Ginger locked the front door of the bar behind Bev, who was driving out to his house some twenty miles outside of town. She was going to feed the dogs and prepare a late supper for the two of them. That’s how she put it. Surprisingly, Ginger liked the idea. His liking it bothered him. Before long, she would be moving in, and what would that lead to? He needed to think. He wasn’t sure about what, but he felt like he needed to think.
“Well, Buckshot, it’s just you and me. How ’bout a beer?” He walked around the bar, flushed out two beers and a bowl. He flipped the television on and poured his dog a beer. “Let’s see what’s happening on the boob tube. Maybe check out the news. See if there’s been any more blood spilled. Make Uncle Rick crazy.”
Ginger sat at the bar and half-listened to the news. He could do a lot worse than Bev: short, petite, excellent body, smooth complexion, cute button nose, and long black hair. But there was something else much more important: he enjoyed being with her. That was unusual for him. Most women he was sexually attracted to he didn’t particularly enjoy hanging out with, and the women he enjoyed being around he wasn’t that attracted to.
Maybe he was sick. Perhaps. It was Christmas and the holiday spirit. Love? Nah!
Ginger’s attention went to the screen. A blonde with a red and green Christmas blazer was reporting on the holiday murders. After reiterating the known facts, she started with the familiar “according to our sources and a person close to the scene.” Ginger wished for once they would simply say, “Rumor has it.” She led in with the interview of Mrs. Worthy. Ginger listened with mixed feelings of sorrow, disgust, fear, and relief.
Sorrow for the family, disgust that a person could violate another person, fear it could happen to him, and relief it didn’t. Mrs. Worthy’s pain seemed sincere, but he wondered about her motives. Hopkins’ concern about the LPD taking some heat seemed more than justified, and with Mrs. Worthy’s civic mindedness, Hopkins’ band of merry detectives would be under the gun for quite a while, and not just with the press. The politicians, the vote-needers, would be pressuring the chief. This was no south-side murder. This was a murder in the silk-stocking district, the elite community where crime was supposed to be nonexistent. Mrs. Worthy loved a cause and publicity, and the murder was committed by a black man, on drugs, alcoholic, with a criminal record. Ginger was surprised they didn’t name the newest hero, but if they had, the media would be swarming for months. Ginger had an uneasy feeling, and it wasn’t about Bev. Something about the murders just didn’t sit right with him. Too easy. Too choreographed. Something was amiss. Maybe Hopkins knew what it was. Probably was some detail Hopkins had not mentioned.
Buckshot belched and walked toward the door. “I’m with you, boy. Let’s go home and get a little.”