Barbecue, Bourbon and Bullets

by M E Harmon

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  Barbecue, Bourbon and Bullets

  M. E. Harmon

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Harmony Books

  Copyright © 2015

  www.meharmon.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

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  This is the first book in the HoneyBun Shop Mystery Series.

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  Barbecue, Bourbon and Bullets

  Food, sweet food is the best answer for troubled times. Yeah, I knew that was very likely a load of nonsense, but it sounded good for business. My shop, HoneyBun Sweets and Sandwiches, was doing great this quarter. It was just too bad the city was in turmoil.

  Deep down, I knew some manifestation of the city’s discord was going to sidle up next to me and offer to shake hands. I didn’t know how it would show up—but it was coming.

  I stood outside the back door of the shop, people watching. A thin but steady stream of protesters headed up the ramp of the Brooklyn Bridge. The rallying site was somewhere in the outer borough. Those same people were just going to have to turn around and march right back here to Manhattan. Most of them still had their poster board signs of protest rolled up, but others waved words of outrage over their heads like stiff, angry neon flags.

  Al, my partner and a man of considerable girth, came to stand next to me. We watched for a bit in silence. He sighed, then grunted. “You sure, Ali?”

  I weighed my thoughts. If asked, I would say I’m more of an optimistic person than a negative one. If asked, I would have said that people deep down want to be good, but temptation feels way too awesome to ignore sometimes.

  My watch said 6:45 p.m. I echoed Al’s sigh. “Yeah, I wish I could say things won’t get out of hand when the protest gets to this side of the bridge…”

  I cast an eye over the shop’s bright yellow exterior. How much could it take against an unruly crowd? “…and we could score extra business staying open late. Especially since the fried Philly cheesesteak bites and whiskey–vanilla bean mini-cakes were a hit with the early protesters. You know we almost sold out? Anyway, I think it’s best to be safe than sorry.”

  That mini-cake had been really fun to figure out. I had to do lots of test-tasting to get the alcohol amount perfect. Hee, hee. It was a simple vanilla cupcake with a healthy dose of Irish whiskey. The frosting was a buttercream base but with a heaping dash of brown sugar, and vanilla beans.

  The more I thought about it, yeah, some of today’s leftovers were coming home with me tonight.

  Al grunted in assent and went back inside. My partner is a man of few words. It was something I loved about him. We’d begun wrapping up early, and most of the prep for tomorrow’s open was complete. I just needed to lock the service window shutters out front.

  On the bridge’s entry ramp, I watched a man pumping his fist in the air. He had long, brown hair and seemed to be whipping up the group he was with. They started chanting something, but the wind snatched the words away.

  With a final glance, and still debating the wisdom of not taking advantage of extra business, I headed for the front of the restaurant. The HoneyBun is shaped like a honeycomb. There was the main cell, which was the kitchen, surrounded by four smaller cells. The smaller ones we used as kiosks to serve customers. It was sort of like an old school drive-up restaurant, except customers walked up.

  I rounded the corner of the restaurant. My little section of the city, Two Bridges, was a lot like a ghost town. From my shop I could see City Hall, City Hall Park, the Chambers building and a bit of One Police Plaza. It was all deserted. All of the food carts in our neck of the woods had closed up shop early. The Mayor had advised businesses to let their workers go home early. It seemed many had heeded his advice. Normally at this time, there were still some late commuters headed home, but now things were exceptionally quiet.

  Shouting pulled my attention towards the subway. A huge swell of people came up the steps. Many of them looked about college age. More protesters. Their faces were set and determined, as if tonight they were determined to make a difference. They turned toward my direction but angled for the bridge.

  In two separate and recent incidents, there had been a fatality during police arrests. The city was in an uproar. There were three protest rallies, even one coordinated by our state’s senator, all planned for tonight.

  Yeah, closing was a good idea. Now to get the shutters closed and locked. The first one thundered into place with the sound of rolling metal. I slapped grit off my hands and made a face. Rust. These needed some maintenance. Feeling a little resentful the doors couldn’t keep themselves in perfect order, I added the chore to my mental and never-ending to-do list.

  I reached for the shutters on the second kiosk. A dusting of reddish flakes trickled down the second my fingers wrapped around the bottom. Yep, it was time to get them checked. I pulled. The door moved an inch, then held. I got up on tippy-toe, secured a firm, two-handed grip on the green metal and hauled. Nothing. I sighed.

  “Hello, Ali Daniels, need some help?”

  Startled, I whirled around, hand over heart. The person was a good head and shoulders taller than me. I had to look up to see his face highlighted by the late afternoon sun.

  “Detective Hamilton. Hey, how are you? I haven’t seen you—”

  “—since the Chakiris case wrapped up. I know. I’ve been meaning to check up on you.”

  I don’t know why, but when a good-looking man comes around, I give myself a quick once over. It’s like a Pavlov-dog thing. I think deep down I’m afraid I’ll embarrass myself because my skirt is tucked into my panties showing off my hoo-hoo to the world.

