Choke (23 page)

Some of the papers were strange. There were recipes ripped from magazines, and newspaper clippings about people who didn’t have matching names on the files in the drawers behind her desk. Many were birth and death announcements. Some looked like copies of bills from Mallett Detective Agency, and some were receipts for office supplies. Those she knew what to do with. There were folders marked Income and Expense.

She had called home around eleven to tell her mother she was working today. Hortense hadn’t been able to hide her astonishment.

“You’re working? Where? At what?”

“In a PI’s office.” The moment of silence was satisfying. She could picture her mother’s eyes bugging out, her mouth falling open. “Yep, a PI’s office.”

“I did hear you the first time. I wasn’t questioning your statement. Maybe your sanity, Imogene. Are you sure about this?”

“Never surer, Mother.” She gave her the address and phone number and got back to work.

It was now twelve-thirty, and she was cross-eyed from staring at papers. Should she ask about lunch? Should she have brought a sandwich? The food situation was very different, not working in a restaurant, the only other place she had ever worked.

Mike opened his door and laid a handwritten sheet of paper on the desk. “How you comin’? Ready for a break?”

Immy straightened her back and realized it was a little achy. “Sure.”

“Quit doin’ that for a while and type up these invoices for me, will ya?”

Oh. He meant a break from filing, not a break. “Sure,” she said again with less enthusiasm. “Say, is there a lunch break?” She would never know if she didn’t ask, and she didn’t intend to skip lunch today. It would set a bad precedent.

“You wanna break, take one. If I’m ever gone and you wanna go out, just lock up. Oh, yeah, I better get you a key. Tell you what, you run out and bring us some eats. Looks like the rain stopped. I’ll give you my key, and you can get a copy made while you’re out. Deal?”

“Sure.” This one was heartfelt. Errands would be welcome after all this paper handling.

* * *

IMMY LOCKED UP AND LEFT AT THREE, having put in four good, solid hours of work. She counted the errand running as work time, but not the lunch eating. She figured she was hired about 10:30 and took a half hour for lunch. Mike had left right after they ate sandwiches together at the round table in his office, saying he probably wouldn’t be back today.

She had had a bad moment earlier when she began to wonder how to type up an invoice, but when she asked, Mike apologized for not showing her where the form was on the computer. It was easy to plug in the names and numbers from the sheet he’d scribbled them on, save them online, print them out, and mail them. Mike had taken the envelopes with him to drop at the post office when he left.

Unfortunately, her feet hurt so badly by quitting time, she had to walk barefoot the four blocks to her car. The space she had been in this morning, only two blocks away, had been taken when she returned from her lunch errands. The pavement was wet from the rain earlier, and her new pantyhose were ruined, but she was never going to wear those shoes again. Mike had said jeans and tees were OK in the office. She couldn’t help but think the suit had gotten her the job, though.

Since she lacked the footwear necessary to enter a book store, she would have to get a
Moron’s Compleat
computer book another day.

She sang to the radio on the way to get Drew. The rain started up again, but she had a job. She was almost a PI.

* * *

THAT EVENING RALPH CAME BY AFTER THEY'D EATEN. The family had reverted to eating in front of the television, since an old movie Hortense wanted to see was playing.

Immy opened the door and let him in.

“Hey, Immy, do you think…” he began.

Hortense cut him off with a withering look. “Do you think you could converse outside?”

“She can’t hear when we talk,” Immy whispered, pulling the door shut after their exit to the front porch. They sat on the wooden steps together. The stairs weren’t quite wide enough for them to sit side by side without touching, as much room as Ralph took up. Almost, but not quite. The steps were only a little damp from the earlier storm.

“Mother missed her television when she was in jail. She’s not being rude, just, well…” Mother was, of course, being rude.

The last streaks of a scarlet-hued sunset lingered in the west, throwing glints off the grass, still wet from the rain. The golden air carried the scent of honeysuckle from someone’s yard.

“I wanted to tell you, that tip you gave us?” Ralph said.

“Um, which tip?” Had she given one that was not anonymous?

“You told me to have the chief check up on Frankie’s Uncle Guido. Well, he did, and I brought him in today.”

Oh, yes, that tip. What a relief. She wouldn’t have to worry about Clem getting whacked now.

