On the Street Where You Die (Stanley Bentworth mysteries Book 1) by Al Stevens Page A

around his shoulder and his arm around my waist. He held the crutches in his other hand. We hobbled along like conjoined twins and went down the stairs. It took about ten minutes.
    We went out the front door, and I looked up and down the street. About a block away was an olive drab Chevy parked on the street.
    “Stay with me across the street,” I told Rodney, but I didn’t tell him why. I didn’t think the Army guys would do anything in front of a witness.
    But I was sure they were pissed about their beloved Captain getting hit broadside in the face with a shotgun barrel. Not to mention being blown up.
    Rodney walked with me across the street and into Ray’s.
    “You want lunch?” I asked.
    “No. I had my usual,” he said. He turned and headed back across the street.
    Some things never change.
    I went in and slowly lowered myself into a booth. The lunch crowd had left, so I had the joint to myself. I leaned my crutches against the wall and looked at the menu. Not that I had to, but it gave me something to do.
    Bunny came out of the kitchen and stared at me. It took her a while to figure out who I was. She scribbled an order for me, passed it through to the kitchen, and came over to where I was sitting. She looked at me a while before speaking. She had tears in her eyes. Great. Another woman getting all weepy over a few cuts and bruises.
    “Stan, what happened?”
    “Fell off my skateboard.”
    “Were you in the hospital?”
    “Yeah. Maybe a week. How do I look?”
    “Not good, but better than when you had the hangover.”
    I could always count on Bunny to lighten a dark moment.
    “Nobody told me you got hurt,” she said. “I wondered why I hadn’t seen you. I’d have come to visit you. You got some place to stay?”
    “Yeah, don’t worry.”
    I finished breakfast. Bill Penrod came in and sat across from me.
    “Willa said you were here. She was right. You do look like shit. Who’s that guy working for you?”
    “That’s Rodney. You remember him.”
    “Holy shit! The punker? What a difference! How’d you get him to scrub up?”
    “His idea. Wants to be a private dick like me.”
    “Man, the way you look now, nobody’d want to follow in your footsteps.”
    “What’s up, Bill?” As if I didn’t know.
    “You hear about the boat that blew up in the river? The boat owned by Captain Jeremy Pugh? The boat upon which said Jeremy Pugh probably died?”
    “Yeah. Real shame, isn’t it. I’m all broke up about it. I’ve heard that was a nice boat.”
    “You have anything to do with it?”
    Of course, he had to ask. Just doing his job.
    “Me? Look at me. What could I do? Besides, all my time is accounted for.”
    “Maybe, maybe not. The charge could have been set at any time. Could have been detonated from a cell phone. From a sick bed, even.”
    On the one hand I was proud that Bill credited me with having the savvy and balls to blow up a boat. On the other hand, I was uncomfortable being a suspect.
    “You know me,” I said. “I don’t know shit about explosives. Did you find a detonator?”
    “Christ, Stan, we didn’t even find the rudder. That was one hell of a blast. Should have kicked off a tsunami and wiped out the whole fucking town. There wasn’t anything left of the boat.”
    “And no body.”
    “Right. He hasn’t been seen since it happened. His wife is worried sick.”
    “She say anything to you about leaving him?”
    “No. Why?”
    “That’s what he told Amanda when she threatened to call her.”
    “He say why?”
    “No. But I’d guess based on how he treated Amanda, that he was knocking his wife around too. Might be some motive there.”
    “Interesting theory. But she seemed worried about him.”
    “Yeah. No body. Insurance companies make you wait seven years. That’d make anybody worry.”
    “In the meantime, you are still a person of interest.”
    I didn’t like him saying it that way. How many times had the two of us said the same thing to a suspect just to