Free Old School by Daniel B. O'Shea Page B

supposed to say congratulations or I’m sorry?”
    Johnson barked out a short laugh. “You haven’t changed, Lou. I mean aside from you got real old. I dunno, both I guess. It wasn’t some sort of soul-match thing. His first wife died, he wasn’t good at being alone, we were comfortable together. Just how it played out.”
    “Well, it’s still a nice ride. And you’re looking good.”
    “Save the shit, Lou. I look about average for 65. You look like crap. Where do you want to eat?”
    “I want a goddamn cheeseburger with bacon on it and onion rings and a fuckin’ beer. The Manor still open?” The Manor was a crappy bar across Lincoln from the big-ass cemetery down on the southeast side, had a wooden deck in the back where you could eat outside when it was nice. And today it was 75, sunny, little breeze. “I got a plot in the boneyard across the street. We can dine al fresco and eyeball my new digs.”
    Johnson nodded. “It’s still open. You should feel right at home. Same dirt on the tables as last time you were there, probably.”
     
     
    ***
     
     
    They got a table back in a corner of the deck, DeGatano blowing pretty good by the time they sat down, still catching his breath when some young guy in a black t-shirt came out to take their orders. Johnson ordered a turkey club and a glass of their best Pinot Grigio.
    “Not sure what Pinot Grigio is, but I’m sure we don’t have it,” the kid said.
    “It’s a white wine. You have white wine?”
    “We got white, red and pink.”
    “I’ll have a glass of your best white.”
    “Only have one.”
    “That should make it easy on you then, shouldn’t it?”
    The kid nodded. “Okay,” still looking at her, “What would your father like?”
    DeGatano, reached up, grabbed the kid’s forearm. “I ain’t her father . . .” pause for breath, “and I may not be able to kick your ass anymore . . .” pause for breath, “but talk like I ain’t here again and I’ll put a match to this oxygen tank and blow us both to hell.”
    The kid pulled his arm away. “Sorry, man. Okay, so what would you like?”
    “Bacon cheeseburger, onion rings, beer.”
    The kid turned and looked at Johnson.
    “I don’t need her permission kid,” DeGatano said
    “Okay,” the kid said. “What kind of beer? On draft we have Miller, Miller Lite . . .”
    “Your best yellow. Surprise me. Now beat it.”
    The kid left for the kitchen.
    “Back in the day, all they hired for waitresses here was hot chicks. I was kinda looking forward to that,” DeGatano said.
    “Not getting much action down at Sunnybrook?”
    DeGatano shook his head. “Got one looker on staff. I peek down her shirt during my sponge baths and think bad thoughts. About all I can do. Pecker’s not good for much anymore besides taking a leak, and it ain’t much good for that.”
     
     
    ***
    DeGatano got through maybe three bites of the burger, a couple onion rings and half the beer. He felt bloated, light headed, and a little sick. Johnson finished her sandwich, took another pull on her second glass of wine.
    “Sad fucking thing,” DeGatano said. “Out with some elf-sized chick and she’s out eating me.”
    “Out drinking you, too.” She finished the wine, wiggled her glass at the waiter for a refill. “So, the Hangman?”
    DeGatano ran through what he had, the new guy, the Cub Scout, the knot.
    “Kinda thin, Lou,” she said.
    “I know. I’m not saying name the guy, I’m just saying dig a little. Service records would be nice. It’s always gnawed at me, the guy just stopping like that. Those sick fucks don’t just quit. Back in ’71, ‘72, I ran everybody that got busted anywhere near here for six months after that last killing. We always figured the guy ended up in the joint on something else. But now I got this Novak, and he can tie a sheepshank, and Cub Scouts push his happy button. And I know he’s ex-military ‘cause he’s in Sunnybrook on the VA’s dime. Could be he got drafted up,