As soon as I saw Pilazzo’s the craving hit and I knew we had to stop and have some potato soup. It’s my addiction, pure comfort in an ironstone bowl, and I knew that if I didn’t get it, and fast, I was going to just roll over and die. I’ve been known to dream about the stuff, to plan my life around it, and now, here we were, mere yards from the mother lode.
I sprung to attention and tried to keep from drooling. “Tim, you’ve gotta stop. I gotta have soup.”
He gripped the steering wheel tighter and stared straight ahead. “No. I’m not in the mood.”
Tim? Not in the mood for soup? Something was big-time wrong. He loves that soup even more than I do. I checked for signs of obvious head trauma. “What, are you sick or something?”
“Nope. Just full from all that food I ate at Charli’s”
Like I believed that. Tim has a hollow leg. I’ve never known him to pass up food, especially when it comes from Pilazzo’s kitchen. We were getting to the point of no return. I had to think of something fast. I’m not proud of it, but I resorted to whining and begging.
“If you have an ounce of humanity you’ll stop. Please, Tim. I’ve just been accused of murder. I haven’t slept hardly a wink. And someone slashed my tires. Besides that, I’m unemployed and broke. The only thing in the whole wide world I’m asking of you is to stop so I can get a little nourishment. Can’t you just taste it? All hot and creamy. The big chunks of potato, the carrots, the little bits of bacon. And Dave’s secret spices. Please? Pretty please? With sugar on top? You know you love it as much as I do.”
He shook his head. I was mad. And desperate.
“Damn it, Tim! You’re being mean. Okay, already, I give. I’ll do your laundry for a week.”
He peeked over at me. “Even my socks and underwear?”
I shuddered. “Will you turn them right-side-out?”
Tim thought about it, shook his head, but he turned into Pilazzo’s anyway. “Two weeks,” he said. “Since I know I’ll end up having to buy.”
I grumbled and groaned. It was totally unfair, but what’s a poor starving girl to do? “Geez, Tim. You drive a hard bargain. Okay, so two weeks. But you’ve gotta buy the soap and the fabric softener.”
Something about the way he grinned made me think that maybe I had been manipulated. I came close to telling him to just forget the whole thing, to take me on home, but well, this is Dave’s soup we’re talking about. I wasn’t about to complain. He wheeled into a parking spot next to the trash dumpster and cut the engine.
Pilazzo’s is what is known in the lingo of restaurant aficionados as a ‘dive’. It used to be an abandoned gas station until two guys we grew up with had the bright idea to open a combination bar-pizza parlor-pool hall. (Rumor has it that the idea came to them after they’d consumed a fifth of tequila – and ate the worm.)
You can still smell a faint odor of gasoline and when it rains the outside patio turns into a rainbow colored oil slick. It's always chilly in the winter, hot in the summer, and the walls are painted Pepto-Bismol pink, not the world’s most appetizing color. I love it anyway.
I'm not a barfly or anything like that -- I don't drink much, maybe an occasional beer or glass of wine, but I could almost live at Pilazzo’s. My mom seems to think that I do, much to her consternation. She just doesn’t appreciate its charms. Hidden beneath that greasy spoon, beer joint exterior, Pilazzo’s is a gourmet’s delight. Well, a fast-food gourmet, anyway.
We're talking the best pizza this side of Italy. Pizza with loads of pepperoni and sausage and real cheese, not that sissy low-fat, vegetarian stuff Charli buys. Overstuffed sub sandwiches. Half-pound ground sirloin burgers on Kaiser rolls. The aforementioned potato soup. Sheer artery-clogging, palate-pleasing heaven.
The bonus is that I can count on knowing ninety percent of the customers at any given time. Plus, the owners let me bartend whenever I need money. Well, they do when they need extra help, which of course, they haven’t lately, but they’re still good guys. All in all, there’s nothing bad you can say about the place.
Okay, so I suppose it might be nice if everyone in the place didn't always know my business. I probably wouldn't complain if they all loved Ricky Ray a little less, either. It is a little irritating that they have giant posters of him stuck all over the walls and that the sign out front says 'Pilazzo's: Home of Ricky Ray Riley'. And, really, you have to admit, twelve Ricky Ray songs on the jukebox is just plain overkill.
As usual, one was playing when we walked in. It was that new one, the one about the girl with that ‘lonesome look in her eyes’. You know which one I mean. It’s the one that sounds like two alley cats rasslin’ it out over a slab of tuna. Anyway, the place was practically deserted when Tim and I banged through the door.
