Never Look Down by Warren C Easley

table got up and followed me out the door. I could hear the crunch of their boots in the gravel as we crossed the parking lot, but I forced myself to walk without a limp and willed myself not to look back. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.
    When I got to my car I turned around, an action that sent a stab of pain radiating out from my ribs. I hoped they didn’t see me wince. “Gentlemen, is there something else that needs discussing?”
    The taller of the two, dressed all in black like Johnny Cash, said, “We’re just making sure you get to your car safely. Sometimes people get their asses kicked out here. Damnedest thing.”
    The other man was squat and despite his enormous belly looked powerful. He said, “Yeah. Happens all the time to people who don’t mind their own business.” He chuckled. “Judging from your face, looks like somebody already got after you.”
    I bit back a comment that would have undoubtedly escalated the situation. Instead, I opened the car door. Archie hopped out and sensing the threat immediately, positioned himself in front of me and dropped his ears. Now the sides were even. An eighty-pound dog will do that. Both men stepped back. The tall man shrugged and turned to leave. The short guy followed. I breathed a sigh of relief, clapped Arch on his broad back, and let us both in the car.
    On my way to Portland I called Nando. He didn’t pick up, so I left a voice-mail telling him I’d failed to get the boot owner’s name. Farnell Timmons had been uncooperative, I told him, and there was a good chance that even a subpoena from Scott and Ludlow wouldn’t yield anything since Timmons said he’d purged the records.
    A couple of minutes later my cell chirped. I was hoping it was Nando, but it was Tay Jefferson instead. “Cal, something’s come up I think you should know about.” When I asked what it was, she said she’d rather talk in person and suggested we meet at a little deli she knew near the Federal Re-entry Center.
    â€œDoes the place have outside tables?” I asked. “It looks like it might clear up.”
    â€œYeah, I think they still have them out.”
    â€œGood. Grab one if you wouldn’t mind. I’ve got my dog with me.”
    I found Tay sitting under a radiant heater in an outside table at Maureen’s Deli on SE Eighty-second. She smiled and waved as Archie and I approached, but her smile faded when she saw my bruised face and the slow, deliberate way I sat down in front of her.
    â€œWhat happened to you, Cal?”
    When I told her I’d slipped on my porch steps, she kept her eyes on me for a couple beats before her mouth turned up slightly at one end, a half-smile that was becoming familiar. She had no reason to doubt me and didn’t press it, but it was clear you couldn’t get much past Tay Jefferson.
    Archie introduced himself by plopping his muzzle in Tay’s lap and wagging his entire backside. He got a big hug for his trouble. That dog of mine’s a shameless womanizer.
    Tay wore calf-length leather boots, skinny jeans, and a blazer over a white oxford blouse. Her eyes had a slight Asian tilt that lent her an exotic look. They seemed even larger than I remembered. Her upper lip was shaped in a cupid’s bow that the little cherub himself would have been proud of. “Thanks for coming, Cal. It’s a little nippy, but we can talk in privacy out here. I’ve only got thirty minutes.”
    â€œGood. So what’s up?”
    â€œOne of our residents at the FRC, a man named Manny Bonilla, was found dead in the Willamette yesterday, near Sauvie Island. I heard about it at work this morning. It was in the paper, too.”
    â€œI missed it. What happened to him?”
    â€œOur director didn’t know, and the paper didn’t say. They’ll do an autopsy, right?”
    I nodded. “So why call me?”
    A waitress appeared, and