Читать книгу Mama Law and the Moonbeam Racer - Fred Yorg - Страница 12

CHAPTER FIVE

I threw down a twenty and left Hope at the table to wait for the check. After giving her one last goodbye kiss, I hustled out of the bar, Miles already had the car running and was waiting for me at the curb.

Knowing the serial killer’s pattern was to strike between 10 p.m. to 3 a.m., Miles was eager to get into position for the stakeout, “Let’s get a move on, it’s getting close to nine.”

“Sure thing Miles, just wait till Hope gets out.”

“You could have walked her to the car. We’re not in that big a hurry.”

“And keep you waiting?”

“Never stopped you before. What’s the real reason?”

“I don’t want to spoil her.”

“You better, she’s the best thing that’s happened to you in a long time.”

“Yeah, I know. There she goes now, let’s hit it.”

“You know, Mooney, you and her make a good looking couple.”

“What’s the punch line?”

“No seriously. Abbe always said you were a good-looking man. She says you remind her of that actor, George Clooney.”

“It’s hard for me to take that as a compliment.”

“Why is that?”

“Abbe’s tastes in men are in question. She married you, didn’t she?”

“Fuck you. I pay you a compliment and you take a cheap shot.”

Miles hit the accelerator and pulled our unmarked around the corner, then down Tatum Street and then over to the intersection of Wilcox and E 31st Street.

“Any preference?” Miles asked.

“Over there. About ten feet behind that dumpster. The shadows will give us a little cover.”

“Good thinking, Mooney.”

“Remember that so you can tell Hope the next time you see her.”

“Mooney, you’re not pissed off that I talked about you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m just busting. How’d you like her?”

“What’s not to like? She’s beautiful, smart, likes a good joke, easy to talk to. I’d say you got a keeper. What about you? Are you getting serious?”

“Thinking about it. Miles, check that guy out across the street. What’s he up to?”

“Just a drunk with half a bag on.”

“Keep an eye him, till he turns the corner.”

Stakeouts were pretty much the same: sit in a cold car and wait. I always hated them, made me feel useless. Miles on the other hand seemed to genuinely enjoy them, he’d usually chat away by the hour.

Normally, I didn’t mind the conversation, but tonight was different. I felt uneasy, apprehensive. Maybe, I was just tired. They say people are more paranoid when fatigued.

“Miles, I’m feeling a little tired. I’m going to rest my eyes for a minute, take a quick cat nap.”

“Go ahead. I’ll wake you if I see anything.”

Laying my head against the cold window, I quickly drifted off and magically drifted back in time to my youth spent on the old cane plantation in Bayou Cane. The dream started out innocently enough. I was seven years old riding my new horse Buck down the old dirt road that separated the cane fields. Buck and I were headed to the stream on the back of the property by the old refinery. Big Aldos, our handyman and my best friend as a child, was fishing there. He’d brake off a piece of his cornbread and give me a taste of his home brewed dandelion wine to wash it down. Then the reins slipped from my grasp and Buck was out of control, galloping through the cane fields towards the soft lands over past the levee. I threw my arms around his neck and tried to pull back, but he wouldn’t stop…

“Mooney, Mooney!”

A familiar voice was bringing me back from the abyss, “WHAT, what is it?”

“It’s you, you were thrashing about over there like you were having a fit.”

It took me a minute to catch my breath and compose myself before answering. “Just a nightmare.”

“The same one you always have where you’re out of control on…?”

“Yeah, the same one.”

“You know, seriously, you should see a shrink about that. Recurring dreams are…”

“Go fuck yourself. Where did you read that bull shit in some psyche book or a fortune cookie?”

“A fortune cookie.”

“Thought so. Seriously don’t try to candle my head tonight. I’m not in the mood.”

“Fine, no problem. I just thought I’d try to help you with your demons.”

“Actually, there is one thing you can help me with that’s been bothering me.”

“What?”

“I’m just curious, what the hell was Tony talking about back at the station house about ‘the chief turning his picture to the wall’?”

“It’s an old Irish expression, it means being out of favor.”

“Hmm, I’ve never heard that one before. You think Tony’s still pissed off?”

“Mooney, you’ve got everybody pissed off, including me. That make you happy?” he asked as he shook his head and avoided my gaze by looking out the window.