Free Hunting Sweetie Rose : A Mystery (9781429950879) by Jack Fredrickson Page B

Then, mindful of the sneezing I’d set off in the elevator rising to Sweetie’s penthouse, I lingered for a moment outside, in the cleansing breeze off the Willahock, before getting into the Jeep.
    The name of the place, Galecki’s, matched what she’d given me, but everything else about it was wrong. The walls were paneled in fake knotty pine, worn yellow-and-white-checkered oilcloths covered the tables, and the place was mobbed with enough blue collars to make me think the food was good and reasonably priced. The day’s special, stuffed cabbage rolls, was chalked on a board above the cash register, in English and in Polish.
    I’d been had, by a woman who might be as playful as she was beautiful and threatening. I took off my tie, jammed it into my blazer pocket, and worked my way through the crowd to add my name to the waiting list.
    â€œElstrom?” The hostess looked me up and down as if she were inspecting beef. She was a babushka with a heavy Polish accent, another Ma Brumsky, though ideally she possessed a more refined taste in movies.
    â€œElstrom?” she repeated, holding out the menu like she was going to jerk it back if I answered wrong.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œMiss Fancy Pants Gale phoned, tell me to seat you at her special table.” She led me through the packed dining area to a tiny, two-person booth behind a floor-to-ceiling shelf filled with napkins, dishwashing detergent, and enough bottles of ketchup to disguise all the fish and lasagna I’d ever microwave.
    Jennifer Gale had been straight about one thing. The booth was secluded enough from the din to be the perfect place to talk.
    The hostess left me with the menu. A moment later, a waitress brought me coffee with a knowing smile. Obviously, not everybody got to sit behind the ketchup at Ms. Fancy Pants Gale’s special booth.
    Jennifer breezed in five minutes later, followed closely by the hostess. She wore a green sweater and khakis, though her khakis had been pressed more recently than mine, perhaps that very day. Perhaps even, judging by their perfect fit, while she was inside of them.
    Fancy pants, indeed.
    She slid into the booth, saw the hostess looking closely at me.
    â€œForget it,” Jennifer said to the babushka. “He’s got a rich girlfriend.”
    The older woman pursued her lips. “How rich?”
    â€œMama!”
    The hostess shot her a dark look, winked at me, and left.
    â€œThat’s your mother?”
    â€œWho else but a mother would act so blatantly? I tell her I’m happy with my career. She can’t imagine how that can be, if I don’t already have three kids and am not pregnant with a fourth.”
    â€œIt’s Galecki, then, not Gale?”
    â€œMy maiden name. I thought Gale sounded better for the news.”
    â€œYou’re married?”
    For the briefest of instants, her features froze. “He died.”
    The waitress came back with coffee for Jennifer and a refill for me. Jennifer said something to her in Polish. The waitress smiled, took my menu, and went away.
    â€œWhat am I having?” I asked.
    â€œThe cabbage, but everything’s good here.”
    â€œEspecially Mama?”
    She smiled. “Especially Mama.” She took a sip of her coffee. “If Elvis Derbil is a minion, not a born risk taker, who is telling him what to do?”
    â€œI don’t see anyone at city hall telling him to venture past the town limits.”
    â€œWho, then?”
    â€œI can’t imagine.”
    â€œThen tell me about the clown’s rope.”
    â€œYou’re the one who wants to go see it,” I countered.
    â€œWork with me, Dek Elstrom. I have resources you can’t match.”
    â€œTo use for broadcast, unfortunately.”
    â€œOK. Same deal as we have with your zoning story: nothing about the clown for broadcast, until you say—but not for forever, and you must bring me along, every step of the