“Chief wants to bring Frankie in, too, but we can’t find him.”

“He’s left town, right?”

“Looks like it. He hasn’t been to his apartment since Saturday.”

“Well, it’s good Guido won’t get at Clem anyway. Does it look like he killed Huey?”

“Nope. Doesn’t look like he killed anyone here, in this country. He might have somewhere else, but Chief questioned him all afternoon before he let him go.”

“He let him go?” So much for not worrying about Clem. She stared at Ralph. “Now he can kill Clem.”

Ralph turned his head toward Immy. She thought he must have had onions for lunch. “I don’t think he would kill someone when he’s just been looked at by the police. That would be pretty stupid.”

“But criminals are stupid. Everyone says so.”

“Guido Giovanni doesn’t strike me as a stupid guy.”

“How does he strike you?”

“A lot smarter than that two-bit hood we do have locked up, Baxter Killroy. Oh, and I have some news you should hear about him, too.”

His tone told Immy this was not going to be good news. A cricket serenade filled the brief silence.

“He’s trying to make a deal to get out of the meth rap, and he’s dancing around making some kind of admission for an old crime we’ve had him in mind for. If he doesn’t admit it, we can’t get him, but I wanted you to know about it. It concerns you.”

The honeysuckle smelled stronger as the golden sunset glow faded and the darkness deepened. Immy waited for Ralph to gear up enough to tell her.

“Phil isn’t a strong enough witness to stand up in court, and he could be shooting off his trap. But Phil says Killroy was the inside guy for the robbery ten years ago.”

A chill running up Immy’s spine sat her straight up. “The robbery? The one where my father was killed?”

“We’re pretty sure Killroy didn’t have anything to do with the killing, we’ve always thought that. We’ve also always suspected Killroy was the one who let them in, the two that did the killing. But he won’t admit it, and we don’t have any evidence other than a shaky hearsay.”

Immy’s shoulders caved in, and her insides sank to her soles. She had let that, that accomplice to murder kiss her. And more. She had made deals with him to protect him. She had been had.

Grabbing the railing, she pulled herself up and stumbled down the stairs, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat.

“You OK, Immy? Immy?” Ralph stood at the foot of the stairs, looking nervous and uncertain as Immy circled the small yard, pacing, putting her fury into each stomping step.

She stopped and looked up at Ralph Sandoval, standing there in his tired-looking uniform, his belly hanging over his belt just a bit, his coal-black hair looking messy in the twilight. He looked worried about her. “Are you on your way home from work, Ralph?”

He nodded. She knew he lived alone in a small trailer three blocks away. His parents had moved into Wymee Falls after his father retired from managing the video rental store and his sister had married a rancher and lived out near Amarillo, but she didn’t know much more about him. He’d been two years ahead of her in school, so she figured he was two or three years older, but she didn’t know if he had a cat or a dog, what movies he liked, or even what foods. He didn’t have a quick wit, a sexy smile, or a tight rear like Baxter. But he was a solid gold person.

“Do you want to go to a movie Friday?” she asked. “I’m paying.”

“Let’s make it dinner and a movie.” It looked like Ralph’s face was turning a little pinkish, but it was hard to tell in the twilight.

She told Ralph about her job, and he seemed truly happy for her. She was glad someone approved of her career. They set a time for Friday, and Ralph left after saying goodbye and standing next to her awkwardly for about ten seconds before taking off.

Immy hoped the next time she saw Baxter Killroy he was dead.

Thursday after work, Immy picked up Drew, came home, and announced she wanted to take the family out.

Hortense muted the television and looked up. “Out? To eat?”

“Yes, to eat, Mother. Where would you like to go? You pick. I’ll be getting a paycheck soon.” Tomorrow, Immy was sure, since that would be Friday. People were supposed to get paid on Fridays. Not that Huey had ever paid on Fridays. In fact, he usually had to be reminded multiple times, but that was just Huey.

“Let me look.” Hortense picked up the newspaper scattered on the floor next to her recliner. “I believe I spied a coupon for The Tomato Garden.”

“You want to go there? That’s the outfit that wanted to buy Huey’s restaurant. Frankie Laramie’s Uncle Guido owns the franchise.”

