Don't Ever Get Old by Daniel Friedman Page B

sentences for every day in prison they don’t stab somebody. We put these shitheads away, and they just let them walk right back out the door to pile more corpses in the streets and more open files on my desk.”
    â€œThat’s what they pay you for.”
    â€œNot nearly enough. The health insurance just kills me, and the kitchen needs to be redone, and the kid needs private school, and my old man is in one of those nursing places for four grand a month. His Social Security ain’t enough to cover that. And when they don’t pay you a decent wage to do a clean day’s work, it’s damn hard to turn away when somebody tries to slip you something under the table.”
    â€œI didn’t come out tonight to hear about your homosexual activities, Detective.”
    He chuckled a little bit. “I must have forgot who I was talking to.”
    â€œI been forgetting stuff lately myself,” I said.
    â€œYeah, you told me that already.”
    â€œSorry. I forgot.”
    â€œYou’re so full of shit,” he said. And when I didn’t respond, he asked, “So, what do you think about Feely?”
    â€œHe seems a little too delicate to be a slasher, but I don’t know him that well,” I said. “I heard Kind had a gambling problem.”
    â€œFrom who?”
    â€œKind told me, last night. He was hurting for money. That was why he was so concerned about anything Wallace might have left to the church.”
    Jennings cocked his eyebrow at me. “You know more than you’re telling me.”
    â€œNothing I can remember,” I said. “Seems to me like this might have been done over gambling debts or unpaid loans.”
    â€œWe’ve already got guys snooping around the casinos in Tunica County,” Jennings told me. “Believe it or not, the world didn’t grind to a halt when you retired. We can still do police work without Buck Schatz.”
    â€œThen why did you drag me out to this crime scene?”
    â€œShits and giggles, old-timer.”
    â€œHave I mentioned that I don’t like you?”
    He laughed. “Yeah, but I didn’t think you meant it.” He handed me a business card. “That’s got my cell number on it, and I’ll answer it anytime. Do me a favor and give me a call if your memory improves, or if you start feeling guilty about impeding a murder investigation.”

 
    13
    From the church, Tequila drove me to the Blue Plate Cafe, down on Poplar Avenue in East Memphis. It was a cozy little place, built in what used to be a house. They served breakfast all day, and everything on the menu was soaked in grease. I wasn’t allowed to smoke in the restaurant, but I liked the buttery biscuits with cream gravy, and Rose never let me get near food like that.
    â€œWhen I was a kid, Dad used to take me to work with him sometimes, in the summer, when I wasn’t in school. We’d always stop here for pancakes on the way downtown,” Tequila said. “It’s strange coming home, since he’s been gone. You know, we never talk about Dad.”
    I ran my fingers around the edges of the memory notebook. “I got nothing to say to you about that.”
    â€œLast night, I sat in the living room, looking at his clock on the wall above the fireplace. I remember, every night he used to climb up on the ottoman, and wind that clock with a little key. Mom doesn’t know how to do it, so it’s stopped. It just hangs there now.”
    I took a long sip from a cup of black coffee and dunked a biscuit into the bowl of gravy.
    Tequila crossed his arms. “It’s not right. He shouldn’t be dead.”
    â€œLots of people shouldn’t be dead, and they’re dead anyway,” I said. “That preacher back there, far as I know, did nothing to deserve what happened to him.”
    â€œDeserve’s got nothing to do with it,” Tequila said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNever mind.