Free Hitchers by Will McIntosh Page B

anything juvenile like that.” She shrugged. “But if you happened to sign that place mat for some reason, that would be okay.”
    Mick grinned. “I’ve done stranger things.”
    â€œYes you have,” the waitress shot back, prompting Mick to cackle madly.
    True to his word, Mick ordered a scotch with his bacon and pancakes.
    When the waitress had gone, I said, “The doctor told me the same thing. But it’s the only thing that connects our cases. That and the fact that we both died for a few minutes.”
    We compared notes. The things we were blurting were similar in some ways, not in others. I recognized a lot of what I said—it had to do with the strip, people and places I knew, and especially my grandfather. Mick recognized some of what he said—about his music, the lawsuit he’d fought with his collaborator, and so on. Other things weren’t at all familiar, like the beauty he’d just uttered.
    â€œSometimes it’s like I got a bleeding anorak in my throat. Programs on the telly, comic books. I go on and on about the most trivial dross.”
    It definitely didn’t fit with my psychiatrist Corinne’s theory that my blurting was the result of unresolved issues with my grandfather. If that was it, why would Mick Mercury have the same problem?
    â€œLet me ask you something,” Mick said, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. “You much for getting trolleyed?”
    I shook my head, totally lost.
    â€œYou know, do you like to get pissed?”

    It took me a minute, then I remembered that pissed was British for drunk. “Oh sure, I like a few drinks now and then.”
    Mick nodded, looked around, as if afraid some of the patrons might be undercover paparazzi. “But when you’re done having those few drinks, do you have a few more?”
    â€œWhen I was in college, maybe, but now it’s mostly two or three max.” I wasn’t sure where he was going with this.
    â€œHarder stuff? Pills and powder?”
    â€œNone of that. Why?”
    Mick waved it off. “I thought maybe it was from brain damage. You know, brain atrophy and that.”
    Mick’s cell phone rang. He checked it, then held up a finger. “Just a sec.”
    â€œMy guardian angel! Yeah, I’m with him right now.” He nodded at me. “Nah, he ain’t angry. He says to say thanks.” Pause, then Mick laughed. “I bet, I bet.”
    The person on the other end—Mick’s mole receptionist in our doctor’s office, I assumed, said something that lit his face with surprise. “No kidding?”
    She went on; Mick fumbled in the pockets of his jacket, then covered the mouthpiece of his phone. “You got a pen?” I handed him the sketching pencil I always carried. He pressed it to the back of his menu. “Can you give me a name?” He rolled his eyes toward the hammered tin ceiling. “I promise, you won’t get in trouble. I’ll be very discreet.” A moment later he jotted a name and number on his napkin. “Thanks. You’re an angel from heaven! You’ve no idea how much this means to me, and Finn Darby too. He just said to give you a big wet kiss for him.” Mick winked at me, grinning, as I pressed my hands to my cheeks and shook my head. I’d have to face her again, whoever she was, next time I went to Dr. Purvis’s office.
    â€œJesus flipping Christ,” Mick whispered as he closed the phone. “You ready for this?”
    â€œWhat?”

    â€œDr. Purvis saw three more cases like ours in the past twenty-four hours.”
    I wasn’t sure if that was good news, but it felt like good news. Mick and I smiled grimly at each other.
    â€œYou ever see Planet of the Apes ?” Mick asked. “The original, not that shit remake.”
    â€œOne of my favorites,” I said, pleased that Mick and I liked the same film.
    â€œâ€˜Where there’s one,