I figured it would be at least an hour-and-a-half before Ronnie arrived so, rather than sit around and wait, I decided I had time to do a little recon, drive over to the Rose Café and see what I could see. I slipped into my shoulder holster, checked the weapon, holstered it, then grabbed my black leather jacket and a golf umbrella—I know, I know, but it was still raining and I sure as hell wasn’t going to get drowned again.
A couple of minutes later I was out the door, in the rain and running to the car which was still parked out on the road.
It was a short drive to East Third Street. Parking was easy at that time in the morning, and I found a spot at the curb close to the front entrance of the Rose Café. Sure enough, the sign had the same flower logo as Phoebe’s drawing… well, not really, but close enough. The image on the sign was a stylized white rose, à la the English Wars of the Roses.
I guess the kid embellished it a little, I thought. No wonder Kate smiled when she saw it.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, or what I might find, but my gut was telling me that there was something odd about the place.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside. It wasn’t exactly what I expected… if it was indeed a cover for some sort of illegal activity. It was, in fact, kind of nice, casual, with lots of wood—flat wood panels on the walls, heart pine floor, heavy wooden beams across the ceiling, and small, elegant round wooden tables with little red candles. As cafés go, it all seemed quite normal, inviting.
I grabbed a menu from beside the register and took a seat at a table off to the side by the window. As always, I sat with my back to the wall, facing the door, and with a good view out of the window. Paranoid? Better that than dead, right?
The waitress was tall and… not exactly pretty, but attractive enough, and pleasant, with orangey red hair, deep green eyes and long eyelashes that licked the top of her eyelids. I never saw anybody with eyelashes that long before. And they were real too. She had a smile that lit up the room
“Hi. Welcome to the Rose Café,” she said as she set a glass of water down in front of me. “I’m Penelope. I haven’t seen you around here before.” She had a soft, Southern drawl, probably from one of the Carolinas.
“Hi, Penelope. Yeah, it’s my first time here. What’s the best thing on the menu?”
She smiled and said, “The best thing on the menu is God’s love.”
Uh oh, here we go, I thought.
She continued, “I can give you a giant helping of that.”
“Coffee, please,” I said, with a wry smile.
She smiled back at me, nodded, and walked away.
I pulled out my notepad and Phoebe Marsh’s napkin, looked around, and began to make notes, trying to get a handle on the place. It wasn’t working. As far as I could tell, the Rose Café was legit.
Penelope returned with my coffee and was about to set it on the table when she saw the napkin, and her hand shook, slopping coffee over the edge of the cup. The look on her face was enough to tell me she recognized the drawing. She set the coffee cup on top of the napkin and pointedly glanced up at the security camera on the ceiling in the corner of the room as if to warn me.
“Our breakfast sandwiches are to die for,” she said. “I’ll have the cook make you a corned beef hash and egg—to go,” and she abruptly turned and walked away.
What was that about? I thought as I watched her retreat into the kitchen.
I took her hint, if that’s what it was, and slid the napkin out from under the coffee cup and put it back into my pocket.
The breakfast sandwich from the Bagel Shop I’d eaten earlier was still weighing heavily in my gut, but I figured another one couldn’t hurt, so I went back to penning notes while I waited, but my heart was no longer in it. I was trying to figure out whether Penelope was on my side or not.
The service was fast: Penelope returned with the sandwich before I’d even finished my coffee.
“I know you must be in a hurry,” she said pointedly. “That’ll be seven dollars even.”
I could tell she wasn’t going anywhere until I’d left. I dug into my pocket and fished out a ten.
“Keep it,” I said as I tossed it onto the table, grabbed the breakfast sandwich, and headed for the door.
That was the first time I’d been eighty-sixed from a diner. Café my ass!
I stood for a moment outside the café, looking around. I wasn’t quite sure what to do next. It was still quite early, but it had stopped raining and the sun had finally showed itself; it was actually turning into a nice day.
My car was parked in a two-hour zone and I’d been in the restaurant only for… maybe ten minutes, so I stuffed the sandwich into my jacket pocket and took off walking down the street. I needed a quiet place to think, and I figured the Orchard Knob Reservation would be deserted at that time of the morning.
