by Rhys Ford
“Fuck.”
He was tired. Dead to the bone tired, and the day wasn’t even half-over yet. The Shack was finally empty of cops, the bakery was given the go-ahead to cook in, and he’d conned Justin into taking Roman back to the motel with him for the afternoon, something his younger brother did not want to do. Yesterday, school was ruled out for Roman at nearly the exact same moment the blond faux gunman kicked in the kitchen’s back door, and Rome oddly enough vehemently disagreed with the decision until Angel figured out he’d used the morning for bragging rights.
And God only knew what story Rome told his classmates. Angel half expected to find himself in the school’s front office explaining to the principal and CPS that no, they hadn’t taken down a ninja troupe or terrorists, and yes, his brother had a very vivid imagination. It’d been a bit of a relief when he hadn’t gotten yet another call to go down and pull Roman’s head out of his ass.
“I don’t have the money for new, Frank,” Angel said, rubbing at his face in the hopes it would scrape his brain off of his aching skull. “Shit, I don’t have money for used.”
“What about insurance?” The repairman looked around the shot-up bakery. “Tell me you’ve got insurance.”
“Yeah, but they’re not covering a lot of it. The guy laughed when I told him how old this thing was. Said I’d be lucky to get five hundred for it.” Angel tallied up what he had in his emergency funds and winced at the number he came up with. “I’ve got no idea where the hell to pick up a used oven. They make classifieds for old broken-down ovens looking for a new place to call home?”
“I might have a line on one. A guy I know is selling off his equipment. Going down to Florida to chase old women with sagging tits and big bank accounts.” Frank stood, stretching his back out in a long popping crack. “Rotating. A little bit bigger than this one but definitely newer. Gas, which would be good, considering you’ve already got lines.”
“Frank, there are stone tablets with Scripture on them that are newer than this oven. How much?”
Angel braced himself. Frank named a price high enough to take the wind out of Angel’s lungs.
“Shit, there’s no way I can swing that. That’s like… shit, might as well ask for a unicorn.”
The older man took his ball cap off and ran his hand through his thinning hair. “Now don’t take this wrong, and hear me out all the way before you say anything.”
“You start off like that and my gut reaction is to say no,” Angel warned, leaning against a prep counter. “But sure, go ahead.”
“I know this guy,” Frank hedged. “And I know you. The oven’s a good one. Cheap at that price.”
“Yeah, I just don’t have anyone to give my left nut to so I’ve got the cash to buy it,” Angel interjected.
“What I’m telling you, son, is that I’ll float you the oven. Now shut up and listen before you talk.”
Frank held his hand up, and Angel swallowed the no in his throat.
“He’ll take payments for it if I speak for you. We can work something reasonable out between all of us, and that way, you stay in business, and that sweet girl Justin works for gets those peach cobbler muffins she likes so much. And let me tell you, that alone is worth the price of that oven.”
“So you’re going to help me get an oven just so you can continue to bring Yvonne in after church and get peach muffins?” Angel scoffed. “Pull the other leg, Frank.”
“Never underestimate what a bit of sweet can do between two people, son,” Frank countered. “Now, you know you’re not going to get a better deal than this. No bank’ll touch you. And not like that scum father of yours is going to extend his hand with some cash. I’m the best you’ve got.”
“Even if my dad was going to extend his hand or anything else on his worthless body, you’re still the best I’ve got, Frank.” He hated the idea of being in debt to the man, but Angel didn’t see any other way out. Even used, a good oven cost thousands more than he had on hand. “We have to do it legally. Contract with interest, and I turn the insurance money over to you.”
“If that helps you sleep at night, kid, sure.” Frank grinned at him. “Now, tell me there’s some dobash left over from this morning’s run, and I won’t even charge you for coming out.”
“Maybe a couple left. I made cupcakes out of the batter this time around. Shake and we’ll call it a deal on the dobash.” Angel held his hand out as a man cleared his throat from the back of the kitchen. Turning, Angel frowned at the silhouette at the door. “Sorry, we’re closed.”
