Fry Me a Liver (17 page)

“Charming,” Bean replied.

“It kind of is,” I explained.

“Then you believe there's been little progress.”

“I believe there is little to go on, thus impeding progress,” I told her. I didn't want her to think I was running her efforts down. Or bird pooping on them.

“I don't agree,” she replied. “Often, the elimination of major suspects and motives is more progress than following a tiny thread. That is the phase we are in now. What's left when that process is completed will give us a much more manageable situation. I guess you could say we're clearing away the bupkes one pigeon at a time.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to impugn what you are doing.”

“I know what you meant,” Bean replied. “And frankly, we're frustrated too. We're either dealing with an amateur or a professional who made the crime scene look like the work of an amateur.”

“That sounds sinister.”

“If it's true, yes.”

We chatted a little more in generalities, about how background checks on the “new people” in the hole—Benjamin and Grace—hadn't brought up anything similar, and we parted no more or less friendly than when we started. For me, that was something of a novelty.

The procedural aspect of the case aside, going from big to small was her way of saying that the trail was not so much cold as the evidence really, really thin. What
that
told me was there were no uniquely specialized ingredients in the bomb. Otherwise, they'd have a direction in which to move.

And at least the lady took my call. She didn't have to do that. Grant used to, of course, but then he was a detective with benefits and I was a stationary target at times. Bean truly seemed to want to be of assistance. Maybe it was girl-bonding or professionalism or both. Whatever the reason, I was grateful for it.

What all of this information did to me, of course, was the antithesis of everything that good lady stood for. It made me want to chuck all the due process, ignore technicalities like search warrants, chuck all the other legal
shmontses,
and get some answers. I knew myself well enough to understand that the answer Alan Zebeck had asked for would not come until this thing had been settled.

And so I took a nap, resolved to get some answers whenever my brain poked me awake.

I was awakened by the classic bing-bong of the doorbell.

I had been in a happy dream place, with ducks on a pond—something I had experienced once in my life, when I was six or seven years old and my parents went to visit a friend in Norwalk, Connecticut. I remember the fearlessness of those real-life ducks while I threw them Oysterette crackers. My father kept saying “Oy” with each throw. I didn't get the joke then, and it wasn't in my dream. The ducks in my head were all stuck in the pond and quacking their displeasure. I tried to calm them and couldn't, couldn't find the Oysterettes, started to get agitated myself.

And then the doorbell.

It was three-fifteen on the DVR clock across from the sofa. I hoped it wasn't Captain Health, all repentant and apologetic.

“Coming!” I said as I threw off the throw I'd pulled over me. I stumbled to the door, stuck in that clinging nap-sleep. I widened my eyes to wake myself, ran my fingers through my hair, and pulled the door open.

Two of my little duckies stood there on the front stoop. I switched on the front light and Luke and Dani looked up at me with what I would best describe as ashamed little smiles. To continue my animal metaphor, they were like cats who seemed pleased to have eaten the goldfish even though they knew they shouldn't have.

“Hey,” they both said, using the word that had mysteriously supplanted the traditional “Hi” in everyone's lexicon.

“Shalom,” I replied, still a little groggy. “Come in.”

They looked at me a little mystified, then at each other, and then they giggled. I stepped back to admit them. Even as they walked in, Luke was pulling something from the back pocket of his jeans. I experienced a jolt as I realized it could be some kind of legal letter. Grinning, he handed it to me. I opened it as I knocked the door shut with my knee.

It wasn't from an attorney. It was from the city.

It was a marriage license. I smiled as I took it in, grinned as I saw their names on it, felt a little guilty when I thought that with nothing else to do they'd decided to get married, then looked up at them. They were standing like punk figures on a cake, thin and innocent despite the tattoos and piercings, Dani's little fingers wrapped in Luke's larger ones, the picture of young love drawn by an artist for Adult Swim.

“I am so happy for you both.” I beamed. And I was.

