Free Trouble in Rooster Paradise by T.W. Emory

started out
taking care of me. I ended up taking care of her.”
    She saw my puzzled expression.
    “ My aunt was highly sensitive. She
had a romance go bad and I’m afraid it shattered her. She never
recovered. I saw to her needs. I tried my best to take care of her
for several years. But she got progressively worse. Three years ago
I finally had to commit her. She died after a year in Steilacoom.
The ravages of alcoholic dementia, they said. But I say it was a
broken heart.”
    “ I’m sorry.” Putting a loved one in
a mental hospital had to be rough. Having them die there had to be
a nightmare.
    “ Thank you. It’s probably for the
best. She’s no longer suffering. Some people don’t snap
back.”
    I said I understood. I knew a few guys who came
back from the war but never really returned. Not everyone has the
resilience of a Walter Pangborn.
    We talked a little longer, and then I stood up
and handed her my cup. Our fingers bumped. Gunnar the Smitten. Had
she purposely touched me?
    Gunnar the Gonadal, more like it.
    “ I may be back to talk with one or
two of the other girls. I understand you keep a list of regular
customers—males anyway.”
    She smiled. “I see Meredith told you of our
little attempt at psychological merchandising.”
    “ Whatever works, I say. Would you
mind putting together a list of Christine’s regulars?”
    “ Not at all. Does this mean I’ll see
you again?”
    “ You sound as if you like the
idea.”
    “ Maybe I do.”
     
     

Chapter 6
    K irsti looked speculatively
at me and said, “That Britt Anderson had the hots for you.”
    “ Well, you know, Blue Eyes, I wasn’t
always a wizened wheelchair jockey.”
    With a teasing smile and a knowing look, she
said, “Yeah, you were probably a real hottie. And it’s pretty
obvious that that boutique was the rooster paradise you’d referred
to.”
    “ Yes, but it wasn’t me who coined
that term for it.”
    “ Who did, then?”
    “ All in good time, young lady. I’ll
not be rushed. Besides, you’re supposed to save up your questions,
remember?”
    “ Sorry,” she said. But she wasn’t in
the least.
     
    It was probably Rikard Lundeen’s retainer along
with Britt Anderson’s bantam hint of interest that made me feel
like splurging. I put two dollars worth of regular in the Chevy
before I headed back downtown.
    Everyday speech can be contradictory. Have you
ever noticed how “fat chance” and “slim chance” mean the same
thing? The word “choice” gets similar treatment. I’d rented my
choice out for the day. I rarely entered a police station by
choice. I chose to do so now because I had no choice.
    Detective Sergeant Frank Milland’s working
milieu was a chaotic medley of desks, filing cabinets, ancient
typewriters and overflowing ashtrays. The real human touches were
the smell of perspiration and the mishmash of forsaken food scraps
that looked to have been grown in petri dishes—and would surely
have led to fantastic discoveries if analyzed under a microscope.
But it wasn’t my mission to bemoan this tragic loss to science. I
was looking for my friend.
    I took in scenes that reminded me that a cop’s
job deals largely with policies, procedures, complaints, and
irksome details. Only a tiny fraction of their work is connected to
bloodshed and murder.
    The squad room was buzzing with cops and
Seattle citizenry. I worked my way to the back, where Milland’s
partner, Bernie Hanson, sat at his hardwood desk beating out a
concerto on his typewriter. To my right was a plump, middle-aged
woman who wore a summer dress that had already seen way too many
seasons. She sobbed and beseeched two cops who had mouths that
looked sutured shut and who were about as open and friendly as that
allows. To my left was an old colored man in a drab suit who
earnestly told his story to another officer. The cop nodded as he
hunted and pecked at his typewriter.
    An old Scandinavian fellow in alpaca trousers,
a flannel shirt, and a string tie