Dave, the chief cook and half-owner was leaning against the bar talking to a couple of the regulars and Bette, the barmaid. A loud group of softball players were tossing darts and I could hear the clacking sounds of a pool game coming from the back room. I threw up a hand to Dave and the gang at the bar and headed off to the restroom. Tim was shooting the breeze with a couple of the guys from the police department who had on green and yellow softball uniforms with a pig logo on the back of the shirt.
Someone had cracked open the tiny window in the ladies room, but it was still stuffy in there. I reached up to open it wider and heard my name mentioned by someone out in the parking lot. Being a curious person, not to mention slightly paranoid, I pulled over the little metal trash can and climbed on top of it so I could peer out the window and see who it was. Standing next to an emerald green Cherokee just to the right of the window were Art Danner and Robby Pluck.
“I tell you, Marty Sheffield is the prime suspect,” Robby said. “They ain’t pointing to us at all.”
Art shot Robby a stern, ‘keep your voice down’ look and shushed him. He gave the rest of the empty parking lot a quick once over before he spoke. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hear what he said.
Robby appeared agitated, almost like he was going to punch Art. Art, on the other hand, was totally kicked back, slouched against the jeep with his left foot propped up on the bumper.
I didn’t want them to see me, but I needed to hear their conversation. Hopefully, one of them was about to confess to the murder of Frank Billingham, in which case, I would be totally off the hook. I pressed my right ear into the window screen and tried to focus my hearing, wishing I’d had the foresight to charge my now dead phone. Finally, by concentrating really hard I was able to tune in to their exchange
“This ain’t the way you said it was going to go down,” Robby said. “You told me it wasn’t going to get complicated. Now Frank’s dead, Sam’s gone off his gourd, and Dicey’s asking a bunch of questions.”
“So, why don’t you tell her to piss off,” Art said. “Your problem, boy, is that you let that dame drag you around by your…”
“Like hell,” Robby said, “I ain’t whipped, if that’s what you’re implying, Man. I got me a good set up going on and alls the hell I’m saying is that this here thing is getting out of hand. I told you all when I joined up that I didn’t want no trouble. Now, that’s all there is. Trouble. And I want to know what you’re fixing to do about it.”
Art lowered his foot to the ground and practically sprang at Robby, grabbing the smaller man’s arms. Judging from Robby’s expression he was squeezing hard. Art’s voice was low and mean sounding.
“Nothing, boy,” Art said. “Not a dammed thing, you hearing me? Far as I’m concerned, far as Sam’s concerned, and by God, far as you’re concerned, it’s business as usual. We done come too far to have it any other way.”
“Man, you’re crazy as a bedbug and Sam’s worthless. Man ain’t said two words that make sense all day. You don’t fix this, I’m bailing.”
Did that mean Sam was the murderer? I pressed my head against the screen as hard as I dared, hoping like heck that the screen didn’t pop out.
Art squeezed a little harder. Robby raised his arms and tried to knock Art’s hands loose, but Art was stronger.
“Don’t you worry about Sam,” Art said. “I’ll take care of him. You, on the other hand, had best be taking care of that old broad you sleep with. I don’t want her snooping around or saying nothing to nobody, you hear? And you be at the shop tonight at ten, just like always. Nothing’s changed. Not one thing, you got it.”
With that, he let go of Robby’s shoulders and settled back against the jeep, propping his foot back up on the bumper again. “I tell you, son, everything is going to be just fine. Frank wasn’t that involved no ways. Too damn tweed. You got to relax.”
Tweed? What on earth was that? I assumed that I’d misheard him, but couldn’t figure out what the heck it was that he’d said.
Robby shook his head. He didn’t look so much upset as disgusted. “Relax? Man, I can’t relax. I done forgot how.”
Art rubbed his hands together. “Hop in the sack with that hot honey you work with. Ol’ what’s her name? You know, that skinny one with them perky ta-tas. That’d sure relax me.”
Robby chuckled and I could see the tension leave his face. “Been there, done that. And let me tell you, ain’t nothing relaxing about getting it on with Giselle.”
Art chortled. “There you go. See, alls you gots to do is think about getting a little and you get more relaxed. I’m telling you man, you ought to forget about that nasty old broad you’re with and get you a hot young thing. That’s what I’d do iffen I was you.”
I listened for a few more minutes, but evidently they were done talking about the important stuff. I steadied myself so I could climb off the trash can. Just then, I heard Tim’s voice coming from outside.
“Hey, you guys seen Marty?” he asked Art and Robby.
“Marty? Sheffield?” Robby said. “Ain’t seen her. Probably in jail where she belongs.”
I peeked back out the window. Tim’s face had that stone cold, ‘don’t mess with me, I’m a cop’ look. He stuck it inches from Robby’s face. “What was that?” His voice was cold too. It was a perfect match for his facial expression. I gotta get him to teach me how to do that.
