I went inside. Tossed our cans into the recycling bin.
We lived in a restored 1925 classic brick foursquare. Or so my father told me. It was big. One of those houses with two staircases. He bought it when Kix and I moved to town on the condition we live with him. The August boys gotta stick together. The interior was open concept with hints of original craftsman woodwork. I set Kix on the rug in the TV room and I could watch Timothy August over the kitchen countertop as he cooked. Kix played with blocks and I enjoyed the sizzle of chicken and peppers and the roil of pasta.
Timothy August said, “You took the job.”
“I had no choice. They begged.”
“You had no choice because you couldn’t sleep otherwise.”
Kix carefully set one block on top another.
Obviously. Superior genetics. Good men doing nothing? Not in this house. Someone fetch me Cheerios.
The front screen door opened and the final member of our house walked in. Manny Martinez, local U.S. Marshal, and my closest friend. A man so handsome he was almost a woman. Long-limbed, rangy, a passing resemblance to Cristiano Ronaldo, the soccer superstar.
I was easily the least attractive of all the men and babies living under our roof.
Manny walked into the kitchen for a beer. Came back, sat on the leather couch and propped his sneakers on the coffee table.
“I come home, I gotta stay in the car?” he said. “Cause I’m Hispanic?”
“Hispanic? I thought you were sunburnt.”
“I should arrest you, hombré. But, being a faithful friend and American, I stayed in the car and listened with the windows down.” He shifted to pull his badge and gun off his belt. Set both on the couch cushion, away from Kix.
Kix rolled his eyes.
Like I have enough finger strength to pull the trigger. And once I do, I will shoot only pillagers.
“Your two amigos, they are worried. About Louis Lindsey. He’s the church guy on television and in the papers.”
“That’s him.”
“They spoke at their cars several minutes while I heaves stopped.”
“Eavesdropped.”
“Silencio, I’m talking. Louis sounds like a fire-breathing monster. Older guy with the weird Jeep, he’s worried Louis will quit and find another church. Smaller guy with the bowtie sounds like he wants to find another church before Louis kills him.”
“They think he’s guilty?”
“Older guy with the Jeep says no way,” said Manny. I wanted to correct him—it was a pristine FJ40 Land Cruiser—but he carried on. “Wants to wring the neck of a kid named Jeremy. Not sure what Bowtie believes. They want this kept a secret but they got a good feeling about you,” said Manny.
“Obviously.”
“How do you bust the city’s most powerful and trusted priest?”
“Assuming he’s guilty, one must proceed with caution and reverence and perfectly timed aggression.”
“How does one do that?”
“One doesn’t know,” I said.
“What is it with white guys and bowties?”
“Chicks love them.”
Manny grinned.
“Then how come you’re single?”
“My standards are high. And clearly because I don’t own a bowtie,” I said.
And he’s still hung up on the blonde.
Manny said, “And you’re still thinking about the blonde. What’s her name?”
“You know it. And that doesn’t matter,” I said.
Ronnie.
“Ronnie.”
“I’m not,” I said, “thinking about Ronnie. And if I was, it would be out of platonic concern and civic duty.”
He grinned some more. I thought about putting a television remote through his teeth.
“Not cause she’s the prettiest señorita in Roanoke?” he said.
“Maybe you should return to the car and wait some more.”
“Maybe cutest in the whole damn state.”
“Absolutely in the whole state,” I said.
“You gonna tangle with this Louis guy?”
“I am.”
“Louis’s a priest?” said Manny.
“He is.”
“Sounds like you need backup.”
“Not from someone who flosses after each meal.”
“You always been jealous of my smile, amigo.”
Kix polished off his juice. Set it down.
Who wouldn’t? Look at those teeth. You smile, it’s like the sun.
“Dinner’s up, boys,” said Timothy August, bringing sizzling pans to the table. “Let’s celebrate Mackenzie shaking off his slump.”
“Slump?” I said.
“You know. Breaking up with the gorgeous blonde. Getting roughed up on one of your last cases. Running low on cash. Maybe it’s me who’s in a slump because I’m your father and it is indicative of poor parenting.”
I patted the check in my pocket. “Low on cash my ass. I’m flushed up.”
“Bueno,” said Manny. “Because your slump was getting hard to watch, amigo.”
“I wasn’t in a slump. And also, I make slumping look good.”
Kix glared at me.
You said ass.