by L. E. Rico
“About the pie. Is it a ‘past’ pie?”
He nods at me, holding up a finger that indicates I should hang on a second while he finishes chewing. Once he’s swallowed, he takes a gulp of the coffee and wipes his mouth before answering.
“Yeah, I suppose it was. My grandmother used to make sweet potato pie. It was her thing. And I haven’t had any since she died.”
“And was she right about you being from the South? I mean, because I just assumed you were from the west coast…”
He looks at me for what feels like a long time before he speaks. And when he does, his voice is softer—more hesitant than I’ve ever heard from this overly confident man.
“Yeah, I’m from North Carolina, actually. My mother still lives there, just outside of Charlotte.”
Well, that begs the next question…
“And your father?”
An awkward pause follows, and I’m starting to think he’s not going to answer. But then he does.
“He and my mom are…estranged, I guess you could say. He’s in North Carolina, too.”
This piques my curiosity.
“And where is he?”
“Oh, uh, well, you probably wouldn’t know it. It’s just a tiny little speck on the map in a rural area. It’s called Butner.”
I feel my eyebrows go up in surprise as he mentions the familiar name.
“Really? I have a friend who lives in Butner! She’s a public defender as well. And since that’s where the big federal prison is…”
The realization hits me like a piano falling from the sky. A grand piano, not one of the little upright jobbies. While plenty of people work in Butner, no one really lives there. That is, except for the inmates of the penitentiary. I see from his expression that he’s just watched me put the pieces of the puzzle together.
“I could use a top-up on my coffee,” I say brightly, waving at our server. “How about you, Bryan? Or maybe you’d like another piece of pie? I wouldn’t mind trying the sweet potato if you want to share a slice.”
The smile that he bestows on me is real. It’s not the one that he practices in the mirror so he’ll appear charming as he tries to win friends and influence people. This one is tentative and…what? Grateful. He’s accepting the life ring I’ve just tossed him.
“Yeah, I could go for some more pie,” he replies. “But we’ve got to get extra whipped cream this time, okay?”
“Well, duh!” I answer, taking a page out of Bailey’s book.
We both laugh…and it’s nice.
…
Bryan pays the bill at the counter while I slip back into my parka. There’s a line of people waiting to get in, as usual, so I decide to wait for him on the sidewalk. Outside, I catch sight of Jameson coming toward me, pushing Jackson in the stroller and waving.
“Jeez, James, you’ve got him bundled up like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man,” I giggle when she’s within earshot.
“Well, we’re not even getting into the double digits today,” my sister informs me, her breath forming frosty white clouds to prove her point. “I was just down at the post office and saw you coming out,” she explains.
“I can’t believe how cheap that bill was! You know, in L.A., that same—” Bryan stops short when he joins me out front and finds my sister there, too.
“And who’s this?” he asks, squatting so that he’s eye level with the baby’s stroller.
“Bryan, this is my nephew, Jackson,” I tell him. “But you know…he’s not always great with strangers…”
Bryan shakes his head dismissively.
“Oh no, kids love me,” he informs us.
Before I can advise him against it, he’s in Jackson’s face, gushing animatedly.
“Well, hey there, big guy. I’m Bryan. Can you say Bryan?”
He looks at the stranger shyly, nibbling on a bagel.
“Do you like the yummy bagel, Jackson?” Bryan continues in baby talk.
That’s when Jax ditches his bashfulness, sits up straight and starts to giggle.
“Bryan…”
It’s a warning. One he doesn’t heed.
“I guess I’m speaking his language.” He grins up at me.
“Bryan, really, I wouldn’t get in his face.”
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Jax!” the toddler exclaims in an excited, slurry voice. Those of us who know Jackson know that it’s a very dangerous voice. But Bryan will not be dissuaded from trying to bond with the kid.
“My name is Bryan. Can you say Bryan?” he asks again, determined to get him to say it. “Bryyyyyy-annnnn.”