Dani tittered. “Being, like, so near death made us realize how we wanted to die together, whenever that might be.”

I resisted saying, “
And getting married
will
guarantee your death . . .”
Instead, I said, “Well . . . that's a big and very adult step.”

“True.” Luke nodded. “But, like, we're already living together so stuff won't cost any more.”

“I think there's a saying, right?” Dani asked.

“Two can live as cheaply as one,” I offered.

“That's it!”

Luke went on, “Plus the lawyer said we'll have some money from the accident so that will help us as we figure out what to do.”

My spine went icy and stiff. “The lawyer?”

“That man,” Dani said.

“The one who has been to the deli,” Luke added.

“Dickson?” I asked.

“Yes, Dickson Three, like A.J. Two,” Dani giggled.

Andrew A. Dickson III
, I thought. So, there will be a claim.

The two kids standing in front of me were giddy from what they had done today, not what they were telling me. I'm not sure they even really understood. But they weren't
shmeckle;
they needed to know.

“You do realize that he's talking about suing me,” I said.

They stopped laughing slowly, like my dream ducks paddling from shore and being swallowed by mist.

“What are you talking about?” Luke asked.

“Yah . . . he said there was a class of some kind,” Dani said. “We'd take it with an insurance company.”

“A class action suit,” I said. “He represents a bunch of you, he sues me and the deli in court, and the insurance company has to pay all of you if the judge or jury thinks I was somehow negligent.”

“Whoa, wait,” Luke said. “What are you talking about? Who said anything about suing you?”

“Luke, what the hell did you think the attorney was planning?”

“Just what Dani said,” he replied with a puzzled expression. He looked at her and she nodded up in perplexed agreement.

“I think you'd better have him explain this slowly and carefully before you agree to anything,” I said. “Did you sign anything?”

“Just some papers saying it was okay with us for him to, like, do his lawyer thing,” Luke told me.

“Who else?” I asked. “Besides you two, who else signed with him?”

“Raylene, A.J. Two, and Newt,” he said.

“I think Thom said no,” Dani remarked. It was as if Dani were one of those ducks, peering through the mist, trying to make out the opposite shore. “He said something about her—what was the word he used? Option?”

“Opting?” I asked. “Opting out?”

Dani snapped her painted fingertips and pointed. “That's it.”

“Gwen, I'm not really liking this vibe,” Luke said. “Are you saying that we did something wrong?”

“Wrong?” I asked. “Legally, no. You're within your rights to sue me and the deli. Morally? You guys know I had nothing to do with what happened and couldn't have prevented it. Claims like this are opportunistic and attorneys like Dickson are known as ambulance chasers.” I saw Dani trying to keep up. “It means they see an accident and rush over, get the victim to sign papers like you signed. When the insurance company pays up—and most times they do—the attorney keeps a third or more of the money.”

“Nice racket,” Luke said.

“That's exactly what it is,” I said. “A legal racket.”

“But the money doesn't come from you,” Dani said, clearly wanting to clarify. “It comes from a company.”

“At first it does,” I said. “See, I pay a yearly premium to my insurance company to cover me from accidents or situations like this. When they have to pay out any big settlement, the yearly premiums of
all
of their clients go up. That way, the insurance company still makes a profit.”

“Huh,” Luke said. “Like I heard you say when coffee bean prices went up. You had a big new weekly expense so, like, you raised the price on everybody's cup a little bit to cover your cost.”

“Exactly,” I said, impressed that he made the connection.

“But you're also saying it won't cost you very much and that everyone in the class can get a lot of money,” Dani said.

“Actually, my premium will go up considerably because insurance also has to pay to rebuild . . . if I rebuild,” I added.

“Hmmm,” Luke said.

It wasn't that Luke and Dani were stupid. They were not. They were, like so many of their generation, simply focused on the minutiae of whatever they needed to know—like music or jewelry or how their latest tech gadget worked—and let the Internet tell them everything else.

