Stay At Home Dead

by Jeffrey Allen

  “And fit her with a helmet and shoulder pads, probably.”

  “Couldn’t hurt. She needs to work on her tackling.”

  She frowned.

  “I’m kidding, Jules,” I said. “About putting a uniform on her. But if we could figure it out, I think I’d like to do it.”

  She adjusted the bag and swiped her car keys off the table. “I’ve already got three cases on the calendar for the summer, plus our vacation. I don’t have any wiggle room.”

  “I’m not asking you for any,” I said. “If I can’t make it work, I won’t do it.”

  She shook her head, clearly not in favor of the idea. “I’ve gotta get going.” She kissed me on the cheek. “I can’t think on this right now. Let’s talk about it tonight. When your head is better and you can see that this probably isn’t a great idea.”

  34

  I was given strict orders to lie around and relax.

  So I ate some toast and took a hot shower and got dressed slowly.

  Enough relaxing for me.

  I drove over to Delilah’s to join my father and his pals for breakfast, more because I had a few questions than because I was hungry. He, Cedric, Sheldon, and Judge Gerald Kantner were at their usual table.

  My dad studied me as I approached them. “You look fine to me.”

  “A little uglier,” Cedric said.

  “Nah, he was always ugly,” Sheldon said.

  Gerald laughed into his coffee.

  I grabbed a chair at the table across from them and slid it over next to Cedric. “Seriously. You guys are a riot. When I put you all in the old folks’ home, you’ll be the life of the place.”

  “Big words from a guy who fainted before his big confrontation with a bunch of mothers,” Sheldon said, adjusting his glasses.

  “I didn’t faint. Somebody hit me.”

  Sheldon peered over the top of his glasses. “I know. It’s just funnier when I tell people you fainted. Getting assaulted makes it sound like you’re some sort of tough guy.”

  “Tough guy who doesn’t check behind him,” my father said.

  “Maybe you got hit with a purse,” Cedric suggested, then bit into some crisp bacon. “Someone with a heavy wallet. Maybe there was a make-up bag inside.”

  “Easy, gentlemen,” Gerald Kantner said. “Deuce has had a rough couple of days.”

  Judge Gerald Kantner was the reasonable one in my father’s quartet of pals. Short, thin, with a thick mop of dark hair on his head, he carried with him the serious presence you’d expect in a judge. He was always polite, always thoughtful, and always the one people looked to when they needed the right answer.

  What he was doing with Huey, Dewey, and Louie, I wasn’t sure.

  “Judge,” I said, offering my hand. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

  We shook, and he looked me right in the eye. “Sorry about the TRO, Deuce. Not much I could do, though.”

  “It’s all right, Judge.”

  “TROs are strange nuts. You can obtain one almost without cause,” he explained. “Someone comes in asking for one, it’s awfully difficult to deny.”

  “So I could get one against any of these three?” I asked, pointing a finger at the other three men.

  “I’ll grant those right now, if you’d like.”

  They all rolled their eyes and continued eating.

  I waved at Doris, the waitress, signaling for coffee, and she acknowledged me with a disinterested nod.

  “Can I ask what the reasoning was?” I asked Gerald. “For the restraining order. Did she give a specific reason?”

  The judge shook his head. “No. And she didn’t appear. Billy handled the request.”

  That didn’t surprise me. He seemed to be handling everything for her.

  “He requested the order based on your visit,” he said, folding up his napkin and laying it next to his plate. “Said you showed up uninvited, wouldn’t leave, and that because she was under duress due to Benny’s death, she did not want you returning.”

  “She called me,” I said.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Not the story I received.”

  I pulled out my cell and scrolled through the received calls log. I didn’t see Shayna’s name, and it puzzled me at first. Then I saw the word Restricted.

  “The call came in restricted,” I said. “But that was her.”

  The judge’s lips twisted a bit, skepticism taking root. “As someone who’s known you your entire life, I believe you. As an officer of the court, I’d need more than that.”

  My father stuck a fork in my direction. “She got you again, you big dope.”

  “Again?”

  He set his fork down on the edge of his plate, wiped his mouth, and gave me that look that made me feel like I was ten years old and had screwed something up.

  “Deuce, she was a pain in the ass when you pined for her in high school,” he said. “She used you then, and she’s using you now. Back then, I knew why. Because you were a star and she liked being along for the ride and she thought that ride was taking her all the way to the top. When the ride came to a screeching halt, she nearly broke her ankles jumping off so fast.” His lips puckered like his eggs were filled with lemons. “This time, I don’t know why, and I don’t know what she’s doing. But you can bet your ass she knew exactly what she was doing when she called you. Shayna has always been trouble in a pretty face.”

  The men fell quiet, the other sounds of the restaurant—dishes clanking, silverware clinking, and soft conversation—f iltering across the table. My father wasn’t stating anything I didn’t already know, but he had a way of saying things that bit into me. He knew it and I knew it and it had been that way for as long as I could remember.

