sugar. I took a careful sip and checked the rack of packaged treats beside me. Tastycakes, as advertised. I grinned and picked up a butterscotch package, my favorite as a kid, and tore the cellophane open and took a bite. I might have even closed my eyes because when I took another sip of coffee to wash down the flavor, a young man was standing behind the counter, staring at me.
I finished my swallow, tipped the cup and said: “How you doin’?”
He simply nodded and turned away. I guessed his age at somewhere in his early twenties. His shoulders were thin and his face angular and drawn under a mop of straight black hair that covered his eyes when he bent his head forward. He was shuffling something under the counter and did not look up so I shifted my weight from side to side while I finished my snack. Behind the clerk was a hanging roll of lottery tickets next to a Philadelphia Flyers calendar next to an eight-by-ten portrait of a dark-haired girl whose crooked smile and too wide eyes said that she had to be Faith Hamlin. She had been given a place of honor where everyone could see her, where everyone who bought a pack of cigarettes or loaf of bread could remember.
I tossed the rest of the cake and its wrapper into a small trash can and stepped over to the counter. The kid didn’t look up.
“How, uh, much do I owe you?”
He finally met my eyes through a strand of hair. I raised the cup and gestured back toward the rack of snacks. “This and a Tastycake,” I said.
“Two-oh-four,” he said without moving to the register, just waiting while I dug into the pocket of my sweatpants.
“Who’s the girl?” I said, nodding at the framed photo and trying to be nonchalant while I sorted some bills. “She’s pretty.”
The kid’s brow wrinkled at the question and he actually started to turn around to see what I was talking about but stopped himself halfway. He turned back and I put three ones into his outstretched hand. His wrists were skinny and knotted. He stepped back and rang up the sale and was snaking out change with long, pale fingers.
“You a cop?” he suddenly said, and I may have mistaken the flat tone as an accusation. Maybe he was being a smart-ass because I was asking questions. Maybe it was something else. But I had an odd, sudden urge to reach over and snap his bony wrists.
“No,” I said, trying to match his bluntness. “Why?”
“I dunno,” he said pouring ninety-six cents into my palm. “You just look like a cop.”
“No,” I said again. “I’m not from around here.”
“Yeah,” he said, pulling a strand of black hair away from his eyes. “Have a nice day.”
My coffee was cold by the time I hit Jefferson Square and I tossed the cup into a trash can. I jogged the rest of the way back to Gaskill with the thought of a hot shower motivating me and the same thought keeping at bay the proposition of having dinner with my ex-wife.
I got to Moriarity’s by seven thirty and sat at the end of the bar by the door so I wouldn’t miss her coming in. Billy had left a message for me to call him. When I reached him at his office he told me he’d gotten a call from Rodrigo Colon. One of the cruise workers had been roughed up outside the medical clinic by some muscle who had approached the group in an alley where they were smoking. It had been a warning and the only translation the workers came away with were shut up and go home to Manila or their injuries from the explosion would be minor in comparison.
“So he wasn’t from the recruiters in the Philippines?” I’d asked.
“No, Rodrigo said he was American. White and bigger than you. Someone with an ugly or vulgar mouth,” Billy said. “That was the best description he could give. He said he and the rest had decided to stay inside for a few days. Keep to themselves and lay low, but it definitely put a damper on his recruiting efforts.”
I figured I already knew who Ugly Mouth was. Bat Man’s jaw would still be wired from my head-butt. I told Billy I would wrap up here as soon as I could.
“So how’s it going up there?” he’d asked.
“Thirty-six degrees and drizzle,” I said. “And I’m having dinner with Meagan in