Out of the Easy(15)

“That ain’t how it is,” said Cokie.

“No? Well, how is it?” said Cincinnati, moving toward Cokie, taunting him. “Look at you. I can’t tell if you’re more cream or more coffee. Oh, wait, let me guess. Your granny was a real pretty maidservant, and she got bent over by the boss man, huh?”

Click, click.

Cincinnati spun around toward me. “All right,” he said, casually raising his hands. “Let’s not get crazy, Josie.”

“Crazy Josie—I kinda like the way that sounds.” I clutched my gun with both hands the way Willie had taught me. “Why don’t you get out of here before I do something crazy.”

Cincinnati laughed. “Take it easy, baby. I just came to give you a message from your momma.”

“Is that what you were doing? Giving me a message?” I said, keeping my gun drawn and steering him toward the door.

“Yeah, your momma said to meet her at the Meal-a-Minit at three o’clock. She’s got something to tell you.” Cincinnati took out a cigarette and lit it slowly, just to show me that my gun didn’t bother him a bit.

Cokie’s eyes were the size of half-dollars. The tire iron trembled slightly in his hand. He was terrified of guns.

“Lookin’ good, Josie,” said Cincinnati. He pointed his cigarette at me. “I’ll be waitin’ to see you again.” He pushed past Cokie and left the store.

“Sweet Jesus, put that thing down before someone in the street sees you,” said Cokie.

I lowered my arms, unable to release my grip on the gun.

“You okay?” asked Cokie. “He didn’t hurt you none, did he?”

I shook my head, finally taking a breath. “Thanks, Coke. Were you following him?”

“I got some eyes around. Frankie said he saw him walkin’ this way from the Roosevelt Hotel. I don’t know why your momma mess with that man. He’s evil. I can see it in his eyes.”

He was right. There was something ice-cold, dead in Cincinnati. I exhaled and began to release my cramped fingers.

“Cokie, were you able to go by the coroner?” I asked.

“Jo, what’s wrong with you, girl? Thirty seconds ago, you had guns on a criminal, and now you’re asking about that dead man from Memphis? What’s the story?”

What was the story? Forrest Hearne was a mystery, like looking down a dark well. But I knew in the deepest pit of my stomach. Something wasn’t right.

“There’s no story. He came into the shop on New Year’s Eve, and I met him, that’s all. He was a really nice man, and now he’s dead. So, did you talk to the coroner?”

“I did. I went to see Dr. Moore myself,” said Cokie. “And I had to wait around outside until he left for lunch. I wasn’t goin’ in that morgue with all them dead bodies. He wasn’t too happy to see me. He said he was a busy man—”

“And?”

“Dr. Moore said the rich man from Memphis died of a heart attack.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Well, now, Josie, that’s what the man said. He the coroner.”

The door burst open with a yell. I drew my gun, and Cokie whipped around, raising the tire iron.

Patrick jumped back, looking from the tire iron to my gun. “What’s wrong? It’s just Proust!” he said, holding a large box of books.





TEN


I sat in the vinyl booth at the Meal-a-Minit, facing the door. The diner was air-cooled in the summer, but now the air was thick and the sweat behind my knee ran down my calf, making it stick to the booth. I picked at a cigarette burn in the red vinyl and watched the ceiling fan spin, letting my eyes blur on the rotating blades. Willie had sent a thug named Sonny to sit in the booth in front of me. He was reading a paper. I didn’t think Cincinnati would come with Mother, but I couldn’t be sure. I arrived ten minutes early. Mother was twenty minutes late. Typical.

Jesse Thierry was sitting in the booth across from me. He dropped some coins on the table.

“Thanks, darlin’,” said the waitress. “Say hi to your granny for me.” Jesse nodded. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he pulled on his leather jacket to leave. He caught me looking and smiled.

“Happy New Year, Motor City,” said Jesse. He left the diner.

A fat man with a pink face walked by and stopped at the booth. “Well, hello there, Josie. Remember me?”

Walter Sutherland. He was an accountant at a matchbook factory and one of the men who sometimes spent the night at Willie’s. I had run into him once or twice in the mornings. He had a way of looking at me that made me wish I was wearing a winter coat.

“Hello,” I said, avoiding direct eye contact.

“Are you alone?” he asked.

“I’m meeting my mother,” I told him.

“Oh. Are you”—he lowered his voice—“working yet?”

I turned to face him. “No.”

He looked at me, adjusting his waistband as he bit his bottom lip. “You’ll tell me if you start, won’t you? I want to be the first,” he whispered.

“I won’t work at Willie’s.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be at Willie’s. I know it must be hard for you, Josie. If you ever need money, you let me know. We could work out a nice arrangement. I’d pay handsome to be the first.” He mopped his sweaty forehead. “And I wouldn’t tell a soul. It could be our secret, Josie.”