Robby transcribed the message. “Sorry, Tim. Didn’t mean nothing by that. I was just kidding around, bud. I see Marty, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her. Okay?”
Tim kept the look on his face but he backed up a couple of steps. “You do that.”
I waited for him to leave, hoping that Art and Robby would talk about their secret, the murder, or me, again, but instead they hopped into their trucks and left.
I was thinking about what I’d heard as I attempted to climb off the trashcan. It wobbled and slipped out from under me and I twisted my ankle as I landed on the floor. I fought back tears and went to wash my hands. My face was crosshatched with an impression of the window screen. I rubbed at it, but it didn’t go away. Hopefully nobody would notice it. Or my ankle.
I hobbled out of the bathroom, trying to imagine what on earth Art, Robby, Sam, and Frank had been up to. Wondering which one had killed Frank. And, trying to figure out how I was going to solve the mystery so I could clear my name.
Tim met me in the little hallway that links the bathrooms to the poolroom. “There you are. Where the heck have you been? Your soup is getting cold.” He peered down at me. “What’s that on your face? And why are you limping?”
I widened my eyes in a ‘who me?’ look. (Although it might have said ‘hiding something’ instead of ‘who me’. It’s been known to happen.) “Nothing. I’m not limping, nothing’s wrong with my face. You’re seeing things again. Maybe you should get your eyes checked. Where’s the soup?”
“In here.” He pushed me into the now empty poolroom and we parked ourselves at one of the red-vinyl booths, the one that has a poster from Ricky Ray’s last tour hanging over it. I immediately began slurping up my soup. It was exactly what I needed. I practically wept from the perfection of it.
Tim ate his soup in about three gulps. “Guess who I saw out in the parking lot?” he said.
“Art and Robby.”
He gave me an odd look. I really need to overcome this need I have for showing off. I’d planned to keep my spying a secret.
“That’s right,” he said. “How’d you know?”
“I overheard them talking when I was in the bathroom.”
Tim tsk-tsked me. “Marty, you really shouldn’t eavesdrop. It’s not nice.”
“Geez, Tim! You sound just like my mother. It wasn’t like I was trying to listen in. Somebody left the window open.” Okay, so it wasn’t exactly the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“I do not sound like your mother!” He glared at me and sipped his iced tea. “Well, aren’t you going to tell me?”
I gave him my wide-eyed, Little Miss Innocent look. “Tell you what?”
His jaw tightened. I love it when he gets all wound up. It makes him look really macho and cute. “Don’t give me that garbage. You know exactly what I mean. What were Robby and Art discussing when you were listening in on their conversation?”
I sized him up, wondering how much of the exchange between Art and Robby he’d heard himself. Tim isn’t dumb. He’s a good cop, too. But I can read him like a book and it was obvious that he was on a fishing expedition, trying to see what I knew, which meant he’d heard something he considered suspicious. “What do you care?”
“I don’t.” His eyes gave him away. He cared, desperately. “Just curious that’s all. Don’t you think it’s strange that they were together? They don’t seem to have much in common.”
I quickly mulled over all my options. I figured that if Tim had heard everything I had, we wouldn’t be having this discussion. He’d heard just enough to provoke his curiosity. But there was no way I was going to tell him what they’d said. If he knew about the plan to meet at the shop he’d try and forbid me from showing up there. Which, of course, I fully intended to do. It was the only way I could think of to find out what was going on.
“Nothing, just the usual guy talk,” I said. “You know, sex, sports, stuff like that. I glanced at my nearly empty soup bowl and thought of a way to get Tim’s mind off of Art and Robby. “How about another bowl of soup?”
Mission accomplished. Tim jumped up and practically raced to the front room.
I finished my soup and contemplated the poster. It showed Ricky Ray in a rare hatless, mid hip-swivel pose, his fabulous body displayed to perfection, sandy blonde hair swirling out just right, and his smile in full wattage. I usually make light of getting dumped, try not to let on that it bothers me, but there are some days that, much as I hate Ricky and what he did to me, I can’t help but miss him. Maybe not him so much as what we were together. I miss having someone to hold me. Someone to love me. Potato soup is good, but not that good.
If Tim was still concerned about Art and Robby, he didn’t let on. When he returned with the soup he launched into a long-winded story about some show that he’d seen Saturday night. Saturday night. It was almost impossible for me to believe that he was talking about something that happened less than twenty-four hours ago.
I pretended to listen, but my mind was elsewhere. Thinking about Ricky Ray, about boyfriends, and about Kyle Zagle. Wondering about Robby and Art and their secret. And trying as hard as I could to keep my mind off of Frank Billingham’s murder.