Not ever.”
“Then the Lance of Justice couldn’t prove all those bad things he said.”
The sound that came out of George’s throat reminded me of thunder. “That didn’t stop him. He showed up at my restaurant one afternoon and even brought a cameraman with him. I tried to toss them both out on their keisters, and before I could . . .” It had happened twelve years earlier, but just thinking about it turned George’s cheeks a color that reminded me of the trickle of blood on the back of Jack Lancer’s neck.
“That creep had a little box with him, and he opened it up and released mice into the restaurant. Just in time for his cameraman to get shots of those critters running helter-skelter all over the place. The couple customers I had—they didn’t see Jack spill the mice out of the box—they ran out of the place without paying and they never came back. And Jack Lancer”—George ground the name out from between his teeth—“that so-and-so ran a story on the news that night all about how my place was dirty and should be closed. He went to the health department and showed them the footage.”
I guess George realized he had an ally when he saw the way my hands curled into fists. He shot me a small smile to thank me for the support. It didn’t last more than a second. “Folks stopped coming,” he said. “Just like that. Word spread and folks stopped coming and I had to close my doors.”
“So you really did have a reason to want to kill Jack Lancer!”
To George’s eternal credit, he did not deny this. In fact, he simply grinned.
It was so coldhearted a look, I swallowed hard. “The cops are going to find out that Owen Quilligan couldn’t have killed the Lance of Justice,” I told George without explaining how I knew. “My guess is when they do, they’ll come around and talk to you. I mean, if they know about what happened in Struthers.”
“Something you need to know about this part of the world. Nobody hardly ever leaves. Everybody’s involved in everybody else’s lives, and everybody knows everybody. The cops, they know what happened back in Struthers. Everybody knows.”
“Then they probably will talk to you. You just need to stay cool and keep calm,” I told George. “Just tell them thetruth.” A thought hit and I gave the cook a careful look. “You do have an alibi for last night, don’t you, George?”
“Alibi? Sure.” George went over to the grill and grabbed his spatula again. “I was out. All night.”
“And not here.”
He shook his head. “Not here.”
“The cops will want to know where you were.”
“I was—”
Denice poked her head into the kitchen. “Hey, George,” she called, “Lou wants another stack of pancakes!”
He grabbed the mixing bowl and ladled batter onto the grill. “I was at my AA meeting over at St. Colman’s Church,” George told me. He didn’t wait for me to ask for the details. “See, after I lost the restaurant, I kind of hit rock bottom. Found comfort in a bottle and hardly came up for air for months at a time. So you see . . .” He deftly flipped the pancakes. “My restaurant closing and my drinking . . . well, I got Jack Lancer to thank for ruining my life.”
Chapter 8
W hen four men arrived at the door of the Terminal at noon and none of them were carrying notebooks, cameras, or tape recorders, I was encouraged.
Until Inez informed me that they were Stan, Dale, Phil, and Ruben, Terminal regulars who hadn’t missed a lunch at Sophie’s in three years, ever since the factory where they used to work closed down and they filled their weeks with passing the time, shooting the breeze, and wishing for the good old days when there was plenty of work on the assembly line along with overtime hours and health care benefits. Sophie’s was their daily lunchtime stop, and they’d linger over coffee until nearly four, Inez said. On weekdays, Sophie’s closes at five so where Stan, Dale, Phil, and Ruben went after they
“Then the Lance of Justice couldn’t prove all those bad things he said.”
The sound that came out of George’s throat reminded me of thunder. “That didn’t stop him. He showed up at my restaurant one afternoon and even brought a cameraman with him. I tried to toss them both out on their keisters, and before I could . . .” It had happened twelve years earlier, but just thinking about it turned George’s cheeks a color that reminded me of the trickle of blood on the back of Jack Lancer’s neck.
“That creep had a little box with him, and he opened it up and released mice into the restaurant. Just in time for his cameraman to get shots of those critters running helter-skelter all over the place. The couple customers I had—they didn’t see Jack spill the mice out of the box—they ran out of the place without paying and they never came back. And Jack Lancer”—George ground the name out from between his teeth—“that so-and-so ran a story on the news that night all about how my place was dirty and should be closed. He went to the health department and showed them the footage.”
I guess George realized he had an ally when he saw the way my hands curled into fists. He shot me a small smile to thank me for the support. It didn’t last more than a second. “Folks stopped coming,” he said. “Just like that. Word spread and folks stopped coming and I had to close my doors.”
“So you really did have a reason to want to kill Jack Lancer!”
To George’s eternal credit, he did not deny this. In fact, he simply grinned.
It was so coldhearted a look, I swallowed hard. “The cops are going to find out that Owen Quilligan couldn’t have killed the Lance of Justice,” I told George without explaining how I knew. “My guess is when they do, they’ll come around and talk to you. I mean, if they know about what happened in Struthers.”
“Something you need to know about this part of the world. Nobody hardly ever leaves. Everybody’s involved in everybody else’s lives, and everybody knows everybody. The cops, they know what happened back in Struthers. Everybody knows.”
“Then they probably will talk to you. You just need to stay cool and keep calm,” I told George. “Just tell them thetruth.” A thought hit and I gave the cook a careful look. “You do have an alibi for last night, don’t you, George?”
“Alibi? Sure.” George went over to the grill and grabbed his spatula again. “I was out. All night.”
“And not here.”
He shook his head. “Not here.”
“The cops will want to know where you were.”
“I was—”
Denice poked her head into the kitchen. “Hey, George,” she called, “Lou wants another stack of pancakes!”
He grabbed the mixing bowl and ladled batter onto the grill. “I was at my AA meeting over at St. Colman’s Church,” George told me. He didn’t wait for me to ask for the details. “See, after I lost the restaurant, I kind of hit rock bottom. Found comfort in a bottle and hardly came up for air for months at a time. So you see . . .” He deftly flipped the pancakes. “My restaurant closing and my drinking . . . well, I got Jack Lancer to thank for ruining my life.”
Chapter 8
W hen four men arrived at the door of the Terminal at noon and none of them were carrying notebooks, cameras, or tape recorders, I was encouraged.
Until Inez informed me that they were Stan, Dale, Phil, and Ruben, Terminal regulars who hadn’t missed a lunch at Sophie’s in three years, ever since the factory where they used to work closed down and they filled their weeks with passing the time, shooting the breeze, and wishing for the good old days when there was plenty of work on the assembly line along with overtime hours and health care benefits. Sophie’s was their daily lunchtime stop, and they’d linger over coffee until nearly four, Inez said. On weekdays, Sophie’s closes at five so where Stan, Dale, Phil, and Ruben went after they
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