I threw my chicken tenders bag on the passenger side floor, sucked down some diet soda, ignored my cookie (for now) and headed to Fortnum’s.
* * * * *
Fortnum’s was in my ‘hood.
I’d been there a few times to buy books. It was only four or so blocks from my house. It had been there forever and had that feel about it. In fact, I was pretty certain some of the books had been there since it opened.
It was huge, smelled musty and had three big rooms. The front room had an espresso counter against the side wall facing Bayaud, a book counter facing Broadway and a door that opened from the corner. There was a couch, its back at the store length Broadway window, another couch facing it and a coffee table in between. There were bunches of tables and chairs and a few comfortable armchairs. Behind the book counter there were rows and rows of shelves, then another, smaller room full of more shelves and a table topped with open milk cartons stuffed full of old, vinyl records, then a huge back room filled with more shelves and books.
It was popular and getting more popular by the day. They had a coffee guy the last time I went there who made unbelievable lattes. Rumor had it he got into trouble, dragging the bookstore’s owner, India Savage, with him. Luckily for Indy, her boyfriend was Lee Nightingale (thus explaining why the kickass Nightingale Boys chose to hang out at a bookstore), so her problems were sorted pretty damn quick.
The coffee guy took off and I heard they had a new coffee guy and he was supposed to be a maestro of espresso, the best of the best.
I parked the Camaro on Broadway and headed in. The bell over the door went and everyone looked at me. When they saw me, most everyone stared for a second, then most of them smiled.
Except one.
“Oh shit,” a super-deep, gravelly voice said. The voice came from a man behind the book counter and he was the one not smiling. He had long, gray hair pulled back in a braid, a red, rolled bandana wrapped around his forehead and a thick gray beard. He had on a black, Harley Davidson, long-sleeved t-shirt over which he wore a black leather vest.
Standing beside him was a gorgeous redhead who I knew was Indy Savage, the owner of the store and Lee Nightingale’s woman.
Sitting on the counter was a beautiful blonde woman wearing a killer outfit and next to her was a woman who looked exactly like Dolly Parton, wearing a velour, powder-blue tracksuit, the top unzipped and showing so much cle**age she’d be arrested in some places.
Behind the espresso counter was an enormous man with lots of wild blond hair and a russet beard and beside him was a pretty blonde.
Looking at the women I decided there was another, more obvious reason the Nightingale Boys hung out at Fortnum’s.
Even though it was well in the afternoon, way past coffee time, there were three customers waiting to give their order, two waiting for pick up and a scattering of customers in the seating area.
“Fuckin’ A, turkey!” the big man behind the espresso counter boomed looking extremely pleased and, for some reason, he pointed at the Harley man.
I ignored their bizarre behavior and did another scan of the room.
That’s when I saw, in the corner next to the espresso counter, Roam and Sniff sitting at a table trying to look inconspicuous even though they were of the age where they should be at school and they were wearing homey clothes.
I stalked up to them. “Let’s go,” I ordered.
“Law,” Roam replied, just that but it was enough.
“Up! Now!” I snapped.
“Law, no one’s even come in yet,” Sniff told me.
I turned to Sniff, not knowing what he was on about and not caring. “I’ve been worried sick and driving all over Denver looking for you two. We need to have a talk. We’re going back to King’s. Get up. Let’s go,” I repeated.
They looked at each other and didn’t move.
I put my hands on my hips. “Boys.” My tone held a warning.
“Law. We been waitin’ forever,” Sniff said.
Roam was silent.
“For what?” I asked.
“One of the boys to come in. Any of ‘em,” Sniff told me.
Roam sat back in his chair and threw Sniff a “shut up” look.