I turned right onto North Orchard Knob Avenue and walked another block to the park entrance. Any other day I might have been more interested in the sights—the park was Ulysses S. Grant’s headquarters during the Battle for Chattanooga in 1863. The view from the top of the hill is well worth the walk—that day, however, I was in no mood for sightseeing, or contemplating the momentous events that had taken place there more than a hundred and fifty years ago; I had too much on my mind.
I walked to the top of the hill and sat down on the Illinois monument and was soon lost in thought. Without really thinking about it, I took the sandwich from my pocket and began to peel back the wrapping… and then I saw the note.
Well, well, what do we have here, I thought, and why am I not surprised?
I set the sandwich down on the concrete, opened the note, and read: Starbucks. Hamilton Place. 10 pm.
What the hell is that about? I thought. She wants to talk. Why? She doesn’t know me… or does she? Maybe it’s a setup… Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. I knew right then that I was going to follow up on it.
I folded the note and slipped it into the inside pocket of my jacket, along with Phoebe Marsh’s napkin.
I stood up, walked back to the park exit, tossed the uneaten sandwich into a trash can, and walked back to my car and… wouldn’t you know it? There was a nasty little surprise waiting for me… well, not so little: Goliath—JoJo, JJ James—was standing beside my car, knife in hand, and all four tires flat.
Aw, come on! I thought; boy was I ever pissed. Mess with me, but don’t mess with my car.
“Sorry about the tires,” the brute said. “The knife just slipped in my hand.”
He turned away laughing and started down the street. I wasn’t going to let him off that easy. Between the kid and the car, the son of a bitch was going down.
I took off after him at a run, quick enough to surprise him, pulling my gun from its holster just as I reached him.
“Yeah,” I growled, “and I’m sorry about your frickin’ kneecap. The gun just slipped out of my hand.” And I swung the M&P9 as hard as I could—the butt of the gun slammed into the side of his right knee. I heard something crack, and he went down like the sack of garbage that he was.
“Ow, ow, ow,” he howled, grabbing the injured knee with both hands. “Freakin’ hell… oh ow. You crazy asshole. You just assaulted me. I’m calling the cops.” As he fumbled in his pocket, I slammed the butt of the gun into the back of his hand, bringing forth another string of howls and expletives.
“Go ahead, you fat pig.” I stood back and looked down at him. “I’ve got an alibi. I was at the frickin’ movies with my friends watching Mary Friggin’ Poppins.”
I stepped forward again, jammed the barrel of the weapon into his nostrils as he lay there whimpering on the street in front of me.
“Now, JoJo, you’re gonna tell me who you work for and why you killed that kid.”
“Screw you, asshole.”
I slapped his ear with the side of the barrel. He squealed like a stuck pig, and I shoved the gun back into his right nostril.
“Let’s try it again. Who do you work for and why did you kill that kid?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout. I ain’t killed nobody.”
I smacked him on the ear again and it started to bleed. He wiped his ear with his hand, looked at the blood on his palm, and passed out.
“Some tough guy you are. Can’t even stand the sight of your own blood.”
I gave him a couple of kicks in the ribs for good measure, then I dialed AAA and asked for a tow truck and how long they’d be. They said they were light on work and that they’d be with me in a couple of minutes.
After ending the call, I stared down at the unconscious goon. He wouldn’t be talking anytime soon: he was out cold, but at least I could get a good photo of him and maybe there was a way to find out who he worked for. Thugs like him usually have street cred as well as a rap sheet, and I knew damn well that someone on the street knew who he was. All I had to do was find that someone.
I snapped a picture of his ugly mug with my iPhone, gave him one last kick in the ribs to remember me by, and walked back to the car. Thoroughly pissed off, I leaned on the side, waiting for the tow truck; it arrived just before the goon woke up.
“Hey, is that guy all right?” the tow truck driver asked as he hooked up the car to haul it up onto the flatbed.
“Just another street drunk passed out in the gutter.”
“Sheesh, at this time in the morning?”
Goliath stirred, groaned, sat up and looked around, and it was with a certain amount of pleasure that I watched him writhe in pain from what I hoped was a broken rib. The fat bastard could barely breathe. I watched from the cab of the truck as he rolled over and heaved himself up onto to his knees. I rolled down the window.
“Hey, shithead,” I shouted. “See you soon.”
He glared up at me, bared his teeth, and gave me the finger. I knew right then that I hadn’t seen the last of JoJo James.