She Has A Broken Thing Where Her Heart Should Be - J.D. Barker Page 0,29

good chunk of last year there, too.

“Somebody’s back,” Dunk said softly. He had pulled his milkshake glass close again and pretended to drink while eyeing the alley sidelong. “Looks like a detective.”

The man did look like a detective. He wore a rumpled dark gray suit with a red tie. Probably around Auntie Jo’s age, late thirties or early forties. His hair was brown, short on the sides and a little longer on top. The wind picked it up and ruffled it, but he didn’t seem to care. “What’s he doing?”

“Just standing there, staring.”

“Is he alone?”

“I think so. He was there yesterday, too. I recognize him. He’s probably the detective they mentioned in the paper.”

“Maybe.” I glanced back down at the newspaper between us and located his name. “Faustino Brier.”

“What kind of name is Faustino?” Dunk asked. “Doesn’t even make for a good nickname. Tino, maybe?”

“Too much like Dino from the Flintstones. Maybe Faust, but I don’t think he’d like that too much.”

“Why?”

“Faust was an old German guy who made a deal with the devil. He gave up his soul in exchange for unlimited knowledge and lots of possessions,” I explained. My English teacher, Mrs. Orgler, gave me the book to read over the summer. It only took me a week, then I read it a second time. I loved anything with magic.

“I am so going to do that when I turn sixteen and need a car,” Dunk said.

“It doesn’t end well for Faust. Turns out you need your soul much more than you need stuff.”

“A cherry red Mustang, ’66 or ’67, with a rag top and eight cylinders under the hood,” Dunk said. “Think I can get a million dollars and a cool house, too? I need a garage for the car and money for gas.”

“For your soul, I think you’d be lucky to get a Ford Pinto with holes in the floor pan and maybe a stack of food stamps to hold you through the winter. Even the devil is a business man. He knows a bargain when he sees it.”

“It doesn’t have to be a nice Mustang. I can fix it up. I’ve got skills.”

I sat up a little in my seat, trying to get a better view across the street. “Where’d he go? I don’t see him.” A large white delivery truck with Budweiser stenciled on the side in large, flowing letters had pulled up and double-parked on Brownsville in front of Carmine’s. I couldn’t see past it.

“I got the same view you do—Joe Beer Guy is in the way. Maybe we should go out there.”

“No way.”

Five minutes later, the beer truck pulled away. There was no sign of the detective. “Maybe he went in the alley. His car is still out there.”

“Do all cops drive Crown Vics?” I asked.

“If the devil won’t give me a Mustang, I’d settle for a Crown Vic. I’m not picky. As long as it has one of the cool floodlights built into the driver’s side.”

We were both staring out the window. Neither of us saw the detective push through the door and step into the diner.

Dunk spotted him first, then kicked me under the table.

Detective Faustino Brier stood just inside the door at the front of the diner, his gaze slowly traveling from right to left, studying the interior and the faces.

“Shit,” Dunk whispered. “Get under the table or something.”

“I’m not getting under the table. That will draw him over here for sure. He doesn’t know who I am. Just be cool, relax.”

“Right,” Dunk said, leaning back in the booth with both hands on the table, his fingers twisted together.

“Not that relaxed.”

“Right again.” He sat up straight and fumbled with his empty milkshake glass, his eyes fixed on the formica table top as if he were counting each speck of color for a homework assignment.

“Sit anywhere!” Krendal called out from the kitchen. “Someone will be with you in a second. Lurline—customer!”

The detective ran his hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it, but it bounced right back up. He took a seat at the counter, unfastening the buttons on his suit jacket. He pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket and began flipping through the pages.

I tugged out my wallet, retrieved a five-dollar bill, and placed it under my glass. “Let’s go.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Dunk said softly without moving his lips. “I’ll create a distraction, maybe knock one of these glasses off the table or a fork or something. Then while everyone is looking at me, you