Soft Case (Book 1 of the John Keegan Mystery Series) Page 14

my mind has several tracks. They all do lead to the same destination, however.”

  This produced a chuckle.

  “Piece of work, you are.”

  “So I have been told,” I said. I have. Many times.

  “How many of your partners have you sent to the department psychiatrist?”

  “You partnered with me a few times. Haven’t seen you in his office.”

  “Doesn’t mean I didn’t go.”

  I was hungry. Being that the Mullins’ lived only a few blocks away from All American Burger, I figured it was a perfect late afternoon destination. Not the ideal place for a guy like Rick to eat, but I was sure he had a protein bar on him somewhere.

  I pulled into the parking lot, which for 3pm was pretty busy. “What are you doing?” Rick asked.

  “Eating, what does it look like?”

  “Here?”

  “Yes.” I turned off the engine. “What do you want? They have hot dogs, and the best double cheeseburgers you’ll ever eat in your life.”

  “They have anything that won’t clog your arteries? You know, something that doesn’t have more fat than an entire cow?”

  “I believe the old-fashioned cardboard containers are low in fat, and high in fiber. On top of that, I think they finally succumbed to the pressures of the 20th Century, and got diet soda.” Rick made a face.

  “You don’t want anything?” I asked.

  “Do I have to get a double?”

  There was hope. “No, they have singles, too.”

  “Get me one. Without cheese.”

  What a tightass. But he was learning. I walked inside the building, which looked a lot like a Carvel, if you are familiar with that structure. If not, picture a building about half the size of a McDonald’s. The counter and the kitchen were the same size, but eliminate the seating area. All of it. There were tables and chairs outside. As soon as I entered the place, my nose was bombarded by one of the best smells known to man, grilled onions. All good burger joints did something special with the onions. All American was no exception. Their onions were comparable to White Castle’s in flavor, but they were not diced, which adds more flavor. You certainly didn’t order All American before a big date, but I mentally checked my calendar and saw that I was free for the indefinite future, plenty of time to clean the smell from my breath.

  A middle-aged man wearing a stained apron stood behind the counter. Despite the cars in the lot, I was the only one in the place.

  “What do ya need?” he asked. He looked like a burger cooker. He had meaty arms, and thick gray hair, and eyes that looked like they could cook the burgers themselves.

  “Let me get two doubles, fries, and a single with no cheese.”

  He raised his eyebrows to that one. “Drinks?”

  “Large Diet Coke, and a ...” I didn’t know what to order nature boy. Water or diet soda? I remembered something I had read on the Internet about how NutraSweet might be bad for you, and figured I’d play it safe. “And a water, please.”

  Another raise of the eyebrows. Rick had a way of making you stand out. The term “high maintenance,” made popular by the movie When Harry Met Sally, intended to be applied to woman, certainly applied to Rick. He most definitely ordered a salad with dressing on the side. I wondered if he fantasized about putting on pumps and wearing mini-skirts. I decided, right there, that I didn’t want to know.

  The man behind the counter, whose name was Joe (I noticed that he had a name tag when he turned back around) placed my food on the counter.

  “$6.25,” he said. That was the thing about All American. It was cheap. So, you had to consider risking the big date. Hell, you had to consider taking the big date with you. Talk about saving cash. Remember, I didn’t date too often.

  I handed him a twenty, and he gave me the change.

  “Thank you, Joe,” I said.

  “Take care.”

  I brought the bag into the car. Man it smelled good.

  “That stuff smells,” Rick said.

  “That means it’s good for you,” I said.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Just eat it, and stop bitching. Please.”

  I doled out the food, and we ate it the way fast food should be eaten, in your car. Sure, it leaves a foul stench that gets worse over the course of a few days, but that was just part of the experience.

  Rick took a careful first bite, like he was eating something for the first time. This was, of course, impossible. No one of God’s earth, or at least no one in the US part of God’s earth, made it into their 30's without having a burger. Unless they had whacko, hippie, plant eating parents. Eureka. I discovered Rick’s problem. Well, maybe I did.

  “Any good?” I asked.

  “Not bad. I’ve had better, but it’s been a long time.”

  There went that theory. Boom.

  “Don’t eat meat?”

