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BUD’S WORDS BOOMED across the space. Gordon tensed. He felt the gazes of many of the diners—familiar faces, Finnegan’s regulars who knew he was a cop. Waiting. Wondering what he would do.
“Take it easy, Bud.” Gordon kept his voice low, just loud enough for Bud to hear him.
Mick’s hand disappeared beneath the bar, where Gordon knew he kept a baseball bat. To date, Gordon was unaware of any time Mick had had to do anything other than display it to an unruly customer, and Gordon would prefer to keep it that way.
Bud raised his voice. “You’re with someone twenty-seven years, and you think you know them. Then, one day, they take off with someone else. No warning. Just a damn note. You think that’s right? Women. Damn them all.”
Gordon moved so he was between Bud and the dining room. “Hey, man, that sucks. Sounds like you have a right to be angry. Want to go outside and talk about it? Let these people get back to their dinners and watching the game?”
“How would talking to you bring Yvonne back?”
“Honestly, I doubt that it can, but you might feel better.”
Bud’s hands balled into grapefruit-sized fists at his side. He got louder. “You mean I should share my damn feelings with you? Someone I don’t know? That’s what Yvonne was always bitching about. I never talked to her about the stuff she liked. Touchy-feely movies, flowers, candy. Damn woman never noticed her car’s tires were always inflated right. Washer fluid never ran out. Smoke alarm batteries changed out on schedule.”
“I hear you, Bud. My wife’s the same way.” Gordon attempted to steer the man toward the door. Bud’s shoulders slumped, and he appeared to be acquiescing when a woman, mid-forties, he estimated, pushed her way across the dining room, fists clenched, spewing vitriol.
Gordon couldn’t place her, although she seemed vaguely familiar.
“Seriously? You’re trashing all women because you’re not happy with yours?” the woman said. “Let me guess. You come home, want dinner ready. How many times do you cook? When’s the last time you cleaned a toilet? Folded laundry? Hell, I’ll bet you expect her to pick up the clothes you leave all over the house.”
Another woman’s voice carried from the far side of the room. “Preach it, Sister. This is the twenty-first century. Women can vote now, too.”
A smattering of applause, although Gordon couldn’t tell if it came from the men or the women diners.
Mick stepped out from behind the bar. “That’s enough, all of you. If you want to continue this ... discussion ... you’ll have to take it outside.”
“What’s wrong with right here?” the vitriol-spewing woman said. All of five-two, maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, she flattened her palms and shoved Bud in the chest.
Enough. Gordon flashed his badge and stepped between Bud and the woman. “I’m sure nobody wants this to get ugly. Ma’am, if you’ll please return to your seat, and sir, if you’ll step outside for a moment, everyone can get on with their Friday evenings.”
The woman looked like she was ready to throw a punch, but she huffed and stomped her way to her table.
Mick took Bud by the elbow. “Come on, sir. Nobody wants a trip to the police station tonight, right?”
Bud sputtered. “If anyone’s going to the station, it should be her.” He swiveled to face Gordon. “She pushed me. You saw it, right? Isn’t that assault?”
“What could she do to you?” Gordon said. “You have a good foot and well over a hundred pounds on her.”
“I don’t hit women.” Bud glowered. “Even if they should all go to hell.”
Gordon maneuvered Bud outside via the parking lot entrance and guided him to the bench in the smoking area. “Sit.”
“What am I, your police dog?” He flopped onto the bench.
“I think you’re upset. You’ve had more to drink than is sensible, and what you need is to get home, get some sleep.”
“Can’t go back to that house. It’s so ... empty. Except for the memories.” Bud sank his head into his hands. Shudders vibrated over his back.
Great. From an angry to a maudlin drunk.
Tentatively, Gordon rested a hand on Bud’s shoulder. “Things will get better. My first wife sounds a lot like your Yvonne. It ended up being for the best. I met someone new, and it’s all different now. It’ll take time, but you’ll work through it. If you need a place to stay, there are a number of options in Mapleton. I can set you up at one.”
Bud didn’t lift his head. “No. Gotta place. Evergreen.” His words were interspersed with sniffs.
“It’s not safe for you to drive,” Gordon said. “Give me your keys, and I’ll move your vehicle to the parking lot behind the police station where it’ll be secure, and arrange for a ride to Evergreen for you. You can pick up your keys at the police station tomorrow.”
Bud wiped his face and fished in his pocket. He handed Gordon a key fob. “Red Tacoma.”
“Wait here.” Gordon trusted the man wouldn’t get far in his current condition and went inside to tell Mick to call the car service he used when people had too much alcohol. He scanned the room, but didn’t see the angry woman.
While Mick made the call, Gordon asked if Celine knew who the woman was.
“No. She came in with three other women. They convinced her to leave with them. One of the other women picked up the tab. Left a nice tip. Apologized for her friend. Said she was in town for a wedding, and the friend’s situation was the reverse of Bud’s. Her long-term boyfriend dumped her a month ago, and she’s still not over it.” Celine grinned. “Another Friday at Finnegan’s.”
Wedding. That must be why the woman looked familiar. Sometimes work followed you around no matter what you’d promised yourself. At least everything tonight had been unofficial. No paperwork.
Outside, Bud slouched on the bench, head back, mouth open. His snoring could probably be heard at Daily Bread. Gordon perched on the edge of the bench to wait for the ride. He was about to text Angie he’d be delayed, but instead, walked over to the diner.
He used the back door, peeked into the kitchen, where Ozzie, the cook, was frying chicken. The aroma reminded Gordon he hadn’t finished his wings. Ozzie looked up and smiled, his white teeth in contrast to his dark skin, and chinned toward the rear of the kitchen, where Angie stood at the whirring, industrial-sized mixer. Gordon stepped to her side. “Busy night?”
She jumped. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
He chuckled and kissed the nape of her neck. “Believe me, if you’d had a knife, I definitely wouldn’t have.” He explained what he’d be doing, keeping the Finnegan’s encounter to a bare minimum. “I’ll be walking home, but I should be upstairs before you’re done. Anything I can do for you?”
Hearing himself say the words made him wonder if Bud had ever uttered anything like it to Yvonne.
Angie added something to her mixer. “Everything’s under control. I’ll be up before nine.”
Gordon let himself out, in search of Bud’s Tacoma, noting he was no longer on the bench.