  “Ah, take it easy on him, Eldrick,” Sheldon said, lifting his coffee cup to his lips. “Shoot, can’t blame the kid for wanting to see what was under her shirt.” He paused, a wry smile spreading across his face. “Far as I’ve ever been able to tell, Shayna is blessed in that regard.”

  The laughter cut through the tension at the table. But my father was correct. She’d used me then, and she was using me now. I just didn’t know why or how.

  The judge stood and put a hand on my shoulder. “You can find me anything on the phone records, give me a call.”

  “Will do.”

  He walked out of Delilah’s, saying good-bye to half the diner on his way out.

  “Call was on your cell?” Cedric asked.

  I nodded.

  “Okay. I know a guy who might be able to help.”

  “Who?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Cedric said, waving a hand in the air. “I’ll see if he can come up with anything for you.”

  “How’s your head?” my father asked.

  “All right. Have a headache, but I’m fine.”

  “Julianne told your mother you were supposed to be home in bed,” he said, but his tone was less sharp than before.

  “Yeah, well, keep it quiet then, all right?”

  “Your funeral. Do not upset my Julianne.”

  “Blah, blah, blah.”

  Sheldon leaned across the table, his eyes darting around before settling on me. “Deuce. Seriously. One question.”

  My father and Cedric smiled, knowing what was coming, apparently. I didn’t.

  “Okay,” I said.

  He leaned a little farther across his plate. “Shayna. How blessed is she?”

  35

  After breakfast I went home to actually rest. The erratic night of sleep and the headache were catching up with me, and I didn’t want to pass out somewhere in the middle of town. So I spent the rest of the morning on the sofa, watching ESPN and generally feeling like a slug.

  Julianne called at noon. “Hope you’re better by tomorrow.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Just got an e-mail. The WORMS have rescheduled your hearing for tomorrow night.”

  The headache pulsed some more at the thought of that. “Great.”

  “Yeah. I
say we go in with your head all bandaged up, shoot for the sympathy vote.”

  “I’ll think about that,” I said, hitting mute on the television. “You know anything about phone records ?”

  “A little. Why?”

  I told her about Shayna claiming I went to her house uninvited and the restricted call.

  “Could be tough to track,” she said. “Those restricted lines tend to be hidden pretty good behind privacy laws.”

  “Cedric said he knows somebody who might be able to unlock it,” I told her.

  “I’ll ask the investigator we use here in the office. Or maybe I’ll ask your little friend tonight.”

  I could tell she was smiling.

  “How is your head?” she asked before I could pop off.

  “I’m fine.”

  “I didn’t mean to douse your fire this morning,” she said.

  “I know. Shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that. I just didn’t want to keep it from you.”

  “It’s just something we have to think about.”

  “I know. I get it.”

  “I promise to be a little less melodramatic about it tonight.”

  “Always a plus.”

  “Not saying I’ll approve. But I will listen.”

  “That’s all I want.”

  “No, what you want is for me to be thrilled about you doing this,” she corrected. “And I’m not sure that’ll happen, regardless of what we decide. But I promise to listen.”

  She would. She tended to go off like a firecracker initially, her stubbornness getting the better of her, before she lapsed into a more reasonable version of herself. Unlike me, who was always calm and cool and collected and never flew off the handle about anything. I didn’t mention that difference to her, though.

  “And don’t think I missed the fact that you talked to Cedric this morning,” she said. “Hope you enjoyed your morning out.”

  Stubborn, but didn’t miss a damn thing.

  36

  Victor Anthony Doolittle said, “Seriously. You give me any crap tonight and I’ll give you another concussion.”

  He was standing outside the screen door. I’d spent the rest of the afternoon lounging around the house, and the headache had finally subsided. I’d done some laundry and vacuuming and arranged to pick up Carly in the morning. I didn’t want her to be traumatized by Victor.

  I pushed open the door. “I promise to watch my step.”

  He looked pleased with that, as if he’d actually scared me. “Good, because I’d hate to have to hurt ...”

  “I meant I’d try not to catch you under my shoe.”

  The blood rushed to his face, and his face screwed up in anger.

  “Relax,” I said. “I’m kidding. We invited you. I’ll be on my semi-best behavior.”

  The anger slowly receded from his features, and he glanced around the living room. “Where’s your wife?”

  “She’ll be here shortly,” I told him. “She’s running late. You find anything out?”

  He smiled at me, but he looked more like Grumpy than Happy. “Yes.”

  We stood there for a moment. It was clear he wasn’t going any further.

  “You want something to drink?” I finally asked.

  “Mint julep.”

  “Try again.”

  “A Flaming Eyeball.”

  “I could find a cat to piss in a cup.”

  “Beer’s fine.”

  I retreated to the kitchen and grabbed two Lone Stars out of the fridge. I felt certain that I wasn’t supposed to drink with a concussion. But there was a sarcastic dwarf in my living room, and I needed something to take the edge off.

  He was sitting on the sofa, his feet sticking off the end of the cushion and his fedora on his lap. I handed him the beer, and he made a face like I’d actually brought him the cat piss. “Lone Star? Really?”

  “It’s Julianne’s favorite,” I lied, sitting down in the chair across from him.

