Pure Heat by M. L. Buchman Page B

pop, tagged me with that about a lifetime ago. Ham named me Chutes the first day we joined. I mispacked my parachute the first time I ever did one. Ham was like that, but it was a mistake I never made again. Haven’t had a failed load in thirty years. That was even before my wife came along. She always called me Chutes, too.”
    Did everything here lead back to Carly and her dad?
    â€œCalled?”
    Chutes nodded, “Lost her last year. She died easy, went out pretty fast. Tumor one day, gone a month later.”
    Steve nodded before eating more of Chutes’s nachos in sympathy. He could hear the hurt, but also the softening of the pain.
    â€œDidn’t realize it had been a whole year.”
    Chutes was clearly remarking to himself, so Steve looked back at the pictures to give the man his space.
    The mirror behind the bar was tilted enough to offer a view of the restaurant tables behind them though the surface had been mostly covered with doghouse photos taped on the glass.
    Between a picture of a miniature dachshund puppy sleeping in a tipped-over beer mug and one of a massive Great Pyrenees sleeping in a wine barrel with the end knocked off, he caught a reflected flash of bright-blond hair in a bit of exposed mirror.
    Carly sat across the room, directly behind him. Leaning forward to talk to someone blocked by a picture of a husky, this one looking out of an igloo, a cheap plastic one underneath a palm tree. Still sporting that husky smile despite the lolling tongue.
    Shit. How was he supposed to know it was her Jeep when he’d slid in? Just another way to screw up on his first day with the Goonies. Now he at least had a chance to ask about the second way he’d screwed up.
    â€œWhat happened to her dad? He leave or something?” He accepted the stout and handed over a five, waved for the cute bartender to keep the change. Kind of place you wanted to end up on their good side. She slapped a quarter on the bar with disdain. Whoops. He set a couple of ones on top of the quarter and pushed them back. She took the ones with a smile that didn’t quite offer to rip his throat out before moving down the bar.
    She left the quarter on the scarred wood to glare at him after she’d moved on.
    Then he spotted the tip jar by the register, well down the bar. He took the quarter and flicked it. It backboarded off a surprised-looking Chihuahua peering out of a fur-lined milk crate and went in the jar with a bright “Plink!”
    The bar girl eyed the jar and then traced the flight back to him. He offered a smile. She repaid him with a negligent shrug and turned back, but not in time to hide her grin.
    He took a swallow to clear the last of the parking-lot dust from his throat.
    Chutes didn’t even give him a “nice shot.” Instead, he was clearly still considering Steve’s question about Carly’s dad bugging out.
    â€œOr something.” Chutes was studying his beer.
    Steve sniffed the pint. Took another taste. Swirled it around in his mouth for a bit. He held the mug up to the glass of the front door, the only bright light in the whole place as the setting sun drove straight in. Deep red tint in the mug.
    â€œCherry stout. I could get used to this.”
    Chutes had gone all quiet, which snagged Steve’s attention because he’d gone too quiet for such a noisy, happy bar. A quick glance at the mirror showed Carly smiling at someone, but still practically shimmering with that focused energy she seemed to bring to everything.
    â€œWhat ‘something’?”
    Chutes fooled around with his napkin for a bit on the bar top. Someone had dumped some coins in an old jukebox in the corner. The Flatt and Scruggs version of “Salty Dog” joined the general noise of the bar.
    â€œYou know Carly’s third-generation firefighter.” Chutes leaned in so that he could keep his voice down.
    â€œI’m new here. I don’t know shit. I just stepped in