  “Red meat. I eat it sometimes, but not more than twice a month.”

  “You keep track of those things?” I asked.

  “Yes. You should always monitor what is going into your body. You are what you eat.”

  Which made me a cow wrapped in a flour tortilla. Could be worse. And Rick was a chicken-flavored protein bar, with Brussels sprouts on the side. Or something like that.

  “I’m not so concerned about such things,” I said.

  “You? I would have never known.”

  Wiseass.

  “You spend all of that time worrying about what you eat, checking your shit for fiber, and you get hit by a bus at the age of 35. What difference does it make?” I asked.

  “That’s possible, but look at it this way. I make it to 75, and have a colon that still works, while other people are sucking down Metamucil like it’s going out of style, and have to worry about colon cancer and colostomy bags. It might be a good idea to plan for the remote possibility you’ll make it past fifty.”

  Bastard had a point, but I wasn’t going to let that ruin my enjoyment of one of life’s simple pleasures. Unfortunately, he already had, a little.

  “I don’t count on such slim possibilities.”

  “Well, you should.”

  “Right now, I am going to enjoy this burger. I suggest you do the same. If I am not mistaken, one of the worst things for your health is worry, so I would like to remove that killer from myself right now.”

  “Do what you want. I was just trying to help,” Rick said.

  “You failed.”

  “You know I am right.”

  “I said shut up.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  I knew he tried to be helpful, but he was also trying to be a bit of a pain in the ass. It was in his nature. He was a nag. Man, the more I thought about him, the bigger the list of bad qualities he had.

  After a few moments, he asked, “What did you get me to drink?”

  I reached into the bag and pulled out what looked like an 8-ounce cup. “Water, I played it safe.”

  “I do drink soda, on occasion.”

  “Then, on this occasion, you can get up and get it yourself. I had your health in mind,” I said.

  He looked at the cup, a frown on his face. “I can’t eat a burger without a soda. The two go hand in hand.”

  “Then don’t eat the burger. Give it to the starving seagulls out there. I’m sure they wouldn’t need a soda to wash it down.”

  Rick sighed. “I’ll just drink the water.”

  Damn right you will, I thought. I had myself set up. Napkin on the lap, container opened in the right position to catch any falling residue. I wasn’t going to upset that by getting out of the car to get the pain in the ass a soda. No freakin’ way. If he wanted a soda, he should have asked for one. It wasn’t like predicting what the hell he would eat or drink was an easy process. Again, I felt bad for his wife. Very bad

  Seven

  The rest of the day consisted of making out the report of what we had so far, which turned out to be a lot of nothing, and making a few calls to the guys who were looking over th
e car, and the Medical Examiner, Coltrain, who had absolutely nothing new to tell us. Mullins was in perfect health when he died. Exactly what I expected.

  Rick drove me home, and I ordered a pizza, which gave me the urge I needed to throw out the other box. I ate my healthy meal, one Rick would have been so proud of, and flipped on the television for a moment. It didn’t take me long to get bored. With nothing else to do, I flipped on my Playstation, and fired up a boxing game. I know, people are surprised to hear that cops do the same things that civilians do in their free time. It’s like seeing your teacher at the supermarket when you are in the sixth grade. People like that aren’t supposed to lead normal lives, mainly because you don’t see them as anything else but teachers, or cops. Well, we do a lot of things that normal people do.

  Firing up the boxing game proved to be a bad idea. The problem is, it is a time killer. You start off ranked at like 20. The game I had all real boxers, old and new, and you scan the list to see who is above you. I had Rocky Marciano and Ken Norton to beat to crack the top five. No problem. Actually, big problem. Sure, I could beat them. But, I started the game at 10, and by the time I was ranked eleventh, it was 12:30. My fighter’s stats were increasing, mainly in punching power, because that’s all I put my bonus points on. By 2AM, I had Marciano on the ropes, and headed toward the fifth position. Norton went the distance with me, the bastard, and so did Riddick Bowe, who was insanely ranked at number four. By the time I took a beating from the number three guy, Evander Holyfield, it was 3:30. I never liked Holyfield. I wanted to bite his ear off, but there was no button for that.

  I reached the number one position at 4:40, and my thumb felt like it had a marble at the end of it. It was too