The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(24)

The dog wasn’t letting go.

Peter sighed. “Okay, Mingus,” he said, and rubbed the massive head with his free hand. The stink rose up like a poison cloud. He really had to wash this damn dog. “You win. I’m yours.”

The dog released his wrist and licked up his arm to the inside of his elbow. Peter stood and rinsed a cereal bowl, filled it with water, and set it on the floor. The dog drank noisily.

As if on cue, Miss Rosetta reached for the Early Times again, this time filling half the glass and pouring it down her throat without seeming to swallow. He’d better get some answers before she fell off her chair.

Peter said, “Ma’am, how do you know this dog?”

“Poor Mingus,” she said. She didn’t seem drunk at all. Maybe she was like one of those experimental cars that ran on alcohol. Just topping up her tank. She looked at Peter hard. “Where’d you find him?”

“Hiding under a porch a couple miles from here. The family was afraid he was going to hurt one of the kids. I think he was just hungry.”

On cue, the dog looked up, long tongue hanging out, dripping water on the linoleum. “Don’t look at me, Mingus,” she said. “I ain’t feeding you. That Jim might have something upstairs, if the rats ain’t got it.”

“Miss Rosetta,” said Peter. “How do you know the dog?”

But he already knew.

She rested her chin on her hand, her elbow on the table. “My tenant,” she said dreamily. “Lives upstairs. Mingus’s his dog. Been gone awhile. Went on a trip, took the dog with him. Paid rent three months in advance, cash money. Can you beat that?”

Cash money. “What’s your tenant’s name?”

“Jim,” she said. “Handsome Jim. Big, tall man.” The bourbon was catching up. Her speech was still clear, but her face was starting to look a little blurred. “Real sweetheart, that boy. Was a time I’da showed him something. . . .” Her voice crackled and faded, a radio losing reception.

Every Marine knows not to drink on an empty stomach. “Miss Rosetta? Can I make you some dinner?”

She blinked at him slowly. Then smacked her lips, her head sinking down toward the table and onto her folded arms. After a minute, she started snoring. Peter looked in the fridge. Bread, eggs, hamburger. TV dinners in the freezer. She’d be okay.

She seemed to have some practice at this.

The static was flaring in the small cluttered space. Peter endured the tightness in his chest long enough to neaten the kitchen and wash the dishes, which took some scrubbing. Making sure the door locked behind him, he left with Mingus bounding ahead.





11



The entrance to the upstairs apartment was at the side of Miss Rosetta’s duplex. The lamp outside was dark, so trying Jimmy’s keys in the lock was difficult until Peter pulled out his penlight.

After a little jiggling, the tarnished old lock turned just fine.

The steps were steep and narrow and complained underfoot. He pushed down the cramped, jittery feeling and climbed.

The dog galloped up ahead of him.

—

At the top, two doors. The original upper apartment was subdivided into two smaller units. The dog nosed at the right-hand door. Peter tried his keys again. The latch opened without fuss, as if waiting to be unlocked.

The white static rose up. One deep breath after another. He told himself he’d be out of there in ten minutes.

Jimmy had lived in one room tucked into the eaves at the back of the house. The cracked plaster ceiling angled down to the floor, following the rafters. A rag rug covered most of the battered pine floor. The small bed was neatly made with a green wool Army surplus blanket. Jimmy’s feet must have hung off the end.

A small television sat atop a small bookshelf filled with war memoirs—Erich Maria Remarque, Ernie Pyle, Philip Caputo, Tim O’Brien, Nathaniel Fick. Facing it was an ugly plaid armchair that was wide enough for Jimmy and looked pretty comfortable. In the corner, a small maple desk.

There was a closet with wash-worn shirts and pants on plastic hangers. A bathroom was shared with the neighboring apartment. The window looked out to the backyard and alley. No lights to be seen. It was dark as death out there.

For a kitchen, Jimmy had a short counter, a bar sink, and an old chrome single-coil hot plate that belonged in a museum. Atop a clean dish towel stood a shining plate and bowl, a mason jar doing duty as a glass, a green ceramic mug with U.S. MARINE CORPS on the side, and a fork, knife, and spoon. No piece matched any other, but each was clean and at rest in orderly progression.

Peter thought of Dinah’s description of Jimmy asleep on the couch with the dishes still dirty from breakfast.

Maybe he didn’t want his wife to see how he was living. But the man had nothing to be ashamed of.

Shelves held cans of soup, spaghetti, pork and beans. Store-brand coffee in a half-pound tin, nearly empty. Salt and pepper shakers. Under the counter, a mini-fridge with a folded dish towel laid over the door to keep it from closing. It was empty, clean, and unplugged.

This wasn’t how Jimmy had lived every day, not with his fridge unplugged. He was preparing for something.

He’d told his landlady he would be gone for a while.

He’d paid his rent three months in advance.

Peter thought about how Jimmy had made a point of saying please and thank you. Thanks for the coffee, brother. Please pass the hand grenades. It was funny, and Jimmy knew it, but he was serious about it, too, schooling the younger guys. A real man treats others with respect, and demands respect in return. It was an odd habit in a war zone, but because of Jimmy’s natural authority, it was also contagious. They had the politest platoon in the war.