Page 8

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“He was … strange the other day.”

“Strange how?” Dixie asked.

“Sad about something, but he wouldn’t tell me what.”

I knew Joey about as well as I knew most of the people around Black Vulture. He was in trouble more than he wasn’t, though it did seem he’d grown up some since dating Trisha. Those of us who’d met both him and Trisha were in Trisha’s court and hoped she’d decide he wasn’t her forever guy, but, sigh, the heart wanted what it wanted.

“He’ll get back to you.” I would let Calloway know what she’d said even if it didn’t matter.

I’d considered calling the sheriff before having my finger attended to, but how important could my problem be when he was working with Tucson authorities on something that was undoubtedly a higher priority? I’d text him in a minute, let him know I’d like to talk to him when he was available.

I hoped for quick answers from Tucson, and I didn’t want to put any speed bumps in anyone’s way.

“You’re probably right,” Trish said weakly.

“What in the hell is going on?” Virgie, the diner’s owner, pushed through the door. Four feet something, Virgie was tiny with a giant voice, and teased gray hair that was closer to Jesus than any of the rest of her would ever be. “What is everyone doing back here?”

“Sorry,” Trisha said as she made her way around the boss.

“We were fixing up Hazel’s finger,” Dixie said.

“Fixing? Was there blood? In here?”

“Seemed more appropriate than the dining room,” Dixie said.

Virgie wasn’t fond of backtalk. She wasn’t an unkind person, and she ran a clean and tight ship. The only one who could get away with anything that might be considered disrespectful was Dixie, but Dixie was just being Dixie. Virgie, unbeknownst to Dixie, tolerated whatever Dixie dished out since the whole town would revolt if their favorite waitress was fired.

“Get your asses back out here. And you,” Virgie looked at me, “don’t you dare bleed in my restaurant.”

I nodded and followed the others out to the dining room, again patting my back pocket and wondering where my phone had gone. The diner staff who’d been taking care of me had all dispersed to their tasks.

I thought about returning to the break room to search for the phone, but what was his name …? Sonny. Sonny waved it at me as he sat on the stool at the other end of the counter. Then he pointed at my hat, also on the counter.

I sighed and then made my way toward him.

“It’s cracked, but I cleaned off the blood.” He handed me the phone.

“You did? Why?”

“I didn’t think you’d want a bloody phone.”

He didn’t understand the depth of my question, which, had I wanted to expound upon it, would have been something like “Who cleans blood off any phone that isn’t theirs?” But I didn’t.

“Right.” I sat on the stool next to him and took the phone. “Thank you. And thanks for coming out to help me. And gathering my hat.”

“You’re welcome. How’s the finger?”

I held it up so he could see the waitress and cook’s work.

“Nice,” he said.

“They mentioned superglue, but this seemed good enough.”

“Superglue might help.”

“I’ll see how it goes.”