Jackson giggles again, and I know it’s too late.
“Dooooooosh!” he proclaims loudly, pointing at Bryan, who looks up in confusion at a mortified Jameson.
“Did he…did he just call me a…douche?”
I, on the other hand, am not mortified. I’m in hysterics, doubled over and trying not to pee my pants.
“Bryan,” I hear Bryan try one more time. “My name is Bryan…”
But my nephew is having none of it.
“Brybry! Brybry, doosh, doosh, doosh, doooooooooooosh!” the kid calls out in progressively louder screeches.
“I, uh, I think I’d better get going,” Bryan says, getting to his feet quickly and backing away as if Jackson’s little red head is about to start spinning. Turns out he does pretty much everything but that.
“Dooooosh!” Jax screeches at the top of his lungs, points an accusing finger at Bryan and then throws the frozen cinnamon-raisin circle of bread, hitting him squarely on the nose.
The rogue bagel then proceeds to bounce off and go flying against the plate glass window of the pie shop with a loud “Thwap!”
People in the pie shop are now peering at us curiously from inside, but I’m howling too hard to care at this point.
“Yeah…okay. Uh…see you soon,” I hear Bryan mutter, rubbing his nose.
“Bryan, I’m so sorry,” Jameson gasps in mortification. “Jackson, you tell Bryan you’re sorry right now!” she demands.
The redheaded menace pouts for a moment.
“Now, Jackson,” his mother warns.
“Sorra Dooosh,” is what I can make out of his attempt at an apology.
“Yeah, okay, then, I’ll just be going…”
“Wait, wait, Bryan,” Jameson says, reaching out to put a hand on his arm. “Please let me make it up to you. Will you join our family for Sunday supper after Mass?”
“Mass?” Bryan and I both echo at the same time.
This has suddenly become not-funny. I manage to straighten up and wipe the tears of laughter that have been streaming down my face, hoping to find a way to deflect this invitation. But my sister presses on, despite my desperately mouthing the word “No!” and shaking my head.
“Mmm-hmm. We attend the eleven o’clock service. Fifth pew on the left,” she explains.
“Uh, I’m not Catholic,” Bryan says.
“Right, he’s not Catholic. Too bad,” I jump in.
“Oh, but it’s a polka mass this week,” she explains with an excited grin. “Those are so much fun. You don’t have to be Catholic to enjoy a good polka mass.”
“Really?” I say, forgetting my concerns about exposing Bryan to the entire insane family at one time. “It’s a polka mass? God, I’ve missed those…”
“I’m sorry, did you say polka mass? Like ‘Roll Out the Barrel’? That kind of polka…but like hymns?” Bryan asks, looking between the two of us for some sign that we’re pulling his leg.
“Yes, exactly like that,” Jameson confirms. “Father Romance’s real name is Grigory Romanski—good Polish name. He likes his polkas. Ooooo, Henny, maybe the youth group will sell pierogis in the fellowship hall again.”
“Ohh, you think?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“You know, I’m gonna get going. I have some things to take care of back at the office,” Bryan says, pivoting awkwardly in his chunky new boots.
“Sund
ay. Eleven o’clock. We’ll be looking for you,” Jameson calls after him. He holds up a hand and keeps walking.
“Was that a yes?” she asks me.
I shrug.
“I hope not…for his sake.”
Chapter Twenty
Bryan
Truittism No.10: Beware the people who read between the lines…especially if that happens to be where you’re hiding.
I’m rattled. Not by the bagel-tossing toddler, but by his hair-tossing aunt. What was that back there? Since when do I go all sentimental over a piece of pie? And since when can I not stop thinking about Hennessy?
Well, if I’m honest with myself, I’ve had a hard time extracting her from my head since the second I laid eyes on her. But that was just physical—a perfectly natural response to an attractive woman.
Right?
Right.