“So does this make us, like, enemies?” Dani asked.

I took a long, long moment to think before answering. I didn't want to encourage Dani or Luke into thinking that this kind of opportunistic shakedown was okay. But I also didn't want to have them run back to Dickson and say that I threatened or antagonized them. All I needed was for him to get in front of a judge and say that I tried to cow or coerce my employees. That could also open the door to labor issues, a door I had no doubt that
shmendrick
would love to kick open.

“You work for me but we have become friends,” I said, “and we must always remain friends. That is more important than any other consideration. At least, it is to me.”

The two young people looked down, at each other, down again, made faces that suggested they were processing what I had said. All the while they held hands. I realized I was still holding the marriage license. I looked back at it.

“This is major,” I said with a chuckle. “I'm so happy for you both. Are you going to have a wedding? You know, a gown and bridesmaids, thrown rice, all of that?”

“We want to have it at one of the clubs where Luke plays,” Dani said, her mind still clearly struggling with the previous subject. “Nothing fancy. Just a bunch of friends, a little bit of family, and a lot of fun.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said.

“Yeah,” Luke replied.

“Hey, I hope your band doesn't expect to get paid,” Dani said, playing with the zipper on his hoodie. “Like, they're guests but they still have to play so you can serenade us and stuff.”

“Yeah,” Luke agreed. “I'll talk to them.”

Then they fell awkwardly silent. I let it stay like that for a bit, then asked, “What's up?”

Luke's mouth moved around a little, testing it like the Tin Man after he'd been oiled. He didn't speak.

“We, uh—we, like, are planning to pay for stuff with the money Dickson said he's going to get us,” Dani said. “Except for the band, who better play for free.”

“We can't afford stuff otherwise,” Luke said.

“Like clothes to get married in,” Dani added. “And food.”

The silence returned, thicker and more uncomfortable than before. I think if they could have clicked their heels to vanish—to continue the allusion—they would have done so. What was sad was that I would have offered to pay for the wedding as my gift to them, but Dickson would have turned that into coercion.

I handed Luke the license. “Listen,” I said, “I am really happy for you both, and I don't want a good day to go bad for you. Go wherever you were going, have a great little celebration, and don't worry about anything.”

“But we have to,” Luke said. “We don't want to hurt you.”

“You won't,” I assured them. I didn't know if they could tell I was lying. Luke and I had worked together every day since I arrived in Nashville. Often, our nonverbal signals were more useful than what we said. From the way he was looking at me, his head slightly bowed but his eyes on me, he might be doing that now.

Dani hugged me and thanked me and Luke smiled thinly as he turned to leave. Something got through to them, though I don't know exactly what that was. It truly had not been my intention to manipulate them in any way. Did I want Andrew Dickson III to go away, or worse? Yes. Did I want to cause Luke and Dani concern? No. Especially not on a day that was so important to them.

They both gave me little waist-high waves as they left. I shut the door and exhaled. That was tougher than I thought; the punch from being told that Dickson was, in fact, coming after me was hard and ugly. I was glad to feel anger at him, though, and not at my two workers, though it bothered me a little that Raylene, A.J. Two, and Newt—the little traitor, of all people—had jumped on for the trip to Fort Knox. But it also touched me to learn that Thom had not. Say whatever bad things you want about organized religion, it gave her a moral compass and the backbone to reject things she felt were wrong. Then again, Dickson had screwed over her brother in a property dispute and Thom actually went to jail for a few hours after the lawyer provoked her into coming after him with a Windex bottle. So I knew she would never be involved with any situation in which he would benefit.

Eating a toasted bagel with
shmear
as a late afternoon snack while I got my digital camera and whatever else I thought I'd need, I dressed for my little excursion. Then, filled with bitter indignation at Dickson—which got stacked on the anger I already felt for whoever did this—I headed out.