Free Some Degree of Murder by Frank Zafiro, Colin Conway Page B

we done?” she called after me.
    When I didn’t answer, I heard her say, “Asshole.” Then the door slammed behind me.
     
    We were headed down to a Denny’s on Sprague when the driver finally spoke. “I’m pretty sure I know which one you’re looking for. It’s near the Home Depot and the Costco.”
    I stared out the window as neighborhoods passed by.
    “I can recommend a couple of better places to eat than the Denny’s,” the driver said. He was balding, fat and breathed heavily as he drove.
    The cab hit a pothole and bounced me into the middle of the back seat. I pushed myself upright behind the passenger seat and fastened my seat belt.
    “Sorry about that. Damn city never repairs their pot holes.”
    When I didn’t answer him, he reminded me about his offer. “Like I said, I know a couple of better places to eat.”
    My eyes shut tight as I tried to block out his babbling. He must have gotten the hint because he became very quiet. Several minutes later we pulled up to a Denny’s on Sprague near Edward Road. I paid the driver and climbed out of the taxi.
    “Want me to wait for you? I’ll click the meter off until you’re ready.”
    I shook my head and turned away, not waiting for an answer.
    Inside the Denny’s, a wrinkled waitress with sagging breasts and a wide ass showed me to a small booth. When I realized I couldn’t see the kitchen, I told her I wanted a different booth and pointed out my choice. She crinkled her nose at me. “Makes me no never mind. Something to drink?”
    “Coffee.”
    She brought a clean cup and filled it. She laid a menu in front of me. “I’ll be back for your order.”
    I nodded and scanned the restaurant. Several elderly couples occupied the booths around me and a couple of single men sat at the bar eating their breakfasts. Older waitresses hurried about, helping out their customers .
    The door to the kitchen opened and a black kid walked out carrying a large grey tub. He loped over to a table and cleared it of dirty dishes and glasses. His hair was in cornrows and he had the gaunt look of someone who had seen too many long nights dancing with crack. How he managed to continue working surprised me, but by the way he looked I imagined he’d probably quit any day.
    He walked by me on his way to another dirty table.
    “Hey,” I said to him and held out a fifty.
    The kid stopped and eyed the green in my hand. “Yeah?”
    “Are you Malcolm?”
    “Nope,” he said flatly but never took his eyes off of the cash.
    I waved the bill in my hand. “I need to ask Malcolm a question.”
    He looked around the restaurant. “Go ahead and ask.”
    I shook my head and folded the bill in my hand. “Not here. Out back.”
    “What’s the question?”
    “Out back,” I said and got up from the table. I passed Malcolm on my way to the cashier. I dropped three bucks in front of the clerk. “I just had coffee. That should cover it and the tip.”
    She nodded and took the cash.
    Out back, I had just lit a cigarette when Malcolm came out. “Can I have one of those,” he asked with a motion towards my smoke. I gave him one and lit with my lighter.
    “Where’s the money?”
    I pulled the fifty out of my pocket and slipped it under the lip of the dumpster next to us. “You get it when you give me an answer.”
    “Then ask your question.”
    “Why was Fawn Taylor down on Sprague?”
    His eyes widened and he stopped midway through an inhale on his cigarette. The smoke came out in bursts as he coughed. “You five-oh?”
    I shook my head. “No. I’m looking into her death as an interested party.”
    “Interested party? What’s that mean?”
    “It means I want to know why she was down there.”
    Malcolm looked over at the cash that hung from the dumpster. “She was workin’.”
    “You mean hookin’?”
    “Same thing, gee.”
    “Why was she workin’?”
    “Girl didn’t have no cash. Couldn’t steal any from her parents. Them folks never left shit lying