“Yes, I’d like to inspect the establishment, never having dined on the premises. If they do still desire to purchase our family business, maybe we should delve further into the matter.”

“Well, if you’re sure.” Immy didn’t say that she knew it would be up to her, not up to her mother, if the restaurant were sold. But maybe she should consider selling to Guido, if he didn’t turn out to be a murderer. Well, he probably was a murderer in the past when he was a hit man, but if he had killed Uncle Huey or if he eventually tried to kill Clem, she would definitely not sell to him. Could you even sell a restaurant to a person in prison? Immy had no idea. She didn’t especially want to own it, though.

Hortense pushed her feet into her shoes and struggled to her feet.

“You want to go right now?” said Immy. “It’s kind of early for supper.”

“‘Mato Garden, ‘Mato Garden,” sang Drew, jumping up and down. Her singsong vaguely resembled the jingle on the television ads. “Your fambly meets ‘n’ eats ‘n’ eats at ‘Mato Garden, ‘Mato Garden.”

“It might be advantageous to arrive early, when they have fewer customers,” said Hortense.

“OK. Wash hands, Drew, and we’ll vamoose,” said Immy, scrubbing her own at the kitchen sink.

The woman who greeted them at the door looked like a female version of Uncle Guido, small and dark. She even had a trace of his pencil mustache. Immy squinted to take a gander at the place in the dim lighting. Small candles tried to illuminate the round tables of laminated wood, all set with utensils wrapped in red and green cloth napkins. Overhead, tomato vines twined around dark wooden beams where dusty looking tomatoes drooped from their plastic stalks.

The part Immy liked was the tinkly, Italian-sounding music drifting from the speakers next to the ceiling.

“Three?” the mustachioed woman asked.

Hortense nodded, and they followed the woman to a table in the back, next to the kitchen door. Clatter from behind the door drowned out the soft accordions. Hortense gave the woman a pained expression. “Please. Your dining establishment is virtually without patrons in any quantity. Could we have a more felicitously placed table than this?”

The woman sighed and with great effort escorted them to a window-side table in a front corner, then threw their menus onto the table.

“Much better.” Hortense beamed, but the woman, after telling them curtly that someone would be with them and mumbling something else in Italian, turned away. When they were all seated, Hortense leaned toward Immy and whispered, none too softly, “I guess the quality of wait staff that is available in Wymee Falls is not of the highest quality. Nor, it would seem, even mediocre.”

The young man who waited on them—Antonio, his name tag said—was much nicer, maybe even high quality, thought Immy. He cheerfully got Drew a booster seat, some crayons, and a paper mat, and took their orders, serving them quickly.

Immy ordered Fettuccine Alfredo and split it with Drew, and Hortense was in heaven with a pile of lasagna that would have satisfied Garfield. The salads were adequate and the bread sticks nice and crispy, the way Immy liked them.

After announcing, “This yummy, Mommy,” Drew went to work on the fettuccine with gusto.

A few customers arrived while they ate, but business was not booming. As the hour drew nearer to an actual mealtime, though, the tables started to fill up.

The three were poring over the dessert list when Immy spied a familiar figure coming from the back. Frankie! She was glad they weren’t at the table next to the kitchen, or he would have seen them for sure. Could she remain
incognito
and tail him, report him to Ralph or Chief Emersen? How, when her mother and daughter were with her? But she had to alert the authorities.

Frankie hadn’t twigged to them. He hurried through the room and pushed out the front door.

“Wait here,” said Immy. “I’ll be right back.”

She dashed outside and caught sight of Frankie getting into his little sports car. His glass mufflers roared to life as he took off down the street. Immy flipped her cell phone open and dialed the Saltlick police department, afraid her call would go to a Wymee Falls station if she dialed 9-1-1.

Ralph answered. Immy smiled, glad it wasn’t Tabitha.

“I just saw Frank Laramie. He’s in Wymee Falls and he’s in his own car. He drove north, away from his uncle’s Tomato Garden restaurant. Turned right onto Holder Avenue.”

“Good work, Immy,” Ralph said, and Immy could tell he was grinning. He hung up, and Immy stayed outside for a while, waiting to hear the sirens and screeching brakes of cop cars chasing Frankie. She never heard them, but maybe he was being apprehended stealthily.