how’d you score?”
“Friend.”
She’d worked as a deputy coroner for Arapahoe, and her husband…I realized she’d been widowed for at least a year…had all kinds of friends who might have access to those photos, but why show them to Brianna?
“I’m sorry…about Joe.” Had meant to say it after it had happened. Had thought about attending the funeral, but was afraid it’d only upset her more.
“Thank you.”
I inserted the key into the ignition, but didn’t turn it. “So…what about the photos?”
“I…think it’d be better if we met in person. Phones, you know.”
I knew what she meant, although her paranoia took me by surprise. I didn’t think my situation had evolved into a tap on my cell, mostly because it took legal legwork and a lot of paperwork to get a wiretap. If somebody—like Mr. Crain—wanted it that badly, I doubted it’d be in effect for another few days, at least. On the other hand, any idiot could download spyware and listen in on someone’s call, even if the person wasn’t on the phone. Wouldn’t hold up in court, but crazy people wanted to eavesdrop for reasons that had nothing to do with the legal system.
I looked at the gray clouds threatening snow, realized it was better to get together sooner than later. “I have time now.”
“Me, too. Where?”
I wondered what the hell she’d seen in those photos that she’d drop everything to meet.
“How about that place on Colfax.”
“Gyro?”
The Greek place we used to meet. “No. Star Man.”
“Yeah.” Pause. “See you in thirty.”
I hung up, started the Durango and headed out of the lot, past the rolling foothills dotted with clumps of pinion and leafless scrub oak. To the southwest yawned the mouth to Mt. Vernon Canyon and the road to Lookout Mountain where my grandmother had lived for thirty years until her death. She hadn’t approved of Wicked, although she’d been too much of a lady to ever say it. Her lack of exuberance whenever Wicked was around and the decreased invitations to dinner had clued me in. My grandmother came from an upbringing where ladies didn’t gossip or backstab, especially when it involved family, although I wished to hell she had. Might have saved me from marrying the wrong person and being in the clusterfuck I was today.
• • •
Half-hour later, I arrived at the stainless steel Davies Chuck Wagon Diner on East Colfax and slouched into a booth at the back, facing the door. I waved down the waitress and ordered a coffee.
One of the last post-WWII diners, Davies Chuck Wagon Diner was more famous for what was outside than in—a 36-foot neon cowboy in an apron, ready to serve hungry folks, and the life-size fiber-glass horse bolted onto its roof. Brianna and I used to meet here for quick lunches, a convenient spot halfway between our then-homes. By then, the diner had become famous as a locale for movies and TV shows, including a flick we both had loved,
Star Man
, about an alien who crashes into earth and clones himself using a hair from a woman’s deceased husband. We’d liked the film because the alien gave the woman a baby, something we’d decided we wanted and were actively working on. Good thing it never happened.
Claustrophobics couldn’t eat here. The counter, tables, and booths were steps from the kitchen. Through its window the short order cook, a scrawny dude who looked like an extra from
Easy Rider
, banged pots and wrangled food on a sizzling grill. An old Blondie hit, “Call Me,” played in the background. I like to be open-minded about music, but Blondie’s dead-pan, rag-doll delivery made my eardrums throb.
A few minutes later Brianna entered the diner, and for a surreal moment, I was slammed with remorse, pain, and a sweetness for what could have been. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit my heart shrank a little.
Her body was more angular, her curly dishwater blond hair longer, wavier, but she still had that jaunty watch-out-world walk. She’d never
“Friend.”
She’d worked as a deputy coroner for Arapahoe, and her husband…I realized she’d been widowed for at least a year…had all kinds of friends who might have access to those photos, but why show them to Brianna?
“I’m sorry…about Joe.” Had meant to say it after it had happened. Had thought about attending the funeral, but was afraid it’d only upset her more.
“Thank you.”
I inserted the key into the ignition, but didn’t turn it. “So…what about the photos?”
“I…think it’d be better if we met in person. Phones, you know.”
I knew what she meant, although her paranoia took me by surprise. I didn’t think my situation had evolved into a tap on my cell, mostly because it took legal legwork and a lot of paperwork to get a wiretap. If somebody—like Mr. Crain—wanted it that badly, I doubted it’d be in effect for another few days, at least. On the other hand, any idiot could download spyware and listen in on someone’s call, even if the person wasn’t on the phone. Wouldn’t hold up in court, but crazy people wanted to eavesdrop for reasons that had nothing to do with the legal system.
I looked at the gray clouds threatening snow, realized it was better to get together sooner than later. “I have time now.”
“Me, too. Where?”
I wondered what the hell she’d seen in those photos that she’d drop everything to meet.
“How about that place on Colfax.”
“Gyro?”
The Greek place we used to meet. “No. Star Man.”
“Yeah.” Pause. “See you in thirty.”
I hung up, started the Durango and headed out of the lot, past the rolling foothills dotted with clumps of pinion and leafless scrub oak. To the southwest yawned the mouth to Mt. Vernon Canyon and the road to Lookout Mountain where my grandmother had lived for thirty years until her death. She hadn’t approved of Wicked, although she’d been too much of a lady to ever say it. Her lack of exuberance whenever Wicked was around and the decreased invitations to dinner had clued me in. My grandmother came from an upbringing where ladies didn’t gossip or backstab, especially when it involved family, although I wished to hell she had. Might have saved me from marrying the wrong person and being in the clusterfuck I was today.
• • •
Half-hour later, I arrived at the stainless steel Davies Chuck Wagon Diner on East Colfax and slouched into a booth at the back, facing the door. I waved down the waitress and ordered a coffee.
One of the last post-WWII diners, Davies Chuck Wagon Diner was more famous for what was outside than in—a 36-foot neon cowboy in an apron, ready to serve hungry folks, and the life-size fiber-glass horse bolted onto its roof. Brianna and I used to meet here for quick lunches, a convenient spot halfway between our then-homes. By then, the diner had become famous as a locale for movies and TV shows, including a flick we both had loved,
Star Man
, about an alien who crashes into earth and clones himself using a hair from a woman’s deceased husband. We’d liked the film because the alien gave the woman a baby, something we’d decided we wanted and were actively working on. Good thing it never happened.
Claustrophobics couldn’t eat here. The counter, tables, and booths were steps from the kitchen. Through its window the short order cook, a scrawny dude who looked like an extra from
Easy Rider
, banged pots and wrangled food on a sizzling grill. An old Blondie hit, “Call Me,” played in the background. I like to be open-minded about music, but Blondie’s dead-pan, rag-doll delivery made my eardrums throb.
A few minutes later Brianna entered the diner, and for a surreal moment, I was slammed with remorse, pain, and a sweetness for what could have been. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit my heart shrank a little.
Her body was more angular, her curly dishwater blond hair longer, wavier, but she still had that jaunty watch-out-world walk. She’d never
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