Page 97 of Tito

Tito

Imay have been wallowing in guilt, but Reggie’s father wasn’t doing much better. He was happy to see us, no doubt, but he wasn’t his normal self. Gathered in his living room for our Sunday evening get together, Reggie and I were side by side in the loveseat across from him.

Seated in his favorite reclining chair, Ted reached for his phone. “If everyone’s okay with pizza, I’ll order it.”

“You’re not going to make steaks?” Reggie asked, clearly disappointed.

“Don’t feel like it,” he responded. “I’ve used this DoorDash thing four or five times this week. It’s a pretty good deal.”

Her brows raised. “You haven’t been cooking?”

“I’ve been a little under the weather.”

“Since when?”

“All week.”

“You’re not the only one,” she replied, shifting her eyes to me. “Tito’s been a little off all week, too.”

“You’ve been sick?” he asked.

“Just not feeling myself.”

“That’s about where I’ve been.” He raised the phone to his ear. “Just a little off my normal self.”

“Do you want to talk bout it?” Reggie asked.

“Not particularly.”

“You know keeping it bottled up will just make you angry,” she said.

He raised his index finger, turned away, and ordered the pizzas. When he was finished, he placed his phone on the end table. “It’s just work.”

“Of course it is,” she replied. “What else would it be?”

“I’ve sheltered you from the details of my work for many reasons,” he said, seeming almost irritated by her remark. “Partially because I don’t want to compromise an investigation. More importantly, I don’t want to expose you to the world I’m forced to live in.”

“What world is that?” Reggie asked.

“One where one man has no regard for his fellow. One where a human life doesn’t receive the value that it should. One where criminals seem to always be one step ahead of their captors, roaming amongst the law-abiding citizens, free to wreak their havoc on the lives of the innocent.”

Reggie’s eyes widened. “Where did that come from?”

He moved the chair from reclined to an upright seating position. He stood. “I’m pissed off, Reg.”

“We’re listening.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you drink scotch?”

I stood. “I do.”

He waved his hand at me. “Sit. “I’ll bring the bottle.”

In a moment he returned with three glasses and a bottle of Jonnie Walker. He poured the glasses half-full and handed each of us one.

He set the bottle on the end table and reclined in his chair. He raised the glass to his nose, drew a slow breath, and closed his eyes. “I like smelling this stuff a much as I like drinking it.”

“I love the smell of good scotch,” I said.