Back in Black (McGinnis Investigations #1) - Rhys Ford Page 0,47
frogs to tell them thank you.”
I wasn’t overexaggerating. When I first came out to California, kicked out of my family home, the front door bolted shut behind me, I didn’t have a lot of experiences with food other than sausages and the occasional casserole. Although I came from Chicago—a city with fantastic food—the McGinnis clan was pretty much a mayo-on-white-bread kind of family. The only mustard I’d run into growing up was yellow and usually found in a giant squeezy bottle next to a container of watery ketchup. Our meals were rotated throughout the week with a burnt roast served on Sunday, slightly sweet spaghetti on Monday, and by the time Friday rolled around, I was very thankful for my plate of fish sticks piled high on a mound of macaroni and cheese.
My brother and I were raised to be suspicious of anything that wasn’t processed within an inch of its life and, in a pinch, could be used as a salt lick for roaming deer in the winter. We played enough sports to keep us reasonably fit, but when puberty hit me, I shot up and Mike shot out. Anyone seeing us knew we were brothers because we looked alike, but there was also a lot of speculation about the McGinnis boys actually being a pair of lab mice plotting to take over the world, mostly because I was short a brain cell or two and Mike had a big head with enormous ears.
Mike fled to California first, and I followed in my brother’s footsteps, unsure of what I wanted to accomplish but knowing I couldn’t survive another winter in Chicago with very little money and no family to depend on. As much as I loved the Cubs, I had to seek out warmer climates, just in case I was going to have to sleep outdoors.
When I hit Los Angeles, my older brother was still suspicious of nonprocessed foods, but a chance encounter at a taco truck having a three-for-one-dollar midnight blowout to empty their steam table opened up our minds to the delectable, savory world of California Mexican food. It was also serendipity—or perhaps God was smiling down on me—because the older woman manning the grills that night threw in a couple of large Mexican hot chocolates and a bag of cinnamon-sugar buñuelos.
We gorged that night, getting fat and happy on carnitas, carne asada, and adobada tacos piled high with lettuce, crumbling white cheese, and pico de gallo. But as delightful as the tacos were, the hot chocolate hit something in my soul I never realized needed filling.
And it has been a favorite of mine ever since. Especially when things have gone balls-up and I needed to get my head on straight.
From the skeptical look on O’Byrne’s face, I didn’t believe she felt the love the rich, dark cinnamon-infused hot chocolate could bring to a dreary day, but as the saying went, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make them put on a bikini and do the breaststroke.
“He gets like this,” Bobby informed her, his hands nearly swallowing the paper cup filled with bitter coffee he’d gotten from the cafeteria truck parked outside of Central. I’d had their coffee before, and my stomach still had a hole in it from the last cup I’d drunk, close to seven years ago. Bobby claimed to like it—further proof Bobby was missing a few marbles. “So this guy isn’t saying anything?”
“Not a damn thing, and so far, no asshole in a suit has come forward to try to get him out. We’re running fingerprints and facial identification but haven’t come up with anything yet. There’s a pool going that he’s a pro, with some pretty good odds on one of McGinnis’s ex-boyfriends hiring him to take Mac out,” O’Byrne said, making a face when I looked up from my hot chocolate, the sweet richness now tasting of ash on my tongue. “Sorry. That was shitty to say and… fuck.”
“Look, I know I’m not exactly a favorite with a lot of the old-timers, but most of them are assholes anyway,” I shot back with a shrug, tasting my chocolate again and finding it just as sweet. “So if he’s not talking, then we’ve got to go to plan B—trying to get something out of Arthur.”
“I called San Francisco to see if I could get someone to give me a read on Marlena Brinkerhoff, but no one’s saying a word.” O’Byrne picked through her nachos, most of her attention