Buy you a drink?” I asked.

“Will you have another?”

That experienced little voice whispered
no
.

I nodded yes toward Grace who rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, okay, I guess I’ll have a double vodka martini, two olives,” she ordered quickly, then smiled at me.

A double, my kind of girl.

“So, I was about to think you’re strange?” I said.

“What
? Oh yes. Look, I wanted to hire you, to sort of find someone. I will pay you,” and with that she dug in a small beaded handbag suspended on a chain over her shoulder.

I hadn’t
noticed the thing before, but then I’d been otherwise engaged making careful notes as to her physical characteristics.

“Oh, sorry,” she said as she snapped the handbag closed with an audible click and then reached into her front pocket
. She pulled out a small wad of hundred-dollar bills. I was actually more amazed there was room for anything thicker than a dime in her pocket. The jeans looked to have been sprayed on over her perfect thighs.