So why am I thinking how I’d like to show her the little out-of-the-way restaurant in Malibu? And why am I wondering what her favorite flowers are… and her favorite color? Why is it that I suddenly care about how she feels more than how she looks in her tight jeans? And that last one’s by the slimmest of margins, by the way. Because Hennessy O’Halloran looks damn fine in her tight jeans.
“Ugh…” I groan out loud and pull the chair out from behind my desk, only to find Barack sitting in it. He’s curled up in a small, furry ball, his deep red sweater a bright accent against his tortoiseshell coat. He’s snoring. Yes, apparently this namesake of our forty-fourth president has a bit of a sleep apnea problem. And he drools, too.
“There he is,” King says as he sticks his head into my office. “Michelle has been pacing the place and yowling for him all morning.”
“Yeah, well, I might go into hiding, too, if there was a woman pacing and yowling for me.” I laugh.
The burly, older man squints, pushes his glasses farther up on his nose, and moves closer to get a look at the charts on my desk.
“Is that Iowa?”
“Yes, it is. I have a project in the works there.”
He nods and leans in, using his index finger to trace a line on the map with his finger.
“I know these parts. Very isolated community in the winter.”
“That’s why we’re looking to put a new supermarket there,” I explain, pointing to an area on the large, multicolor blueprint of the Hawkeye state.
Another nod as he considers this.
“So, not all your projects are malls and movie theaters?”
“Hardly,” I say, gently prodding the cat. He doesn’t move, so I tip the chair forward and he tumbles off, landing on his feet with an indignant meow. “Michelle’s looking for you,” I tell him as I shoo him away. I take the nicely warmed seat, open my laptop, and bring up a folder, waving King in for a closer look.
“Here,” I say, pointing to a picture of a gleaming white building. “That’s a new hospital in Missouri. And this…” I click and drag another image to the fore of the screen. “This is a senior center in Wisconsin. I mean, I do my share of commercial projects, but my skill set applies to more humanitarian objectives as well.”
“So how does it work, then, what you do?”
“I scout regions for investors. They want a movie theater, I find a venue that has a high likelihood of success based on placement, the size of the community, stuff like that. It’s essentially the same process if someone wants to invest in something like a clinic or a recycling center.”
King seems to consider this. “And here in Mayhem, you want to put up a movie theater.”
“I do,” I admit. “I think it could be a real asset to the region and bring some cash flow into Mayhem.”
“And what if we don’t want it?”
“Well, now, that’s always the question, isn’t it? Then, it comes down to you guys. I can’t build a thing that doesn’t have the consent of the town council and permits from the zoning board.”
King nods silently and works his way over to the calendar I have posted. I’ve highlighted a block of days and written countdown numbers in each box.
“This is how long Hennessy has before the loan’s due.” His words aren’t a question, they’re a statement of fact. I’m not sure if he’s guessed or if he knows something about this situation.
“Yes, it is. She’s down to a month now. I know she’s had some influx of cash, what with the chili cook-off and the new darts league, but I doubt she’s got more than ten-thousand toward the hundred she needs.”
I’m surprised to find that my words make me feel a little anxious for her. I’m even more surprised when crotchety old King Colby seems to pick up on this fact.
“You could be watching this all from Los Angeles,” he observes.
“Yes, I could be.”
“You’ve been here for nearly three weeks now.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Will you put in a bid if the property goes to sheriff’s auction?”
“It won’t go to sheriff’s auction.”
He eyeballs me for a few moments, head-to-toe, then, without warning, flips my board over so we’re looking at maps of Mayhem and pictures of the O’Halloran’s.
“I thought as much,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.
“Did you?” I really want to know. I’m always curious to find out what it is that tips people off to me and my actions.
“Yup. You look at everything. You listen to everyone. You want to know the inner workings of this town in a way that most people don’t pay much attention to.”
“And what does that tell you about me?” I press, folding my arms and turning slightly to face him.
King scratches the white stubble on his chin before meeting my eyes.
