A Farewell to Legs: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,20

bomb—kids can’t even make a bad smell without reading about it first, it seems.

I reached into my wallet and gave him two singles. He started to make change. “You been getting complaints about these?” I asked about the little wonders. Anne Mignano had mentioned that parents thought the offending item had been purchased here.

“Yeah,” he said, handing me three quarters. “But the kids buy them.”

“You wouldn’t be able to name any of the kids who buy them, would you?”

“Stink bombs don’t require ID,” he smirked. “Anybody can buy one.”

“What do they do with them after they buy them from you?”

He shrugged. “That’s their business.”

“You know, three of these things have gone off in the elementary school in the past week. That’s a bunch of eight-year-olds who couldn’t use the boy’s bathroom for three days.” I thought maybe underlining the severity of the crime might soften the businessman’s heart.

“Whatcha gonna do?” A wolfish grin broke out on his face.

In accordance with the instructions, I opened the wrapping on the stink bomb and twisted it. “This,” I said, and threw it into the back of the store. Smoke started to emanate from it as the counter guy ran for the bomb. I left the seventy-five cents on the counter and walked out the front door.

Chapter

Eleven

“A stink bomb?” Chief Barry Dutton of the Midland Heights Police Department stood over me, eyes wide, his voice full of contempt. “You couldn’t think of anything better to do today than throw a stink bomb into the Kwik’N EZ?”

“I paid the guy for it,” I said.

I was sitting in the chair in front of the Chief’s desk, and was-n’t terribly frightened by his display of pique. I’ve known Barry for nine years, and even had dinner at his house a couple of times. I was a little frightened, though, because Barry is about six-four and looked like Arnold Schwarzenegger would if he were ten years younger and African-American.

“You think paying for the stink bomb makes it okay to use it in a convenience store?” Barry was James Earl Jones-ing his voice to full effect, and the chair vibrated a little, but I wasn’t going for it.

“The owner of the place seemed to think that once such an item is purchased, its use is strictly the responsibility of the owner,” I explained. “Besides, the name of his store breaks so many rules of grammar that, as a writer, it was a moral imperative for me to teach him a lesson.”

Barry sat down heavily and sighed. He knew perfectly well that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with me on this subject. It was either charge me or let me go.

“You didn’t just go in there to teach this guy how to spell ‘Quick,’” he said. “What were you doing there? Did this have something to do with the stink bombs at the school?”

“You knew about that?”

“Of course I knew about that—I’m the chief of police.” Barry fixed an imposing stare at me. “You think the parents in this town would let something that heinous happen without notifying, and then badgering, the chief of police?”

“Well, what are you doing about it?”

“The question isn’t what I’m doing about it—it’s whether you’re doing something about it, and if so, who asked you to do it.”

I actually looked away from him. “I’m. . . not at liberty to say.”

He snorted. It’s rare you get to hear someone snort, but he did it well. “What is this, freelance writer-client privilege? You’re not a private investigator, Aaron.”

“No. I looked into becoming one, but the state regulations are that you have to have. . .”

“. . . Five years of experience as a police officer or investigator with an organized police department of a state, county or municipality or an investigative agency of the United States, or any state, county, or municipality.” Barry said it all with what appeared to be enjoyable malice. “I’ve read the regs, and we’ve discussed them before.”

I fixed him in my gaze. “So you also know that in order to become a police officer in this state, you have to be under 35 years of age. So my time to start getting five years in as an investigator. . .”

Barry grinned. “. . . Passed about ten years ago.”

“Eight.”

“Nevertheless. That doesn’t explain what I’m going to tell Mr. Rebinow about his store. He’s got fresh produce in there, for crissakes, and now he’s going to have to close for two days.” Barry closed his eyes and rubbed them with an