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“I’ll come and get you for lunch.”
“No lunch, no dinner, no tonight. Today, you and me, we’re on a break. No talking, no seeing, no nothing. Maybe, if I’ve cooled down, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Indy, you can have space today, but you’re in my bed tonight.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’ll be here tonight when you get home.”
“I’m not coming home.”
His eyes got kind of scary and he leaned into me a bit. Considering he was pretty damn close to me, leaning in was seriously invasive.
“Honey, you forget, part of my job is findin’ people. Do you think you can hide from me?”
No, I didn’t think I could hide from him, but I was going to try.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I repeated.
I shoved through his arms, huffed through the living room giving a wave and a farewell to Eddie and Tod, who both wisely kept quiet, and soared on my anger all the way down the block towards Fortnum’s.
TWENTY-TWO
FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD SERIAL KILLER
Ialmost made it to the door of Fortnum’s when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that stapled to every telephone and light pole down Broadway, for as far as the eye could see, was an acid-green piece of paper with what looked like a photo with some writing underneath.
I thought someone really, really wanted to find their missing cat so I stomped up to check it out and stopped dead at what I saw.
It was a picture of Tex. No night vision goggles (thankfully), but with wild hair and a crazy-ass smile on his face, looking like your friendly neighborhood serial killer. The picture was obviously color, copied in black and white, which made it blobby and grainy and even more frightening.
Underneath his picture it said,Texand underneath that it said,New Coffee Guyand underneath that it said,Fortnum’s.
Holy crap.
I snatched the flier off the telephone pole and prowled into Fortnum’s.
There were five customers, three standing in line, two waiting at the other end of the counter for their coffee. Tex and Jane were behind the counter.
I shouted, “What the hell is this?” Then I waved the acid-green poster around.
Tex looked up at me, then looked out the window, then looked back at me and pointed the portafilter at me. Unfortunately, he hadn’t pounded out the used coffee grounds so they went flying in an arc in front of him and the customers stepped wide on either side to avoid them.
“What’re you doin’, woman? That was prime advertisin’ space, right outside the store. Why’d you pull it down?”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to tell him he looked like a serial killer.
But, for God’s sake, he looked like a serial killer.
“Tex, you look like a serial killer in this picture!” I shouted.
“Yeah, so?” Tex answered.
I stared.
“You think people wouldn’t pay good money to have a serial killer make them coffee?” he boomed.
He had a point. This was America. People would stand in line to touch the swastika on Charles Manson’s forehead.