“Tells me you care. More than you want people to know.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting the surly older man to say, but that certainly was not it.
“I’ve seen a lot of guys like you come through here and other parts of the state,” he continues in his gruff manner. “Usually they want to get in and get out. It’s just about the money to them. They don’t care what they do to the community, or what happens to the people who live in it after they’ve built their latest monstrosity.”
“I am that guy,” I assure him, with some measure of shame.
King takes a deep breath before flipping the board over so we’re facing Iowa again.
“No, I think you were that guy.”
I’m about to comment when Barack Obama comes tearing through the room making an ungodly noise. He’s a red streak as he dives under my desk. An instant later, Michelle flies in after him, sporting a very elegant cream-colored cowl neck. Which reminds me…
“Hey, King? What does one wear to a polka mass?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Hennessy
“I can’t believe you did that,” I say for the hundredth time as we walk into the pub.
“Will you stop it already? Please. I was just being polite. I felt bad after what Jackson did…”
“What did the Red Menace do now?” Walker inquires curiously from where she’s wiping down the bar.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
“Oh, he called Bryan Truitt a…” She stops so she can whisper the next word so the kiddo won’t hear it. “A douche. And he threw a bagel at his nose.”
Walker looks at me, then at Jameson, then down at Jackson. She literally hops over the bar in one fluid motion and drops down to her haunches so that she’s face-to-face with our nephew.
“Dude! Outstanding job. Gimme five,” she demands, holding up her palm. Jackson chuckles with delight and smacks her open hand.
“Oh, for goodness sake, please don’t encourage him,” I grumble.
“Why not? He did good! Who’s the douche?” Walker coos at him. “Is Bryan the douche?”
“Brybry doooooshhhhh!” The toddler squeals with delight and bangs his chubby fists on the tray of his stroller.
“Johnnie Walker Black O’Halloran!” For a split second, we freeze—it’
s as if Jameson is channeling our dearly departed mother, who loved to spew our full names anytime we did something to displease her.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Walker mutters sheepishly and gets back to her feet.
“But that’s not all…” I begin, and Walker’s brows go up. “James invited him to Sunday supper after Mass.”
“You…what? What the hell were you thinking?” Walker hisses with shocked dismay.
“Oh, for crying out loud!” Jameson complains to the room at large, raising her palms toward the ceiling in exasperation. “Doesn’t anyone realize that this kid repeats every. Single. Thing. He. Hears?”
We all glance at Jackson, who appears to be happily involved with his sippy cup at the moment. Close call. Douche is bad enough. If the kid starts dropping the word “hell” now, he’ll probably discover the f-bomb by next week. And then Jameson’s head is really going to explode. And that won’t be good for any of us. Once we’re satisfied that he hasn’t noticed Walker’s expletive, we return to the matter at hand.
“Why would you invite that”—Walker stops to consider her next word—“mother trucker?”
I snort and am met with a glare from Jameson.
“First of all, I don’t think he is a… a mother trucker,” she explains. “I think he’s actually a decent guy. You should’ve seen him with the baby. He was great. And the way he looks at Henny…”
I shift uncomfortably. She may know what’s transpired between Bryan and me, but Walker and Bailey don’t. And I’m not so sure I want them to.
“He can’t take his eyes off her,” Jameson informs Walker. “And, let’s face it, we all know he could’ve found a way to strong-arm us into selling to him. Instead, he offered up the possibility of actually gifting the property to us. He even judged the stupid chili cook-off meant to raise the money to pay off the loan so he can’t buy it. Do those sound like the actions of a…mother trucker…to you?”
Walker considers this, but she doesn’t look happy about it. “Maybe. But I don’t trust him. He’s so…West Coast.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“He’s so confident and frickin’ breezy. I hate breezy people. You want me to take you seriously? Get yourself some good, old-fashioned Midwestern angst. Then I’ll take you seriously.”