The Subtle Art of Brutality

A counter guy walks over: requisite pimples and mottled skin belonging to anyone who shuck and jives in a lard-filled fast food restaurant. Scrawny. Greasy, scraggily hair spilling out in tendrils from underneath his ineffective hair net. Defeats the purpose.

His fingernails are long and dirty. He stares at me with the apathetic look that any adolescent has. I look at him. Push the photo across the counter.

“When was the last time you seen her?”

He looks at the picture, thinks. “How do you know I’ve seen her?”

“Everybody says so. Now spill it.”

He regards me with angst-fueled contempt. As if giving me a pseudo-tough guy routine will earn him street credit.

“C’mon, goofball,” I say, taking the picture back. “Don’t make me punch you so hard the impact pops all your zits.”

He looks at my knuckles and sees they’ve been chewed up with a lifetime of slugging faces.

Instantaneous change in attitude. “She was here maybe a half hour ago.”

Bingo.

“Then?”

“She went across the street.”

I look out the storefront and see a row of non-descript brick buildings. Look like small warehouses or general office buildings.

“Which one?”

“The one with the stone staircase. Double doors.”

“She went in there thirty minutes ago?”

“Yes.”

“With anybody?”

“Just her leftovers.”

I set down my card and look at him. “I’m going over there. If she comes outside without me, call this number. If you do that for me, I’ll come back and leave a bill on the table. If you don’t and I find out she went this way, I’ll come back and leave your teeth on the table. Do we understand one another?”

A nod and I’m out the door.

60

This is what a payday smells like.

Out the burger joint’s door and my cell is dialing. Derne answers.

“Yes, Mr. Buckner?”

“Good news. I’m fairly confident I will be meeting Ms. Boothe in about three minutes.”

“Really? Thank God. Where?”

I tell

him.

“Three Mile High?”