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Blaze looks guarded. I’m very curious why this is.
Stacy, our athletic waitress pops over to refill our coffee mugs. “Is there anything else I can get ya?”
“No, we’re good.” I say without so much as a glance to see if Blaze concurs. I want him to answer my question, even though he is still eating, and I don’t want him to use the waitress being here as an excuse to ignore me.
She glides away on her long, athletic legs and I turn my eyes on him. He’s chewing.
“Well?” I say as a prompt for an answer.
He continues to chew, with a smile on his face. Is he considering what he should say? I realize open cases are confidential, but if we are going to be more than neighbors, friends even, then I feel he should open up and tell me what’s going on in his world.
He doesn’t.
“I’m sorry, but I really cannot talk about it.”
“I see. So what can you talk about?” I probe.
Again, he smiles. “The weather, your overgrown yard, when will you go see my friend in Spearfish to trade for a newer car? Stuff like that.”
“I see.” Anger is roiling in my gut, souring the lovely quiche I just ate. “So, we are here having breakfast to build a superficial relationship as neighbors? Or.…”
“No,” he says gently as if he is trying to keep me calm. “I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood and maybe get to know you better than you yelling at me for mowing too early in the morning.” He chuckles.
I glare at him. What does he really want? “Hmm.” I mull his words over. “Well, my work is confidential, too. People’s right to privacy and all that. So what are we going to talk about, if we can’t talk about work?” I challenge him with an eyebrow lift.
“Well, I know your name is Maribeth Thorp. You come from Denver, and you moved here because you are in possession of the deed to Frank’s house.”
“Uh, excuse me! I am in possession of the deed to MY house.”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Your house. By the limited amount of items you brought with you, I’d say you escaped a difficult situation and came here to start a new life. And I know you got a set of lungs and sing like a bird.” He paused. “So, what else is there to know about Maribeth Thorp?”
My eyes narrow. “Okay.” I’ll play this game. “Your name is Jonathan Hemingway, but you prefer to be called Blaze for some unknown reason. You are a cop, a detective to be precise. You get very little sleep, and you like to do physical activities before you go to bed, like mowing. And you eat really heavy meals that make you sleepy so you can go to bed to get some rest, once you get back home. You don’t mind being called out on a job late at night, in fact, I’d say you rather enjoy the chase. You are keenly alert to disturbances in the force around your house, and you like to offer help even when a person doesn’t ask for or want it.” I lift my chin a notch. “There, we have proved we know each other.”
He smiles, taking a last bite of his chicken fried steak coated in cream gravy and a piece of fried egg. “Not bad.”
“I organize people’s lives. It’s easy to read them before I work for them.” I reply smugly.
He nods. “So, do you like to gamble?
I blink, tilt my head, and gawk at him. “Why do you keep asking me that?
“Just curious.”
“Really? Why?” I concentrate on him, looking for his tell. “A detective is never just curious. There’s a reason for every question you ask. What are you really asking me?”
“Nothing.” He cocks his head back on his shoulders. “Deadwood has a lot of casinos, is all. I was just wondering if you like to gamble.”
After perusing him more, searching his face for some indication if he is bluffing, I open my mouth. “Okay. I don’t care for an animated video game that simulates a slot machine. There’s no talent involved. One is at the mercy of the programming which is designed to give just enough wins to keep the player hoping for more. I don’t like throwing my money away. I prefer a game where I can use my talents and the luck of the draw to win or lose as lady luck wishes.”
He nods. But something is turning in his mind, I just can’t figure it out. Well, I think I know, but I pray I’m wrong. Why did I have to move right next door to a detective? Of all people? While what I do, when times bottom out on me financially, isn’t illegal, the person who “hosts” the game is on the opposite side of the law and can get serious charges brought against them. As a participant, I do not want to lead a lawman straight to my source. Suddenly, I feel nauseous.
“Look. I got a lot to do,” I say as I scoot out of the booth. “I’ll just catch the trolley and head back home.”
“No. Wait.” He calls after me, but I slip out a side door of the restaurant that is roped off to keep people from coming in from the slot machines area. I see John Wayne and his horse, just ahead and make a beeline toward him. I hurry out, just as the trolley pulls up.
“Two dollars.” The driver says, somehow knowing I have no idea how much the trolly costs.
“Maribeth!” I hear Blaze call after me, but I keep my head forward and stare at the backside of the driver who could easily be a stand-in for Kevin James from King of Queens. Once we pull out of the odd, twisty, turny entry to the parking lot, a traitorous tear flings from my eye when I blink.