  There were some rust bits just over my left boob. I brushed them away and said, “Oh, no worries. Once the reporters stopped coming around, everything went back to normal. We’ve been fine here.”

  “Good,” he said, pointing at the shutter. “May I?”

  I nodded, moving aside. Hamilton stepped forward, his tall and lean frame reaching overhead for the shutter with little effort. He gave it a hard tug. The door moved another inch then resisted. The detective had on a short-sleeved navy blue polo shirt with khaki pants. He tried again, and I got a little jolt of delight watching his muscles bulge with the effort. Finally, after a few more tries and some oddly satisfying male grunting, the door rolled into place.

  The detective wiped rust off his hands. I felt a tiny wave of embarrassment as if he’d seen my dirty panties on the floor.

  He stopped. “You’re giving me a look.”

  My eyes went from his hands to his eyes. I thought about lying but came clean. “I’m a little ashamed there’s rust on my shutters. It’s like I haven’t been taking care of my store.”

  Hamilton peered at his hands. One side of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. “It’s a bit of dirt on the bottom of a thing that’s supposed to be dirty. Don’t worry about it.” Then the half-smile became a full one. “Besides, a little dirt doesn’t scare off a guy like me.”

  I don�
�t know what he did, but all of my internal sensors started going off. Woo-a-woo. Red alert. Red alert. Flirting off the starboard bow, Captain. Flirting off the starboard bow!

  When it comes to men, there are some things I just don’t get. Flirting is one of them. Because I’d been with my ex-fiancé so long, I think I missed some key developmental stages when it came to the opposite sex. I’d met my ex in college and we’d been a couple for almost ten years.

  Normally the slightest bit of flirt “red-alert” would’ve sent me running, but I decided to stand my ground.

  Hamilton was waiting for a response. Ideally, someone skilled in flirtation would immediately cook up a smart, witty comeback.

  Unfortunately, I was not one of those people.

  “It looked like rust to me.” Oh stupid, stupid, literal girl. I wanted to shoot myself. “Um, anyway, you look like you’re off duty.” Staying with a basic question was good, right?

  He nodded, “I am.”

  “How come you’re not doing triple duty like every other cop in the city?”

  “It’s sort of due to you, actually,” he said. “In part I’ve been doing a lot of overtime on the Chakiris case. The feds even asked me to be a local liaison on gathering evidence on Bernard. It’s been so much work, my union rep had to threaten to get me some time off. I just lucked out it was today, though I did some hours this morning.”

  I asked, “Does Bernard have a chance of getting off?”

  Hamilton shook his head, “Not a chance. And I’m glad I’m off-duty. I hate working protests. Everyone’s on edge. Including the cops. It’s a bad recipe.”

  The skin between his dark grey-blue eyes crinkled as if this really worried him.

  I folded my arms, suddenly unsure about what to do with my hands. “Yeah, we could’ve done some extra business tonight, but I was worried about things getting crazy when the rally comes over the bridge. You heading home, then?”

  “No, I have—” The detective paused, pulling out his cell. “Excuse me,” he said and swiped a thumb over the screen. He sighed and held up the phone. “I have a Groupon to that new barbecue spot downtown. My friends were going to meet me but they just canceled. Family emergency.” He stared at the screen as if the message might change.

  Hamilton typed a quick reply and shrugged, “It’s OK, sort of. I was going out with my buddy and his new wife. They’re still in that lovey-dovey phase.”

  “Gets on your nerves?”

  Another shrug. “They’re sweet and nauseating all at once. But I’ve been waiting for some ribs, so I’m going anyway. You headed home or going to one of the rallies?”

  Though I believed all wrongs should be righted, I also had an extreme dislike of large, angry crowds of people. Must’ve been all the rallies my new-age-hipster parents dragged me to as a kid.

  “No, no rallies for me.” I mentally flashed on the big, fat amount of nothing I had planned for the night. “I have a ton of shows to watch on the DVR. Wait—are you talking about that new sustainable place where people are waiting for hours on line to get in?”

  “The one that specializes in BBQ and bourbon?” Hamilton actually rubbed his hands together, “Yes, I am, been waiting for weeks.”

  The gesture made me laugh. “It looks like you’re excited. Well, enjoy.”

  “I will. Good night. Get home safe,” he said, walking backwards then turning to head downtown.

  The little naughty Ali that sits on my shoulder whispered I should take a look at the detective’s butt. He won’t catch you, she said. I peeked. Detective Hamilton indeed had a nice booty.

  On cue, he suddenly turned. Busted. My cheeks prickled and I hoped he was too far away to see the color.

  “Hey, if you’re free, you wanna come with?”

  Fortunately, my mouth answered before my brain could fully process the question and freak out. “Yeah, I could do some barbecue.”

  I headed back in to change clothes, concentrating on having great ribs rather than I’d just agreed to go on an impromptu outing (I didn’t feel comfortable saying date) with a very attractive NYPD detective.

  ***

  Grover’s sign was black with white cursive lettering. Very upscale looking—at first. Just beneath the sign was a placard with three ethnically diverse, bosomy, lady-cowboys wrangling pigs the size of ponies. It was just the right amount of class and political incorrectness. I guesstimated it’d be another fifteen minutes before we’d be inside the doors.