“Thanks, but I’m looking for Angel Daniels,” the man replied, shaking an umbrella off at the stoop. “I take it that’s you?”
Angel frowned. “Yeah, but I wasn’t expecting any deliveries. We’re shut down for the day.”
“What you’ve got there is cop, son.” Frank stiffened and tucked the rag into the back pocket of his work pants. “Thought you all were done here.”
The man stepped out of the watery afternoon sun and into the kitchen. Around Angel’s height and with roughhewn Irish features, he looked more like a rugby player than a cop, but the badge he flashed was real, as was the authoritative stance he took once he got inside.
“Detective Montague. I’ve been assigned to a case involving a Weston Harris. Do you know who that is?”
“Oh yeah. Can’t seem to shake him off of me.” It was a shame what they’d come to. He hadn’t seen West since Angel’s father stole out of Half Moon Bay with Angel and a roadside diner’s Saturday-night take. West was long gone by the time Angel’d been dumped back onto Main Street, left with nothing but a backpack full of dirty clothes, a few books, and a couple of bucks he’d made playing poker at a truck stop. “He owns the Moonlight Motel out back behind the bakery. Why?” A chill ran through Angel’s blood. “Something happen to him?”
“You can say that. Someone in a delivery truck rammed the car he was in this morning.”
Montague’s smile was thin and cold, a sliver of ice on the heat of Angel’s worry.
“And one of the head honchos at Harris’s business seems to think you might have been the one to do it.”
Three
WEST HARRIS.
It could have been the tired in his bones or maybe the stress of being shot at and being scared for Roman, but hearing West’s name brought Angel’s heart to a shuddering, clenching stop. It wasn’t like he didn’t see West’s face a few times a month. Hardly a week went by without him dropping by Lang’s store, Between The Lines, so he’d seen West age over the years.
No, he corrected himself, he’d seen Lang age and only hoped he could find glimmers of the angry, hurt teen he’d lost his heart to more than a decade ago. West wasn’t there. Not in Lang’s amicable expressions and shy smiles. West’s edges were sharper, his hunger and thirst for knowledge deeper, and they’d share secrets under the warm summer skies lying on the beach with only the stars and the ocean to keep them company. Even now, after life slapped at Lang, then handed him someone to love, Lang’s face still had fewer shadows, fewer secrets than his brother’s.
“Is he okay?” Angel found his voice, a scraped whisper in his too dry throat. “West. Is he okay?”
“He should be fine, Mr. Daniels. Mind if I call you Angel?” Montague asked. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”
“Angel’s fine,” he said softly, trying to find his heartbeat again in the middle of his sharp inhale. The relief filling the space his fear left made him sick, a sugary gloop of emotion Angel wasn’t sure he deserved to feel. “Sorry. I just—fucking hell. West. Um… private. Yeah, the front—”
“Hold up. Why do you think the man’s got something to do with Harris getting hurt?” Frank edged in close, his booming voice harsh and loud in the wide space. Frank’s tone lacked menace, but there was a definite steely thread in his words. “He’s had some shit come down on him, and instead of the cops going out and finding who shot his place up, they send you to poke him over some rich dude who’s been making problem
s for him. You all ever think maybe this Harris guy sent someone to shoot Angel and that they’re now trying to cover their asses?”
It was interesting watching the standoff between Frank and the cop. For all his bluster, Frank was a solid, large, older black man, easygoing until he came up against anyone of authority. Then his heels dug in, and he stonewalled with the best of them. Montague seemed… amused, while oddly, Frank hovered on belligerent. The cop wasn’t small, thickly built, and probably had more strength than Frank expected under his button-up shirt, red tie, and beige duster, but a brawl would mean Frank getting arrested, and when push came to shove, Angel needed that damned oven.
“Frank, it’s okay.” As much muscle as Angel’d put on over the years, Frank still could probably pick him up and slam him into the ground without so much as sweating. Pulling on Frank’s arm, Angel tugged him back. “The cop and I’ve got to talk. Someone fucked Harris up, and they came up with probably a bunch of people they think want to see Harris taken out. Cops don’t know me, so they’ve got to ask. Might as well be here and now so I can get back to work.”
