Free Hot Stuff by Don Bruns Page A

We’ll get it.”
    â€œThe detective said pick it up with plastic wrap, okay? Plastic wrap, Skip. I’ll meet you there.”
    And she was gone.
    â€œThe cop wants to check it for fingerprints. You and I picked it up last night so I’m sure ours are on it.”
    â€œSo, she told him about our knife and apron.” Surprisingly he smiled. “That’s good, man.”
    â€œWhy is that good?”
    â€œWe shared. We’ve given him some information. Now he knows we’re serious. We’re involved.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œHe owes us, amigo. It’s his turn to tell us something about the case.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

    Twenty-five minutes later James pulled the white, four-wheeled oil burner into L’Elfe’s parking lot. Two in the afternoon, and my partner still had the evening stretching out in front of him. I hoped that I wasn’t pulling dishwasher duty two nights in a row.
    There was no Jaguar waiting for us.
    â€œEm’s not here yet. You sure you can get in?”
    He nodded. “Cleanup guy, setup guy, somebody’ll be inside.”
    â€œAnd your excuse for showing up hours early?”
    â€œI forgot something from my locker. Which, it so happens, is the truth. Sometimes, Skip, the truth is the best answer.”
    I’d never found James to follow that rule.
    â€œCome with me. We may be able to talk to one of the guys for a couple of minutes. We’ve got to interview as many people as we can.”
    â€œWithout coming off like an interview.”
    Walking up to the back door, James pushed it open. The heavy metal gave easily and we walked into the rear of the kitchen.
    Holding the door open for a moment, I said, “Check thisout, James. A magnetic alarm system on the door. Do you know how easy it would be to disarm this? These guys are ripe for a break-in.”
    There was no fire-breathing grill, no pans banging, no knife artists wielding their shiny blades of steel and, thankfully, no scalding hot water or garbage cans of people’s leftovers.
    The rap music was loud, blaring through the kitchen and probably out into the empty dining room.
    â€œI’ll go back to the locker.” James raised his voice several decibels. “You check out front and see who’s working. Tell them you just came along with me for the ride, and say something like, I don’t know, wasn’t it too bad about the Wright girl and what do you think happened, you know?”
    â€œI do know. I can handle this. Are we supposed to be friends?”
    He nodded. “Yeah, we are. And you know you didn’t exactly show that kind of confidence when you talked to the runner last night.”
    â€œI’ve got it under control now, okay?”
    â€œYou go that way, I’ll go this way.” James headed to the left toward the lockers, and I walked through the kitchen, past the gleaming stainless counters and took a right through the swinging doors into the dining area.
    Black tables, stark against a ceramic white inlay, and a blood-red carpet that almost squished under my feet. The small bar, complete with granite top and twelve leather stools, was off to my left, and a glassed-in wine cabinet to my right. When Em and I had eaten here, it didn’t seem so severe. The dining area was empty, except for the little guy in the far corner. He was wiping down the tables, bopping to the music.
    â€œWorld Series attitude, champagne bottle life.”
    A song by Drake and Lil Wayne.
    â€œYou do the cleanup?” I shouted to him.
    There was no response, just the heavy beat of the music as the man danced and took swipes with a cloth at the table.
    â€œHey, you.”
    Finally the dark young man lifted his shaved head and concentrated his attention on my voice.
    â€œWhatchu want?”
    â€œJust wondered if you do the early cleanup? Setup?”
    â€œIs that what it look like?”
    I nodded.
    â€œThen don’t be askin’ stupid