"Hunter, Jeffrey - A Secret Affair" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hunter Jeffrey)

= A Secret Affair
by Jeffrey Hunter

John parked in the alley beside the Waffle House, under the shade of an old live oak. Leaves crackled under the tires, and the tree itself appeared starved for water in the hot, windless morning. No relief from the heat wave, not according to the paper. He left the cool of his car and felt the stifling sun embrace him, nearly burning the breath out of his lungs. John could hear the industrial air-conditioner beside the building straining to meet the demands of the customers inside the restaurant.

Inside, uniformed waitresses busily attended to the morning rush, while another unloaded a stainless steel dishwasher, clinking heavy coffee mugs together as she set them down. Scents of bacon, sausage and country ham emanated from a large griddle in the open kitchen area. John found a booth in the far corner and, out of habit, sat facing the door, a decision he regretted once he saw who was sitting opposite him in the adjacent booth.

Tom Stern. A squat, silver-haired defense attorney with finely groomed facial hair and thin, blood-red lips. Two things he always wore that John saw as beacons to his presumptuous personality--a diamond encrusted gold Rolex, and a fat ruby ring from his alma mater. Another man was sitting across from Stern. In his Guy Richards T-shirt and baseball cap, he was glaringly ordinary beside the attorney. Probably pro bono shit, John thought.

"John Butscher. How have you been?" Stern pronounced the name as butcher. John knew damn well Stern knew the correct pronunciation, boo-shay; you don't practice criminal defense as long as he had and not know the names of the local cops.

"Not bad, Tom."

"Why are you all dressed up, John, you have court today?"

"I'm plainclothes now?" He wished he'd sounded more authoritative.

"Oh, really? Doing what, vice?"

Vice. What a dickhead, John thought. Vice was for guys who didn't do a lot of thinking. Stern knew that.

"Persons crimes."

"Oh, good for you. Well, I'm sure I'll see you in court."

Stern waved his hand, the one with the fat ruby ring protruding like a swollen knuckle. John nodded and by that time a middle-aged waitress had approached John's table. She wore too much makeup, like every other greasy-spoon waitress he knew, but her smile was sincere.

"John Butch. I thought that was you. I didn't recognize you outta uniform," she said.

Butch was what he went by on the street. After all, a cop named "butcher"--and sooner or later everyone mispronounced it that way--was going to have a tough time building rapport with the community. John ordered the special with grits and a coffee. Coffee. On a day like this, he thought to himself.

On midnight shifts, he'd always driven through the Coffee Cup, ordered a hot one to go and then added a generous amount of bourbon to the styrofoam cup. Not that the combination was anything to throw your hair back, but the bitter smell of chicory coffee kept his secret safe, both in the cup and on his breath. Now, unaccustomed to such early hours, John wondered if he could take his coffee normal. He took off his dark sunglasses and began sifting through the paper.

The waitress returned and set a steaming mug in front of him. Small cream packets toppled out of her hand. She made a motion to sit down across from him. He hoped the grimace he'd formed in his mind wasn't noticeable on his face.

"So you're a detective now," she said, with a sort of gasping bewilderment.

Before the waitress could sit down, Charlie, the frail, suntanned man laboring at the griddle, called out ORDER UP. She patted John's table and smiled, then left. He thought about taking his sportcoat off and throwing it on the opposite seat, or heaving his feet up so she couldn't sit down, but that would be rude. In-your-face-rude. Not that he wasn't up to it, but he enjoyed the Waffle House, and the one place you don't burn bridges is your favorite eating hole.

John took a swallow of hot coffee and immediately frowned at its insipid flavor. Should've made a cup this morning, he thought. He'd just made the switch to day shift and he found himself without a routine, awkwardly out of place in the daytime.

The Golden Rule was never to drink straight from the bottle. Never without the coffee. Many things were tolerated by the Brass and even more by the street cops, but one universal taboo was that you never drink on the job. It could get another cop killed.

John rose from the table. It was a rash move, but he was on auto-pilot, and by the time he'd convinced himself it was safe, he was already in the car. She was stashed underneath the passenger's seat, neatly wedged in the internal springs. A flap of loose fabric concealed her from anyone who might look under the seat. Before moving for her, John scanned the alley, the parking lot, and everywhere else that was in view, twisting as if he were searching for something in the back seat. Nothing. No dark-tinted vehicles, no one idling around or hiding in the trees. Satisfied, he laid back down across the front seat. He drank and watched the sunlight glittering in the treetop above him. There was that big yellow ball again. It seemed like a stranger to him after working two years under the moon.

A black Ford Taurus pulled into the parking lot. Dark, nearly opaque windows. Internal Affairs was John's immediate thought. Or worse, some Brass stopping for breakfast. John cursed himself for not taking the usual precautions. Carefully, he kept his eyes away from the vehicle, moving quickly into the restaurant and back to his table. Safe. C'mon, John chided himself as he greedily swallowed his coffee, if they knew you were a drinker, why would they give a detective slot? He couldn't see the Taurus anymore, and no one had come in.

The hot, buttery smell of grits washed over his table as the waitress set down his breakfast. Instead of sitting like before, she leaned on the side of the booth.

"So, John, when did you make detective?"