Jutting his chin out, Frank stared down Montague for a long minute, then turned to Angel and said, “Need me to stick around? In case you need a witness or something.”
As endearing as Frank’s protectiveness was, it was odd to have someone hovering over him. His father was more a look-out-for-number-one, and from what Angel’d seen growing up, it was pretty much how the world operated. Half Moon Bay was different. He was different here—a better person, a kinder person—and it was the main reason he’d fought his way through the hell his father’d put him through just to come back. Then just as Angel thought he was finally free of Linus Daniels and his fuckery, his father’d stopped by his apartment long enough to dump his scared brother, then took off for parts unknown, leaving Angel to deal with Roman alone.
If only trying to keep Rome’s anger and troublemaking contained as tightly as possible counted as dealing.
So Frank’s paternal adoration was a perplexing, welcome mess of affection Angel didn’t quite know what to do with. He hadn’t been expecting to find a father figure in his thirties—although father was a bit of a stretch. Uncle maybe. Or at least an older disgruntled cousin with a really good left hook.
“What am I going to need a witness for?” Angel scoffed. “Not like I did anything to him. And he just said Harris is okay.”
“Cops lie, kid,” Frank asserted. “It’s how they trap you. They don’t have to tell you the truth. It’s not entrapment if you give up stuff they can twist and use against you. Hell, Harris could be dead for all—”
“Harris is fine, by all accounts,” Montague reassured them. “This is just routine follow-up, and since I’m here, we can touch on what happened last night because it’s probably going to land on my desk. Harbershaw’s going on vacation in a couple of days, and I’ll be handling most of the heavy stuff.”
“There you go, no witnesses needed. Frank, it’s okay. ’Sides, you’ve got one more job today, right?” Angel reminded the mountain of a man looming over them. “You go do that, and I’ll let you know what the insurance guy says. Maybe I can talk them into giving me more than a few bucks. Had to have learned something from my dad about getting people to do what I want.”
“Angel, you are nothing like that asshole. I’ll get back to you later about the oven, kiddo. Should be able to get in tomorrow or the day after. I’ve got a guy with a truck.” Frank fixed a steady hard glare on the detective, tugging his T-shirt down over his belly. “We’ll have you up and running in no time.”
“Okay… and thanks. Really. I don’t know what else to say.” Angel found himself caught up in a brisk, hard hug. The man smelled of unfiltered cigarettes, oil, and the cinnamon candies he kept stashed in his pocket to suck on while working. Gasping to tease Frank when the man finally let go, he choked out, “Want some of the cupcakes?”
“I’ll swing by later and grab them. Next job should be easy. I’ll be back in an hour.” Grabbing his toolbox from the floor, Frank nodded at the kitchen’s back door. “If you need help fixing that, wait till I come back, and we can knock it out.”
“Thanks. I’ll see how far I can get without nailing my hand to the wall or something,” Angel replied as Frank elbowed his way past Montague, then closed the temporary back door as tightly as it could fit into the newly built-out frame. “Love the man but…. Jesus.”
“Your friend there seems a little uptight.” The detective chuckled. “Doesn’t seem to like cops a lot. Anything I’ve got to worry about?”
“Nope, you’re fine. Frank just gets… intense. He’ll tell you he was an angry young man in the sixties and didn’t have a lot of love for cops.” Giving Montague a shrug when the detective grunted at him, Angel continued with a laugh. “And then he’ll tell you he’s a cranky old man in his sixties, and he still doesn’t like cops. Says it all the time so don’t take it wrong. This questioning thing going to take long? ’Cause if it is, I’m going to need some coffee.”
“I wouldn’t say no to coffee,” Montague replied, pulling a notebook out of his jacket pocket. “If you’re offering.”
