Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,26
to a nice Whales of the South Pacific track. I ran my hands along the table’s chrome banding. My fingers left smears in the greasy skim on top of the Masonite. Every breath brought in the smell of cheap coffee and a well-seasoned griddle.
The diner wasn’t exactly busy at this hour, but Mills never really quieted down until ten or eleven. It had the usual diner décor: vinyl banquettes, smudged chrome, a jukebox that only played Elvis. On the walls, framed newspapers provided a brief cultural history of Bragg for the uninitiated and the nostalgic. Up there, you could see the day Mary Balomer won Miss Louisiana 1978, as well as Hank Chuck Lagard’s six-foot gator, football jerseys from the Braxton Bragg Memorial High team that took 2nd place in state, and, of course, an autographed photo of Huey Long, with the Kingfish shaking hands with Bragg’s mayor at the time, Emile Crawford.
I was trying to think of a clever way to combine the Kingfish and the Crawfish, and it seemed just within reach, when someone slapped a file down on the table.
“Thought that was you,” Kade muttered.
Brennan Kade was tall and built, although some of that build was getting a little . . . softer since he’d left the force. Like Mason, Kade had gotten shot on duty; unlike Mason, it had been a career-ending injury, and Kade’s exit from the sheriff’s department hadn’t been easy on him—or on anyone who liked him, which usually included me. He rubbed a hand over his shaved head, fixed me with a hazel gaze, and waited.
Pulling out my earbuds, I twined the cord around one finger. From the seat next to me, I lifted a second folder and slid it across the table. Deals with Kade weren’t about money, at least, not for me; he did PI work, and that meant sometimes he needed access to Sheriff’s Department records, so normally, we worked out some kind of trade.
“Please tell me you’re going to eat,” I said. “I’m starving.” I massaged my forehead. “Christ, is that fucked up? I’ve still got to eat, right?”
“I could eat,” Kade said. “A burger sounds good right about now.”
Flipping open the folder, I scanned the pages for a moment; some of the pictures slid out, Mason and Mary Ann and Mason’s house, and I glanced at them before stuffing them back in. I slapped the folder shut again, dropped it on the table, and put my head in my hands. “Do they serve beer here? Tell me they have beer.”
That hazel gaze didn’t waver; all Kade said was, “It’s a diner. What do you think?”
“This is bad.” I tapped the folder. “This is really bad, isn’t it? I can see it. You’ve got no poker face. Strip poker? Please, you’d be naked in five seconds.” I sat back, crossed my arms, and said, “Just tell me if it’s really bad. That’s all I’m asking. I need it to be bad, but fuck me, I just need you to tell me before I read it.”
Resting his arms on the table, Kade said, “For starters, it’s a good thing we aren’t playing strip poker because you don’t want to see this naked. But also, it’s not good. Mason Comeaux’s falling apart. The photographs in that folder will tell you everything you need to know. While his house is in shambles, his homelife isn’t any better. Mary Ann moved out a few weeks ago, and he seems to have given up. It looks like he doesn’t even know how to start a lawn mower anymore, for fuck’s sake.”
For a moment, I just sat there, biting my lip. Then I shrugged and said, “Guess he doesn’t have to worry about that anymore.” I unfolded one of the thin napkins, pinning it to the table between my hands, the paper stretched so tight that it split along one edge. “Mason’s . . . he’s dead. And fuck, you are going to hear all of it one way or another. He went crazy or something. I had to . . . Jesus, I had to stop him, and then it just happened. He was going to kill this kid.” I stopped, staring at the white square between my hands, and then I balled it up and batted it toward the floor. “Paid leave until they figure this out, but there’s no possible way of figuring it out, so I guess I’m saying, that,” I nodded at the folder I’d brought for Kade,