  His expression immediately changed, the beer magically morphing into the greatest thing he’d ever seen. He took a long drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “So.”

  “So.”

  “We havin’ dinner?”

  “Julianne’s bringing food home.”

  “Excellent.”

  “And if you want to eat any of it, let’s hear what you found out.”

  He took another drink and moved the fedora from his lap to the arm of the sofa. “I can find out who owns the truck.”

  “You got the full license plate?”

  He nodded. “I started with the partial and worked my way through it. I’ve got friends at TxDOT.”

  I didn’t think he had friends anywhere, but I let it go.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Truck was a Ford Ranger.”

  “Any way to find out who owns it?”

  He rolled his eyes like I’d asked him if he knew how to spell his own name. “Of course. There is always a way to find anything out.” He tapped his forehead with the beer bottle. “If you’re smart. Which, lucky for you, I am.”

  I was being talked down to by an arrogant midget. Where had I gone wrong?

  The front door opened and Julianne walked in, several bags smelling of barbecue in her arms.

  Victor wiggled off the sofa and ran to her knee, reaching up with his hands. “Let me help.”

  “Oh, thank you, Victor,” she said, handing him one of the bags. “That’s kind of you.”

  He beamed. “My pleasure. A lady shouldn’t have to do all the work around here.” He tossed me a dirty look.

  We organized ourselves around the kitchen table, spreading out the brisket sandwiches and baked potatoes. Julianne did a quick change into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and sat down next to me, across from Victor, who was halfway through one sandwich already.

  “What did I miss?” she asked.

  “Victor was about to tell me who owns the truck he saw in the parking lot,” I said.

  He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Yes, ma’am. I did my due diligence and was able to locate the pickup truck that I saw at the scene of your husband’s assault.” He frowned. “He hasn’t yet thanked me for that, though.”

  I started to say something, but Julianne clasped a hand onto my thigh. “He has a concussion. He’s not thinking correctly. I’m sure he meant to thank you.”

  He wolfed down the rest of the first sandwich and grabbed for another. “Sure, sure. Okay.” He pulled the piece of paper from before out of his lap and laid it on the table. “Owner’s name is Zeke Stenner.”

  The name meant nothing to me.

  “Did you do any checking on him?” I asked.

  He wrinkled his nose at me. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He bit into the sandwich and chewed with his mouth open for a moment. “Because you didn’t hire me to.”

  My impulse was to reach across the table and smack the food right out of his fat little hand. Julianne could sense it, though, and dug her nails into my leg again.

  “Of course we didn’t,” she said. “We appreciate you tracking the license plate, though.”

  “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

  “That’s all we get?” I asked, unable to contain myself. “We let you come over here, feed your fat face, and that’s all we get?”

  The barbecue sauce was smeared all over his mouth now as he laughed. “Hey. I didn’t say you had to feed me. And you didn’t hire me. I did what I did as a courtesy. You want more, it’s gonna cost you.”

  Julianne looked at me. “It’s all right, Deuce. I spoke to the investigator at our firm. He owes me a favor.”

  The smug smile on Victor’s face evaporated.

  “Excellent,” I said, looking at him and grinning.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, holding up his sauce-covered palm. “Let’s hold on a sec here. I didn’t say we couldn’t work something out.”

  Julianne fluttered her eyes at him
. “Oh? Really?”

  “For a nominal fee, I’m sure we can work together.”

  “Define nominal fee,” I said.

  “How about if we discuss it after you get me another beer?” he said.

  Before I could dunk his head in the barbecue sauce, Julianne had the good sense to claw my leg one more time.

  “That sounds like a good idea,” she said, smiling at me. “And will you grab me one, too? But I’d like a Shiner Blonde. You know I can’t stand that Lone Star stuff.”

  Victor glared at me.

  I had to admit, it was fun tricking dwarves.

  37

  After another beer and another brisket sandwich, Victor Anthony Doolittle said, “Three hundred bucks will get it done.”

  Julianne turned to me. “The investigator at my office? I set up a trust for his mother, who has cancer. He was so grateful—”

  “Two hundred,” Victor said, wiping a paper napkin across his face. “Half up front, the other half when I get you a full write-up on this Stenner guy.”

  “One fifty,” I said. “Payable as you said.”

  His lips tightened up, and the skin on his bald head stretched tighter across his skull.

  Julianne just batted her eyelashes some more.

  “Deal,” he said.

  I wrote him a check for seventy-five bucks, and we escorted him to the door.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, staring at Julianne.

  She pointed at me. “Call him.”

  The corners of his mouth turned downward, as if she’d asked him to eat something out of a trash can. “Fine.”

  The phone rang, and Julianne excused herself to go answer it.

  I walked out with Victor. It was strange. In twenty-four hours, I’d gone from taking a shot in the groin from him to hiring him. It felt like we’d known each other for far too long.

  He walked over to bright red convertible MG parked at the curb.

  “That’s yours?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yep. Chick magnet.”

  “Not what you were driving yesterday.”

  “Man, you tall guys are mentally deficient,” he said, shaking his head as he opened the door to the sports car. “I was following you. It was a rental. This is my car.”