Montague’s deep brown eyes looked as tired as Angel’s felt, and there was a sadness to them stark enough to make a stone ache in sympathy. A pale stripe of skin on Montague’s tanned ring finger was recent, the grooved edges of a missing band still denting the detective’s flesh. There was a simmer there, something tangible Angel liked, especially when the detective’s wide mouth quirked to the side into a sardonic grin. The cop was handsome enough for Angel to wish he felt up to flirting with anyone, much less a straight cop. Hell, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d even kissed anyone, other than Justin on the cheek when he offered to keep track of Rome.
“Coffee and a cupcake. That’s what I’m offering.” It was safer to keep to what he knew, and Angel slung down two mugs from the shelf behind the register. “Maybe a muffin or a scone. Depends on what we’ve got. Come on to the front. There’s at least places to sit there.”
The Pizza Shack Bakery’s windows needed cleaning, Angel noticed as he led the detective to the front of the old building. Dust from the road and the rain left leopard-like rosettes on the glass, and it was something he could get Rome to do in exchange for a few bucks. He’d yanked the blinds up, letting in what little sunshine he could pull from the overcast day. The kitchen door opened up to behind the counter space and the bakery’s oddly empty display cases. Set on the short right side of the long space, the cases were angled to show off sweets and pastries to passersby and customers, but while the setup worked great for pulling in walk-up business, it was hellish to get around with a full tray. Or, as Angel stepped around a box of coffee Justin’d left on the floor, around the case itself.
Several love seats and couches were placed around low coffee tables, with a few padded wooden chairs thrown into the mix to keep things interesting, and considering he’d been scraping to get by back when he’d first opened the bakery, Angel liked how the front room ended up looking like a place people could sit and talk. The broad room’s golden walls were nearly gilt under the afternoon sun and a decent enough backdrop for the landscapes he’d found at the dump and paid Justin to add mythical beasts to.
“Pizza Shack Bakery?” Montague held up one of the shop’s flyers. “I remember getting slices here after school. Kind of weird name, though.”
“Hey, that sign on the roof’s expensive. It was easier to just add Bakery to it than get a new one.” He shrugged off the detective’s chuckle. “I was running cheap back then, and everyone knew where this was. Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“You make anything pizza-tasting?”
“Empanadas on Friday.” He laughed at Montague’s curious glance up. “Like tiny calzones. Easy to make and sell like crazy but a bitch to keep stocked. The crew’s got to deep fry all day with those bastards. Just coffee or something to eat?”
“Coffee for now,” Montague replied.
“Maybe something later? I don’t know how much money—”
“Don’t want the money. It’ll be day old in a couple of hours, and I can’t open tomorrow, so can’t sell them. They might as well get eaten. I’ll see what’s left later,” Angel called out to the detective wandering around the bakery’s seating. “Coffee’s a medium roast, if you don’t mind. I get a great deal from a family on the Big Island. Just got a shipment in this morning, so I can at least say the beans are fresh.”
“If it’s hot, relatively a dark color, and better than the crap they give us at the station, I’m calling it a win,” Montague shot back. “Never been in here before. It’s… nice. Like it’s a living room or something.”
“That’s what I was aiming for. Mostly people like to sit on couches, so they stay longer. And if they stay longer, people going by think it’s a busy place and want to stop,” Angel confessed as he brought the full coffee mugs to the front. “I read it in a business magazine. I don’t know if it works, but it sure as hell looks nicer than plastic lawn chairs. Cream or sugar?”
“Black’s fine.” The detective took the mug Angel offered him, then sat down. “You said you’ve got a history of sorts with Harris. Anything to be concerned about?”
“Something of a history. We did stupid things together when we were kids… teenagers. Then I left, and he… did whatever it is rich kids do when they’re done with their playthings after a summer.” The velvet sofa was a lot more comfortable than Angel’d remembered, or he was a hell of a lot more tired than he’d realized. Either way, it felt good to sit down, even if it was to get grilled by a cop. “I haven’t seen West in… shit, years. Not since me and my dad drove off. I know his brother—friends kind of—but it’s been a while for me and West.”