Oasis of Night (5 page)

I laid the check on his desk. “If you can slow down long enough to take a look at this, I'd like your opinion on it.”

“Would ye?” Ricketts reached across and picked up the check. He peered at it, smelled it, rubbed it between his fingers, held it up to the light, crumpled it, and smoothed it out again. “Mm.”

“My bartender claims no knowledge of it, nor does he have any idea why Fayre Construction wrote him a check for such an ungodly amount. He has never worked for them. His only connection is his… a woman he's seeing.”

Ricketts looked at me. “The Fayre girl?”

“The same.”

“Mm. Used to know her mother. Judy Blanchard, she was. Knew her in school. Stuck-up as they come. Figured her shit didn't—” The phone rang; Ricketts picked it up and shouted something unintelligible into it. “So Fayre Construction wrote your bartender a check for nothing. Is that what you're telling me?”

“Yeah. Add that to what Octavian told me—”

“Octavian?” He spat it out like it tasted bad. “You been listening to that fool? Sure, he's as stun as my arse and then some.”

“Not about this, he isn't.” I showed him the contents of the envelope Octavian had given me and laid the whole thing out for him. To Ricketts's credit he listened carefully, his beady blue eyes searching my face while his thick, blunt fingers scratched at his desk blotter or fiddled with his pens and pencils, his lapels, the unbuttoned flaps on the pockets of his uniform—anything else within reach.

“I'll put a man on it.” He picked up the phone and spoke; the door to his office opened almost instantly, and a thin young man with pale gray eyes and hungry features stood there like he'd been starched into his clothes.

“You called me, Sergeant?”

“Constable Picco, you remember Mr. Stoyles. You've been into his cafe a few times, haven't you? Mr. Stoyles is a Yank.”

Picco's lean face fell. “Oh. Mr. Stoyles.” He said my name like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Mr. Stoyles would like our help. Take a good look at him, Constable Picco. From now on, you are working for Mr. Stoyles.”

Picco's expression was something less than ecstatic. “Your orders, Sergeant?”

“I'll have Doreen bring you the file in half an hour.”

Picco nodded. “Very good.” He inclined his head as much as the uniform's stiff collar would allow—or maybe that was only my wishful thinking. “Good day, Mr. Stoyles.” He went out and shut the door behind him.

“He must be a real hit at parties.”

“Don't be foolish. He don't go to parties. He's in with that Mission crowd—one of them Pentecostals.” Ricketts shoved his handwritten notes into a file folder. “Is there anything else, Mr. Stoyles, or can I let ye get back to pouring coffee?”

“I'll get back to pouring coffee. Will Picco… will he get in touch with me, or should I call you, or…?” I imagined Picco stomping into the Heartache Cafe and declaiming the results of his investigation to anybody within earshot.

“I'll call you. You needn't worry about that.” The phone at his elbow rang, and I was effectively dismissed.

I got back to the Heartache Cafe right before the lunchtime rush. Chris was already busy taking orders, so I grabbed an apron to help him out. I was serving a tray of Cokes with limes and iced tea to a table full of school teachers when the front door of the Cafe came open with such force that the bell was nearly torn off the frame. A small man wearing a too-big overcoat staggered in, holding his arms out in front of him like he was trying to push something away. I recognized him as one of the vagrants who usually sat outside my cafe, begging passersby for change and sometimes venturing inside to buy a glass of beer. He saw me and started forward, but he never made it. He fell flat on his face, the handle of a knife protruding from the space between his shoulder blades.

 

 

C
ONSTABLE
P
ICCO
had closed my cafe down, pending an investigation; some men in clean white coats had come with an ambulance and taken the dead vagrant away. Picco's men made a thorough sweep of my place while he detained my customers for questioning, but it was useless. Nobody knew anything, but that didn't seem to deter Picco. He kept Chris and me in my office for over an hour after the last of the customers had left.

“Did you know this man, Mr. Stoyles?” Picco stood as erectly as ever, his gray eyes taking in everything. “Had you seen him before today?”

“I already told you, he's usually out there, in front of the Cafe. Sometimes, if the weather's cold, I'll bring him out a hot cup of coffee.”

Picco did something with his eyebrows. “I see. Have you ever given him money?”

“Sometimes. What's wrong with that?”

He gave me an unfathomable look before turning back to his notebook. “Are there any knives missing from your kitchen, Mr. Stoyles?”

This was beginning to get on my nerves. “I told you already, no.”

“And where is your cook?”

“It's his day off. Chris handles the cooking when he's not here.”

Picco looked Chris up and down with an air of patent disapproval. “You are an American also, Mr. DuBois?” He pronounced it “DuBoys.”

“Actually, it's DuBois. I'm from New Orleans.”

“New Orleans, Louisiana. Also in the United States.” Picco jotted something in his notebook and flipped the cover closed. He glanced around the Cafe with an expression of profound distaste. “Hopefully my investigation will not take too long. In the meantime, this… place… will remain closed.”

I started forward. “Are you sure that's necessary?”

“Very, Mr. Stoyles. It is vital that everything remain exactly as it is.”

“Why, you—” I felt the blood throbbing in my temples and made for him, but Chris caught me around the waist and hauled me back. “You've got no reason to close me down, Picco! Just you wait till I get Ricketts on the phone!”

Picco raised one eyebrow. “Sergeant Ricketts is attending a police conference in Nova Scotia and will not be back until next week. I am overseeing matters until his return.”

“I just bet you are.”

Chris held on to me until Picco left, and then he went and locked the door behind the departing constable. “That guy really loves his job, doesn't he?”

I muttered something about Picco's mother and left it at that.

