Free The Enigmatologist by Ben Adams Page B

seven letter word for oceanographic that
starts with ‘a’, I can call you?”
    “Aquatic. Or maybe even abysmal. Depending on the clue.
Sorry, it’s part of my…Anyway, yes, you can call me for anything.”
    They gazed at each other for a while. Rosa smiled at him,
content and delighted, like she’d been waiting several years for him to walk
into her restaurant. John hoped that Rosa was interested in him and not that
she was waiting for him to order.
    “Oh, lunch,” John said, opening and pretending to read the
menu. “We came here for lunch.”
    The sheriff ordered the combo platter: an enchilada, a flauta , and a chile relleno . John ordered ala carte:
one enchilada con mole and a tamal . When Rosa walked
away, John turned and watched her hips sway. They moved gently, like willow
branches in a March breeze. When she reached the front counter she turned and
caught John staring. She smiled and laughed a little. John blushed, quickly
looked away.
    He wanted to spend more time with her and regretted having
to be on a case, having to track down some jerk who dressed like Elvis, did
karaoke, and picked up loose women. Rosa glided between the register and the kitchen
and John outlined their future, starting with coming back to her restaurant
once his case was wrapped up, talking to Rosa, asking her out, charming her
somehow, doing the long distance thing, becoming more serious, then moving in
together, John working on puzzles while she ran the restaurant, his numerous
awards hanging from the walls.
    John shook his head, stopping his thoughts. He knew from
experience how dangerous fantasies could be. When he was a child, he would sit
next to the door and imagine his father walking through it, hugging him and his
mother. His father would explain that he’d gotten lost coming home from work,
something that happened to John once when he was at a neighbor’s third birthday
party. So, John sat by the door waiting for something that never happened. Once
he realized his father wouldn’t be walking through the door, John learned to
control his fantasies, only dreaming about outcomes he could control, his
puzzles, his future.
    Rosa brought them a couple bottles of Negro Modelo . John leaned forward, his mouth slightly open. He
thought of something funny while she was getting their drinks, but she left to
check on other lunch guests before he could say anything and he slumped back
into the red vinyl chair. He held his beer bottle with both hands, almost in
his lap, and picked at the label.
    “About Leadbelly , anything I
need to know?” John asked.
    “Nah,” the sheriff said, sipping his beer. “He’s just one
a those characters we have here in town. A good natured type, jokes around a
lot. No one really takes him seriously.”
    “Someone took him seriously enough to take his picture.”
    “You wanna go by his trailer?”
The sheriff leaned over the table, perking up. “I know where he lives.”
    “How long you been sheriff?” John asked, the bottle almost
slipping from his grip.
    “I’ve worn this badge the past fifteen years. My pa was
sheriff before me, and my grandpa before him. I guess you could say being a
lawman’s in my blood.”
    “So you like it, then?”
    “Sure, I like it. I like this town. The people. Honestly,
I don’t really have that much to do, just the occasional domestic disturbance,
but nothing that can’t be handled by talking things out. These are good people
here. Most of the time I don’t even wear a gun, only when strangers come around
asking questions.” He slapped John’s arm, laughing.
    Forcing fake laughter, John watched the sheriff for signs
that he was either joking or about to arrest him.
    “What about you, how’d you get into the P.I. business?”
    “It’s a pretty long story,” John said. “I graduated school,
needed a job. My boss, Rufus, was a friend of my grandfather, kind of an
unofficial uncle. He needed an assistant, said he’d take me on. Really, he was
doing it