Читать книгу Dead Girl - Craig Nybo - Страница 8

Chapter 2

Morrie’s Diner is the last bastion of Salt Lake City bygone days. With more than a million people living, bussing, tracking, and working in the growing city, architects and big financiers have converted the place into a jungle of concrete, glass, and plastic. Two towering buildings pushed up into glass and concrete infinity on either side of Morrie’s. The little diner, a one-story block structure built in the 50’s, had somehow dropped through a city ordinance loophole and kept its place right smack dap in the middle of metropolitan Salt Lake City.

Like so many other one-man-band shows in a city of chains such as Starbucks, McDonalds, and The Olive Garden, Morrie’s Diner attracted the city’s hippest urban executives. They came in droves with cool glasses and expensive shoes, not because they particularly liked the food or Morrie, but because Morrie’s was the kind of place in which they were supposed to be seen. Someone hip along the way, maybe a rock star, maybe a movie star, maybe some society white collar hotshot had cited Morrie’s as a with-it place to visit. Me, I just like the chili.

Some might argue, me included, that the feeble janitor that cleaned up after every bustling day at Morrie’s kept the little diner at an acceptable sanitary standard. That day as I stood in line for lunch, the janitor--Chuck, the name patch on the breast of his tan overalls read--sat dozing in a red, vinyl booth, his mop and bucket leaning next to the wall, a Louis Lamour book resting open on the gold speckled linoleum table in front of him.

I flipped open my old-school flip phone as I stood in line for chili. I fumbled in my briefcase for the note Mrs. Corelis had sent and dialed the number. A tall man with dark hair and perfect fingernails behind me in line eyed my phone and sneered at me. I winked at him and put the phone to my ear. It rang six times before Mrs. Corelis picked up. We went through all the telephone protocols, hello, is this Mrs. X, this is this Mr. Y, and got down to business fast.

“Do you mind if I record our call, Mrs. Corelis?”

“I don’t. It would probably be a good idea to save some kind of record.”

“In case of what?” I asked, fumbling with a little microphone I had picked up at Radio Shack for 10 bucks and change, a functional unit that I put in my ear between my cell phone speaker and my micro recorder.

“In case anything should happen to me,” Mrs. Corelis said.

“Do you think you are in danger?”

The man behind me in line with perfect fingernails folded his arms and began to tap on his left bicep with his right forefinger. I guess he was trying to show me the manhood under his expensive suit jacket. I put a shoulder between him and me and continued my conversation with Mrs. Corelis.

“I know that I am in danger. Some have died already, including my husband, Stan, and I think I might be next on the list.”

“And whose list would that be?”

“I can’t explain over the phone.” Oh, how I hated that sentence. All reporters hate that sentence. We live busy lives and like to have stories presented to us on platters. It’s best if a news release comes over the wire, you make a few copy adjustments then slap your byline on top and turn it into the editor. It’s a deep, dark secret, but many reporters work this way, just regurgitating releases as they come in, slam, bam, thank you, ma’am, now lets go out for martinis. I call it reporter autopilot and I’m not exempt from it. The next step up is actually engaging in a brief interview over the phone. This happens when something actually intrigues you as a reporter. You call back, get the gestalt view of the situation then pound down a few hundred words and you’re done. The stories that get especially annoying are the ones that genuinely intrigue, the ones that compel you to put in a little elbow grease. And when the contact says, “I can’t explain over the phone,” this means you actually have to go somewhere and spend time with people.

I sighed and went on. “Where are you? Can we meet?”

“I live in Bridgewater.”

I frowned. Bridgewater sat somewhere at least an hour north of Salt Lake City.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and looked up into the dark eyes of Mr. Manicure. They guy sneered, tipping his head slightly sideways and gestured with one hand for me to step along. I turned to see that I had lost track of the line. A six-foot gap had opened between me and a lady wearing salmon colored pantsuit ahead. I nodded cordially toward Mr. Manicure and took the four steps needed to close the gap.

“That’s a bit off my beaten track,” I said to DeeDee. Any chance you can meet me half way, say Mountain Green?”

“I thought you might listen to me because of your stories in The Star. I read that paper religiously. I enjoyed your latest piece, the one about the witches. You know, we have witches up here in Bridgewater too.”

My crackpot alarms whooped off in my head. “Look, DeeDee, you seem like a wonderful lady. But I’m on the deadline ropes right now. You gotta understand, I can’t just--”

“Can you give it a rest, sir?” Mr. Manicure said.

“Just a second,” I said to DeeDee and turned to the business-grade hipster. His brow looked almost apishly angry.

“Look, kid,” I said, covering the microphone on my cell phone. “I read you, man. You’re, what, about 30?”

Mr. Manicure’s eyes opened slightly in surprise. Most people, when they poke at you, don’t expect a poke back. They just expect an excuse or maybe a grumble. Me, I’m a poker. “You want to talk? That’s cool, I understand. Why don’t we talk about your car, probably a low end Audi because you can’t quite get the scratch together for a Lexus. What about your house, probably pretty sizeable and impressive; but whoa, that mortgage; I bet it hangs on your back, man? You probably can’t even breathe. Hell, you probably can’t even afford to change the tires on your Audi. I suppose we could talk about your divorce if you like. Tell me just what it is you want to talk about. I’m all ears, kid.”

Mr. Manicure looked both ways. I’m a reporter; I got a line on people. I can tell you at least two accurate things about any stranger you pick out of a crowd without breaking a sweat.

“I’m talking about your first wife, the sincere one, the one who put you through school before you met Mrs. High Maintenance.”

“I don’t need to take this from you,” Mr. Manicure pointed at me with one of his perfect nailed fingers. Others had stopped to watch the scene unfold, some on his side, some on mine.

“Then don’t. Because I’m just here for the chili, man.”

“Chili’s up, Block.” Morrie shouted from behind the counter. I turned away from Mr. Manicure and moved through the line with a series of excuse me’s and pardon me’s until I reached the counter. “Thanks, as usual, Morrie.”

“Any time.” Morrie shot me a smile. His eyes flicked away to Mr. Manicure and back at me. “You behave yourself out there, now.”

I gave him eight bucks for the chili even though it only cost five.

“DeeDee, you’ll have to pardon the interruption,” I said into my phone, “but I was just saying, I’m sure you’re a lovely lady and it would be a pleasure to sit down to tea with you, but I just--”

“You’ll read about it in the paper.”

“What will I read about in the paper?”

“My unexplained and untimely demise. It will be violent and gruesome, of that I’m certain.”

“And when will I be reading about this in the paper?” I asked.

“In precisely four days.”

“That’s pretty specific.”

“There are some things that one knows with absolute certainty. When you hang up, I will try to call others. I will try to find someone who can help me, but they won’t believe me. They are not you, Mr. Vang.”

I paused, took a deep breath, and massaged my right temple. “Okay, I’ll be there tonight, but call me Block, please. Everybody calls me Block”

“Come at sixish. I’ll have dinner waiting for you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Corelis.”

I hung up as I walked to a bus bench where I could sit to eat Morrie’s unearthly chili. I guessed I wouldn’t be going to the movie tonight after all. Ernie Sanidoro would probably stuff another pink slip right up my ass when I saw him next. I thanked the god of Hollywood that the film was a Micheal Bay action joint. I could easily get away with writing the review without seeing picture. I intended to visit Bridgewater. I would have to act now and ask for forgiveness later. Of course, forgiveness could only be obtained if I slammed a bangin’ story on Ernie’s desk on the quick.

What I didn’t know was that DeeDee Corelis had just sold me a ticket onto the ride of my life.