The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson #12)(46)

“No. Okay, that’s funny, but no.”

“Ah, man.”

“I like it,” Angel said, contemplating my choices.

“Thank you. Also, I talked to God.”

A long silence ensued in which I debated a mocha latte with whipped cream or a mocha latte without, before Cookie asked, “God? As in the God?”

“The One and Only. He’s very cryptic.”

“Aren’t they all?” she asked.

She had a point. Gods tended to be a secretive and mysterious lot. Except for me. I was an open book. Literally now that there was an unauthorized biography floating around.

“You’re still alive, so the meet and greet must’ve gone well.”

“Super. I’m no closer to solving our fugitive-husband dilemma, but I now have an eternity to do it. Or a few hours. It’s a toss-up.”

“Well, okay, then.”

After assuring Cookie everything was copacetic and I was on my way back safe and sound, we hung up and I gave my full attention to the bloody departed teenager with a Rottweiler in his lap. “What’s up, mijo?”

“Hector’s gone,” he said, grunting under Artemis’s weight while fending off a thorough face-washing.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Who’s Hector?”

“Hector Felix? The dead dude you wanted me to investigate?”

“Oh, right.”

“Also, I need a raise.”

“Okay, but only because you asked nicely. Hector’s gone?”

“Yeah, you know, not on this plane, and I don’t think he went to a good place.”

“Yeah, I didn’t figure he would. Did you find out anything that will help Pari?”

“I like her. Does that count?”

“No, but I like her, too.”

“So, I think these football players may have killed Hector, but I don’t know for sure.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised. I took the Central exit and narrowly missed a woman in a yellow Audi who couldn’t decide which lane she wanted to be in. “Oh, my God. Just pick one.”

“After Hector left Pari’s place, he went to a bar and started shit with these Lobo football players. I don’t think he was the smartest guy.”

“No, he was not.”

“All I got from Domino—”

“Domino?” I asked.

“Yeah, you know? Domino? The dude who’s always at that bar on San Mateo.”

“Oh, that one,” I said, infusing my voice with my second favorite-asm: sarc.

“You met him once. He hit on you, almost blew your cover.”

“If I had a nickel for every time a departed—”

“He was a PI, remember? He wears that Hawaiian shirt?”

“Oh!” I said, pulling into a Java Juice drive-through. “Magnum.”

“No, Domino.”

“No. Yes. I mean, he was going through a Magnum PI stage when he passed. I didn’t know he’d been a real PI.”

“Okay, whatever, he was there that night. Said your guy Hector came in drunk off his ass. The barkeep asked him to leave. He got rowdy. Threatened to kill him and his whole family. So these football players step in, right?”

“Mm-hmm,” I said, half listening. It was go time. I had to make a decision. I was so bad at decisions.

“They tell the guy to go home and sleep it off, so he pulls a gun.”

“Got it. A gun.” My turn was coming fast. It was now or never. I pulled up to the speaker and said with all the confidence I could muster, “Yes, I’d like a mocha grande with … no, without whipped cream. No, with. No. Yes. With. Definitely with.”

The clerk laughed softly, her voice sweet for so early in the freaking morning. “Can I get you any breakfast?”

She did not just ask me that. “No. Yes, okay, I’ll take one of those … no, how about a … no, not that, either. Never mind, that’s okay. Wait, yes. Yes, I would like one of those English muffin things with egg and ham and cheese? Or a chocolate croissant. Whichever is easiest for you.”

She laughed again. “How about both? Then you can decide later.”

Oh, she was good. “Sold.”

I pulled around to the window before she could ask me anything else as Angel gaped at me. “What the fuck, Chuck?”

“What? I’m having a difficult time making decisions lately. It’s called decision fatigue.”

He continued to gape.

“It’s a real thing.”

“You need medication.”

“I read it on the Internet.”

“My mom has anxiety. You need to talk to her.”

I paid the clerk, then turned to him. “Your mom has anxiety?” I asked, suddenly worried. “Why? What’s going on?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Just life. That’s why I need a raise.”

I made a mental note to check up on her. I paid Angel by putting money in his mother’s bank account. It used to be anonymous, but she found me out a few months back and refused to take my money. Sadly, cash deposits made at night are almost impossible to trace. Especially when the depositor wears a ski mask and rockin’ pair of thigh-highs.

“Here’s your change,” the clerk said, completely unmoved by the chat I was having with my passenger’s seat.