Chris chuckled. “Still, you gotta admire his dedication. Cup of coffee?”

“Sure.” I walked over to where the group of school teachers had been sitting. They had overturned the table in their haste to get away, and the floor underneath was a wet, sticky mess. I took a tray and started picking up the pieces of broken glass, piling them together for the trash.

What was Picco's problem, anyway? If this was Philly, they'd come and cart away the dead guy and business would go on as usual. People would be thronging the place, for chrissakes, to see for themselves. I couldn't afford to be closed, not even for a day. Sure, the Heartache did good business, but I wasn't so successful that I could stand a loss of profits.

A shard of broken glass sliced into the index finger of my right hand and cut deep. “Dammit!”

“Whoa there, Jack.” Chris's clean, strong hands closed over mine. “You cut yourself.”

“Aww, it's nothing.”

“Sure it is.” He held my injured hand gently. “Come into the kitchen, I'll get that cleaned up for you.”

I waited while he ran the hot water and fetched the first aid kit from the shelf over the sink. “How is it that Dave can slice and dice in here for hours and never get so much as a scratch?” I wondered.

“He's had a lot more practice.” Chris rubbed my cut finger with a little soap and rinsed my hand under the water. “Cafe's a mess, huh?”

I remembered the tumult after the vagrant had been stabbed. “They tore out of here like a herd of goddamn elephants.”

He held my hand clear as he reached to turn off the taps. “Aw, customers!” He flashed me a grin. “Who needs 'em?”

In spite of myself, I laughed. “Last time I checked, we do.” I watched as he wrapped a clean dish towel around my hand. “Unless you've got some private source of wealth?” Too late, I realized what I'd said, and his face closed down.

“No, Jack.” He concentrated on ripping open a clean dressing. “I ain't got no private wealth.”

There was silence between us for several long moments. “Chris, I'm sorry.”

He wouldn't look at me. “Why do you have to keep bringing it up? I told you before. I don't know anything about that check. I don't know how it got in the till. I damn well didn't put it there.” He wrapped my cut finger and tied off the dressing. “How's that? Too tight?”

“No, it's fine.” The tap was dripping; I reached around him to turn it off, and he caught hold of my arm on the way back.

“What's really going on here, huh?” His grip softened, and he slid his palm up my arm. “What's eating you, Jack?”

“Nothing. I'm just sore about the Cafe being closed.” I was lying and we both knew it. “Having a guy stagger in and die in the middle of the lunchtime rush isn't my idea of a good time, you know?” Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to confide in Chris. It had been a very long time since I'd confided in anybody, since I'd allowed myself to get close to another person, to lean on someone else. Oh, I knew lots of people around town—nodding acquaintances, mostly, no real friends—but here was someone offering to be there for me, for real. It was a novel sensation.

“Yeah. The Cafe keeps you busy, right? Keeps you from thinking too much.” His other hand slid gently up my left arm, skin against skin, and the casual contact was almost more than I could stand.

“You shouldn't touch me.” I tried in vain to pull away from him.

“Why's that, Jack?” His eyes sought my gaze. “Why shouldn't I touch you? Guys touch each other all the time. Didn't you ever play sports?”

“I can't—dammit, Chris, I can't handle it.” I pulled away, turned my back to him. My heart was going a mile a minute, and I felt dizzy, like if I took one step in any direction, I'd fall flat on my face. Hell, maybe it was loss of blood or something.

“You can't handle me touching you?” He came up behind me and squeezed my shoulders, leaned into me so close I could smell his aftershave. I couldn't help myself. I swayed back against him, and as I did, his arms went around my waist so he was hugging me from behind.

It was a real nice feeling, being held like that, having someone's arms around me, and I'll admit I gave in to it, but only for a minute. Any more than that would just be making things worse, and I didn't want to go through that whole thing again—getting, having, only to lose that love and eventually the lover. I couldn't take it anymore. Another episode like the last one and I'd crawl inside a bottle and stay there, and that would be disastrous. One good drunk would kill me.

I pulled away from him and walked out of the kitchen, but he caught up with me in the middle of the Cafe. Suddenly his arms were around me and I was gazing into soft brown eyes and his warm hands were cupping my face and he was kissing me. His mouth opened over mine, the gentle suction pulling me in to him while his strong arms held me tight against his body. The tip of his tongue teased my lips apart, and a flush of heat bloomed at the base of my belly. I forgot the spilled drinks and the broken glass, forgot everything except the man in whose strong arms I was held, the man who was kissing me with such fervent expertise.

“How did you know?” I pulled back far enough to look at him. “About me, I mean.”

His thumb stroked my bottom lip. “It took a while. You don't exactly open up, you know?”

“Chris, what are we doing?” I groaned as his mouth pressed into my neck; my hands slid down to cup his backside and squeezed him gently. God, he was beautiful! What the hell was I thinking? “Maybe we better stop.” I forced myself to step away from him. “Anybody could come along and see us.” I smiled at the picture he made: his hair was disheveled from where I'd had my fingers in it, and the pressure of my mouth had turned his lips dark red.

“Yeah, I guess you're right.” He stroked my cheek. “You're a right guy, Jack.”

It was a strange thing to say. “What do you mean by that?”

“I can trust you. That's not something you can say about a lot of guys these days.” He smiled. “There's a war on—haven't you heard?”

I laughed. “You're crazy.”

“Jack… you believe me about the check, don't you?” He was asking me for something, something I wasn't sure I could give him. “I swear to you, I had nothing to do with it.”

“Yeah?” There was a heavy feeling in my gut. I didn't like it. “What about Julie?”

“We're friends. Jack, you know how it is. It helps to have a woman on your arm, especially in this town.”