Читать книгу The Evil That Men Do - Dave White - Страница 18
ОглавлениеI should be with my sister.
Sitting in Parkway traffic, Donne pulled out his cell phone and called his job instead. He was supposed to be clocking in in an hour. There was no way he’d get there in time. And deep in his bones, he knew he wouldn’t be back there at all.
His boss, Rick Manning, picked up. “I quit,” Donne said.
“What? What are you talking about? You’re supposed to be here.”
“I quit,” Donne said again. He thought about the check from Franklin Carter.
“You can’t quit.”
“I’m not coming in tonight. I have to take care of things. I won’t be in again.”
“Why not? What happened?”
Rick’s neck muscles were probably taut with anger. Donne didn’t hear what he said next. He hung up the phone.
I should be with my sister.
***
Two hours later, Donne was six beers deep at the Olde Towne Tavern. As Artie filled his pint glass with a seventh Bud, Donne’s mind spun through the list of dead that had surrounded his life. Their faces were blurry, as if they were faded into the distance and only the alcohol kept them around. He took the glass from Artie.
Donne didn’t want them to leave, either.
Artie watched him take a slug from the pint glass. Before Donne could put the glass to his lips again, Artie said, “All right, what’s the problem?”
“I quit my job,” Donne said. Artie nodded.
“My mother has Alzheimer’s. She’s dying.” He took a sip of beer. Artie said nothing. “My brother-in-law’s restaurant blew up.” Another sip. Still nothing.
“My aunt and uncle were murdered and the cop at the scene thinks I did it.”
Artie turned around and started to walk away from him. Donne finished off his beer and said, “Where are you going?”
He stopped at the taps, took two more pint glasses and filled them. Then he found the bottle of Jack and two shot glasses.
“We’re both going to have to drink.”
He put the glasses down and started pouring the Jack Daniel’s. He tried to keep his face straight, but when he made eye contact with Donne, he broke into a huge grin and started laughing.
“Man,” Artie said. “When the shit hits the fan for you, it really hits the fan.”
After today, his neck tense, the buzz of the alcohol swirling through him, he couldn’t help himself. Donne laughed too.
They did a shot, and toasted Donne’s aunt and uncle. “So, what happens tomorrow?” he asked.
“I get back to work.”
“Thought you said you quit.”
Donne took a deep pull from the pint glass, draining half of it. The beer went down smooth. He was flying high. After the next beer, he wouldn’t feel anything until tomorrow morning.
“I have a new job,” he said. “I’m going to find out what the hell is going on.”
***
Franklin Carter needed to call his wife. He’d spent all day in the city, and his cell had been ringing nonstop. But he didn’t have time now. Special Agent Sam Draxton sat across the table from him. They were in the local Starbucks. Draxton was on his third cup. Carter bit into a black and white cookie.
“So,” Draxton said. “You gonna tell me what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
Draxton took a sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving Carter. “You and I both know this isn’t terrorism.”
The cookie suddenly tasted stale. He placed it on the napkin. “It isn’t?”
“No. Terrorists want casualties. They’re not going to blow up a restaurant at three in the morning. So, what’s going on here?”
“Why would I know?”
The coffee shop was empty. No one wanted to be in the area. Franklin Carter had never seen the streets this empty. The silence in the neighborhood was eerie.
Draxton’s cell phone rang. He answered and quickly said, “Yeah, you can tell ’em. And get the tunnels and bridges open.”
He closed the phone and said, “We know things we can’t let on. We know this isn’t Al Qaeda or any of those organizations. They would have taken credit. So now we have to interview suspects.”
“Are you saying I’m a suspect?”
Draxton spread his hands. “I’m saying you probably know something.”
“I don’t.”
Now the agent nodded. “I’m sure you don’t. Let me ask you something. Are there people out there who dislike you?”
“I’m sure there are people who aren’t happy with me. I’m sure someone didn’t like a dish that was served there. Customers are unhappy all the time.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
“What would you like me to say? I haven’t a clue what’s going on. I’m fucking tired and I want to go home to see my wife.”
“Have you been in competition with any other restaurants?”
“There’s always competition.”
“Friendly?”
“Yes. When we opened, the Chicken Roost owners came down to eat at our restaurant. Brought a bottle of wine, spent a fortune, tipped our waitress great. But then they asked us to come eat there. I never went. We’ve been rivals ever since. But nothing like this would come of it.”
Carter shifted in his seat. The damned Starbucks stools were the least comfortable chairs he’d ever sat in. They should have gone for the couches. But Carter was pretty sure Draxton wanted them to sit in these seats for some reason.
“When can I go home?” Carter asked.
“We’ll get someone to drive you home now,” Draxton said. “Just one more question.”
“What’s that?”
“Do we have any reason to be worried about your Montclair restaurant?”
Carter shifted again. What should he tell them? There was every reason to be worried about it. But if he said yes, the feds would want to know why he was worried. And he couldn’t tell them that.
He took a deep breath.
“No,” he said. “There is absolutely no reason to be concerned. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to let my wife know I’ll be home soon.”
