Читать книгу Not Even Past - Dave White - Страница 19

BILL MARTIN just bought me a coffee.

It was burnt and overly sweetened, but it was bought by Martin and given to Donne without asking. Donne expected tectonic plates to shift beneath his feet and the entire block to get swallowed up into the earth. Martin downed his coffee in one long gulp, as if the heat didn’t exist.

He drank it so fast, Donne almost didn’t notice the tremor in his hand, the way the cup swayed just a hair just before the lip hit his mouth.

Martin tossed the cup into the trash next to the counter and pulled out his badge. The cashier leaned in to take a better look, but it disappeared into Martin’s jacket.

“I need to take a look around,” Martin said the words like it was a fait accompli.

“I haven’t been robbed. That was two blocks over.” The clerk, a short, round man with a thick Spanish accent laughed. “Cops don’t know nothing.”

Martin exhaled what must have been the sarin gas equivalent of burnt coffee right into the cashier’s face. He recoiled.

“Not about a robbery.”

The cashier wiped his mouth. “You want to buy something?”

“How about health inspection?”

Donne picked up a package of Tastykake coffee cakes and looked at the expiration date. A year old.

“My stuff is fresh!” the cashier shouted. “I run a good business.”

“Then we’ll be out of your way in ten minutes,” Martin said. He nodded at Donne, and they walked around to the back of the store.

Martin made a show of looking at the coolers. He opened one and pulled out a bottle of Gatorade. He twisted off the cap, smelled it, and gagged. The old routine started to come back to Donne. How many times had they done this when looking for drug runners hiding out in the back?

“You have to pay for that!” the cashier yelled.

Martin took a gulp, then spat it onto the floor. Donne turned away from him. This time they weren’t claiming drugs as evidence and snorting or selling half the coke themselves after their shift was over.

“I’m not going to pay for my own poison,” Martin said. Donne could have said the words, right down to the cadence, along with him.

“Fuck you!” the cashier spat.

“You’re not my type.” It was as if Abbott and Costello were doing “Who’s on First?” at a funeral.

Martin tilted his head toward the door that lead to the backroom. Donne’s gut lurched. He wasn’t armed, and he had no idea what was back there. Martin dropped his hand to his waist. His fingers grazed the gun at his hip.

Donne went first. Martin always told him the point man never got shot at in Vietnam. No, the Viet Cong were smart. They didn’t shoot at the first guy that came through; they waited for the rest of the platoon.

Donne was pretty sure Martin never served.

Pushing the door open, he stepped over the threshold. No one shot at him. The only sound was the whir of the engine running the central air-conditioner. To his right were metal shelves, filled with old boxes, waiting to be tossed in the bailer. To his left were pallets filled with potato chips and K-cup coffee packs. And a desk with a computer on it.

Martin noticed the desk first and went to it. Now the tremor showed in both hands. Donne couldn’t remember if Martin had always displayed this tic.

Moving the mouse, Martin clicked through several different screens. Each window got a few seconds of his time before he moved to another one. Occasionally, he’d mumble something that Donne couldn’t decipher. His tone of voice, however, was sharp and cutting.

“Do you want help?” Donne folded his arms. He hid his fists behind his elbows.

“No.”

Donne looked at the small backroom again for something that stood out. Nope, the bailer, the rotten food, and disorganization were the room’s best features.

“You sure? It seems like you’re having trouble.”

Martin clicked a few more times.

“Forget it,” he said. He pushed the mouse hard and it fell off the desk, suspended in air by its wire.

Donne didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped in between the desk and Martin and picked up the mouse. Pressed it down on the mouse pad and started scrolling. Martin had opened Internet Explorer and was stuck on the Yahoo! homepage.

Donne closed that and looked at the programs on the desktop. Nothing out the ordinary. Microsoft Word, an Excel spreadsheet with inventory numbers on it, web browsers, and Skype. He was stunned this place kept an inventory. Donne clicked on Start, then froze.

Skype.

“We’re looking for an iPad,” Martin said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“That’s a computer,” Martin said.

“Have some more coffee.” Donne squinted and willed his eyes to stay focused. “Don’t you hate computers?”

“That’s why I didn’t realize it wasn’t an iPad at first.”

Donne clicked on the Skype icon. The hourglass appeared on screen for a moment, then then the Skype window appeared. The username and password were saved to the computer, so Donne didn’t have to login.

He counted to ten while waiting for the contacts to load up.

The usual screen full of usernames showed up. Most didn’t have avatars, and were just images of phone handsets. Donne scanned usernames and didn’t recognize any. He scrolled the down the screen and pictures started to show up.

That’s why his gut pitched and for an instant, Donne thought he was going to throw up. One of the icons, one with an avatar was very familiar to him. He recognized it.

It was someone he hadn’t seen in years.

It was Jeanne’s father.