  I’d changed out of my orange HoneyBun polo into the shirt I’d worn to the store that morning. Usually my attire, and especially since my breakup, comprised of shapeless T-shirts and jeans. Sometimes the jeans were even clean. Sometimes.

  Thankfully today I didn’t have the energy to fight off my mother’s persistent “helpfulness”, as she calls it. This morning Mom had taken one look and almost tackled me at the door of the two-family brownstone we shared.

  She’d been after me to jump into a nice rebound relationship to get over my ex. Then I could get on with my life. Mom wholeheartedly embraced the color-elevates-moods theory. The best way to feel better, in her opinion, was to dress in colors that emulated the mood you desired. Three months after my scientist/researcher father had been declared dead after going missing on an expedition in the Amazon, my mother wore nothing but neon-yellow pantsuits, electric turquoise floral kimonos and chartreuse dashikis.

  So she was the one who had bought the pink, cut-out shoulder top I now wore. I had to give her credit. It had just the right amount of spandex to show off the best places.

  The restaurant was further downtown, not far from where the South Street Seaport had been before Hurricane Sandy. The walk with the detective had been a nice one, both in distance and company. Though my stomach was jittery the entire time.

  The detective had touched a hand to the small of my back, “This way, it’s on Water Street.”

  We’d turned the corner and had seen a mass of waiting people. A bored looking, twenty-something woman played with her a cell phone. In the other hand, she held a five-foot pole attached to a sign that depicted a cartoon pig in farmer overalls. The sign read, “Yup, this here is the end of the line.”

  Hamilton and I had exchanged a look of shock.

  The girl cracked her gum and said, “You two just made it. I was about to close off the line.”

  My companion looked ready to bolt.

  I said, “Um, Detective Hamilton, I’ve heard this place is really good. It’s gonna be worth the wait, but I’m fine if you want to call it a night.”

  He had looked at all the people waaay down the block at the restaurant’s awning. “I really, really hate lines. I should’ve known I wasn’t going to be the only person redeeming this Groupon deal.” He tapped a hand against his thigh. “But I think we should stick it out, on one condition.”

  He paused, and when I couldn’t take it anymore prompted, “And what’s the condition?”

  “You call me Avery and not Detective Hamilton.” He flashed a huge smile that made my cheeks go hot. I couldn’t reply for fear of stuttering, so I just nodded.

  Almost two hours later, we were finally being seated. I understood the wait now. The place wasn’t that big. It had oversized brown leather chairs, weathered wooden tables and brass Tiffany-like lamps. Burgundy-cushioned booths lined the walls where people hunkered down over enormous plates of food. The place was a cross between a gentlemen’s club and a BBQ joint. But the smell! It was all barbecuey and spicy and yummy.

  Fortunately, the place was run well, too. A waitress had handed out menus and taken our order while we were still on line. Three minutes after being seated, another of the wait staff brought fried cornbread appetizers and our first shot of bourbon. Avery had spent a good ten minutes looking over the spirits selection. He knew a lot more about that I did, so I’d let him order the booze.

  The cornbread was hot and delicious with a crispy, buttery edge, plus a touch of white cheese. “Oh my,” I said around a mouthful.

&n
bsp; “I know. I thought my grandma made the best, but this here? I won’t be able to look her in the eye then next time she asks who makes the best cornbread.”

  A sip of bourbon set the inside of my cheeks to burning. The deep amber liquid had a lightly sweet aftertaste. “Oh, this is the kind of hurt I like.”

  Avery sputtered. Bits of cornbread sprinkled the table. He spoke around a napkin. “Um, okay?”

  Then it hit me what I’d just said out loud. My intention was for it to be an inside thought. What can I say? It had slipped out. “That didn’t sound quite right, did it?”

  He wiped his mouth. “It was perfect. Just caught me off guard,” he chuckled. “Sorry, I hope I didn’t get any on you.”

  I waved off his concern and found myself laughing too. This was good. Laughing was good. I hadn’t done it in a while.

  “By the time we’re done here tonight I’m gonna have you loving whiskey.”

  I tipped my glass in his direction. “Lucky for you I come from a long line of Daniels that can hold their liquor.” Then I threw back the remainder of bourbon. The burn was sweet and hot. I slammed the glass against the wood table, “Bring on round two!”

  Avery spied my glass then polished off the last of his own. “Bring on round two!” He started to raise his hand to call over the waitress, but she had appeared like a summoned genie.

  “Hey, you two look like you’re having a good time. Listen, your dinner is about ready but here at Grover’s we like our customers to see where their food is coming from with a quick tour of the kitchen. Are you guys up for it or you just ready to eat?”

  The detective glanced at me. As a restaurant owner I always liked to peek at someone else’s kitchen. We both turned to the waitress at the same time and said, “Yeah!”

  The waitress was in her early twenties, with long, brown highlighted hair pulled back into a ponytail. I knew she had likely been on her feet all day, but her response seemed genuine. “OK, follow me. My name is Debbie, by the way.”