Here Today, Gone Tamale by Rebecca Adler Page A

sheriff’s office.
    â€œHello, again.” The middle-aged secretary’s face lit up like a birthday cake.
    Not realizing her smile was for the former football star, Lightfoot gifted her with a dazzling smile and me with a short wave of his right hand. Perhaps he’d worked as a traffic cop prior to driving a cruiser to murder scenes. They probably put him in the road because he stopped traffic with that whole chiseled profile thing he had going on.
    But I refused to be treated as a pedestrian. “Are you waving at me?”
    â€œWho else? Come on.” Before I could come up with something witty, he left me to follow him on my own.
    â€œSuch a sense of humor,” I muttered to no one in particular.
    *   *   *
    â€œWhat’d you find out?” I asked as Uncle Eddie and I made our way back to the lobby.
    â€œFirst off, Lightfoot says we’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see Anthony because he’s meeting with his lawyer.”
    â€œDo you know her?” I didn’t actually think the Broken Boot public defender was a woman, but I tossed the idea out there to keep my uncle from getting too comfortable in his cave.
    He gave me a sharp look. “No, but Mack says he’s a fine lawyer, played tight end for UT back in the eighties.”
    â€œSince when does that matter?”
    Uncle Eddie stopped in his tracks. “Of course it matters. He played football for a Big 12 team and passed the bar. That man has drive and determination.”
    â€œWhat about Anthony’s bail?”
    â€œI don’t know,” he screwed up his mouth in thought. “Why don’t you call when you get back to Milagro?”
    I opened my mouth to argue. “He needs—”
    â€œI’ve got to get back to Two Boots or we won’t be able to open tonight.” His ready smile died.
    If our dance hall didn’t open, we’d miss payroll at both of our businesses. It had never happened, and my uncle swore on his father’s grave that it never would.
    As we crossed the lobby at a fast clip, I noticed Lightfoot conversing with the young, female volunteer at the information booth. I was so intent on ignoring the way she smiled at him that I almost ran over Patti Perez, who was leaving the building right in front of me.
    Three months had passed since I’d crawled home. I’d hidden the first six weeks from everyone but the customers at Milagro, spending my days and nights waiting tables, hosting, or being a couch potato upstairs in my loft apartment. Gradually, I’d added trips to Casa Martinez on Monday nights. I’d reached out to Patti only a couple of weeks ago, and she’d greeted me as if we were still summertime friends of twelve.
    My unemotional Goth friend surprised me by squeezing both of my hands. “I heard you found Dixie’s body. Are you okay?”
    â€œShaken, but not stirred.”
    She didn’t crack a smile.
    â€œI’m okay . . . or at least I will be.”
    Uncle Eddie cleared his throat. “Uh, Patti, would you mind taking Josie to the restaurant? I need to run over to Two Boots to avert a crisis.”
    â€œNo problemo,” she said, giving him a slow, emphatic nod.
    After a brief word of thanks for her and a back-cracking hug for me, my uncle broke into a trot toward the parking lot.
    â€œGet a load of that,” Patti murmured.
    I glanced over my shoulder to see what had my blasé friend so in awe. Lightfoot was heading down the sidewalk, wearing dark aviator shades and his usual somber expression.
    â€œWhat you see is all you get,” I whispered.
    â€œThat’s enough.”
    As he passed us, he tipped his hat. “Ladies.”
    â€œUh, hello, again.” I didn’t dare look at Patti.
    â€œYou know him, don’t you?”
    â€œNot really.”
    She elbowed me in the side. “Introduce us.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHey, officer,” Patti