Page 34 of No Headlines Please

"I'm not gonna drink it now," he said, as if I'd just suggested snorting coke off the coffee table. "There's a ballgame later. I figure I'll drink it then."

"Oh. I guess that makes sense." Desperately, I tried to think. "Would you settle for some bacon-wrapped shrimp?"

It almost hurt to offer them up. I loved bacon. I loved shrimp. And I loved the memory of being at that restaurant with Maddox. But I loved my sister more.

He asked, "How much bacon-wrapped shrimp?"

The portions had been decent, but not oversized. "Maybe… half a dozen?"

He looked unimpressed.

I rushed to explain, "And it's not like anyone touched them. The waiter boxed them straight from the serving plate."

"Forget the plate. I'm just wondering about the quantity, that's all." He frowned. "They're called shrimp for a reason."

"Oh. Okay…well…how about if I threw in some crab cakes?"

"Eh, those don't warm up so good. Got anything else?"

I gave it some thought. "Truffle fries?" And then, at his blank expression, I explained, "They're like regular fries, but with truffle oil and parmesan."

He reached up to stroke his chin. "But they're still made from potatoes, right?"

"Definitely." But then I paused. "You do like potatoes, right?"

He snorted. "Everyone likes potatoes. It's the truffles I'm worried about. Aren't those the things pigs eat?"

Did they? "Actually, I don't know. But trust me, those fries are really good." I plastered on my best salesy smile. "I'm sure they'd go great with a ballgame."

After a beat, he finally nodded and held out his hand. "Deal."

I reached out and shook his hand with gusto, just happy to have the negotiations over with.

For some reason, this made him laugh.

I stopped in mid-shake. "What's so funny?"

"I don't mind a good handshake," he said. "But mostly, I figured you'd hand over the paperwork."

"Oh. Right." With a surge of relief, I handed it over.

But then, things got seriously weird the moment Walt saw the second page.

14

Just in the Neighborhood

Maddox

Cal was giving me that look again – the same one he'd been giving me off and on for maybe twenty years. "You did what?"

I shrugged. "I found her myself."

"You're joking."

Cal should've known better. I wasn't known for being a funny guy.

He was standing near the windows of my downtown office with his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jacket. Built like a tank, he was the kind of man nobody smart would underestimate despite his gray hair.