Read Online Dark Sky (The Misadventures of Max Bowman Book 1) by Joel Canfield - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joel Canfield
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direction.
“Cheesy and greasy,” I said, still staring at the outline of “Pancho’s” left behind on the top of the front wall from where the letters were removed. “Guaranteed to clean out your system in an hour.”
“Well, my system’s fine, thank you. So let’s go where I like to eat. Leave your car, I’ll drive.”
“Your kid going to come cut the brake lines this time?”
More daggers.
Where she liked to eat was, as expected, expensive and jam-packed with Washington movers and shakers – and sadly devoid of greasy tacos. This was a five-star restaurant that felt as if it needed a few extra in recognition of its super-elevated status – if you threw a bread roll in any direction, you were bound to hit a cable news pundit smack in the kisser.
My idea had been to stay as incognito as possible and here she was getting us a table at a place where everybody cared less about the food and more about the other people that were eating there. A Clinton or a Bush wouldn’t have been out of place, which meant a Davidson was more than welcome without a reservation. We were a real Lady and the Tramp combo, since I was dressed for Pancho’s and she was for whatever you still dressed for these days. Luckily, I was at least wearing my brand new Banana Republic jeans – and of course, my nice new silver watch, which quickly caught her eye.
“Nice watch,” she said, looking over the top of her menu. “Did you just get that? I don’t remember you wearing that when you were at the house.”
“You’re observant.”
Her approval faded as she looked me in the eyes.
“You still look pale. Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“No, I should’ve seen less whiskey last night.”
“Hmmm,” she said, “Again with the whiskey. Do you perhaps need to go to a meeting?”
“I’m not an alcoholic, but thanks for asking. No, last night was a special occasion. Call it a return to the scene of the crime.”
A waiter stopped by. Angela ordered a wine that I could neither pronounce nor afford. The waiter was impressed by her selection, so I joined in the general excitement. When he was gone, she went back to her menu and continued the cross-examination.
“What kind of crime are we talking about?”
“My first marriage.”
She peered over the top of the menu at me again.
“Who was the perpetrator?”
“I’ll leave that to a jury of my peers.”
She actually laughed and went back to the menu. “Well, that’s a trial I hope gets televised. Mine didn’t go so well either. And neither did the second one. And now at my advanced age, it’s tough finding guys like you. The roast chicken looks good.”
Wait, what did she say before the thing about the chicken?
“Guys like me?” I asked. Shit, did my voice just go up an octave?
“Guys who are just…guys. Straight-shooters, like my dad. No bullshit.”
“You must have men lining up. You’re in good shape. And aren’t there a lot of big shots who’d just like to have the Davidson name attached?”
“Who the hell needs someone like that? They don’t give a shit about me or anything about me. I’ve been through that too many times. The first husband married me for my money. The second for my name. I’m not optimistic about there being a third.”
“So you’re not seeing anyone right now, I take it?”
“No, you?”
“There’s someone. A singer who can’t sing. It’s casual.”
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I didn’t have to take it out and look at it, I knew it was Jules. As usual, her fucking witch-like powers sensed a female encroaching on her territory.
“Does she know it’s casual?”
I shrugged like a guy would. She seemed to find that attractive.
The wine came and, as the waiter poured, we both ordered the roast chicken. A little later, the food came and then another bottle of wine. We became almost as roasted as the chicken. During all that, we talked a little about baseball, movies, a few other safe subjects. Too much
“Cheesy and greasy,” I said, still staring at the outline of “Pancho’s” left behind on the top of the front wall from where the letters were removed. “Guaranteed to clean out your system in an hour.”
“Well, my system’s fine, thank you. So let’s go where I like to eat. Leave your car, I’ll drive.”
“Your kid going to come cut the brake lines this time?”
More daggers.
Where she liked to eat was, as expected, expensive and jam-packed with Washington movers and shakers – and sadly devoid of greasy tacos. This was a five-star restaurant that felt as if it needed a few extra in recognition of its super-elevated status – if you threw a bread roll in any direction, you were bound to hit a cable news pundit smack in the kisser.
My idea had been to stay as incognito as possible and here she was getting us a table at a place where everybody cared less about the food and more about the other people that were eating there. A Clinton or a Bush wouldn’t have been out of place, which meant a Davidson was more than welcome without a reservation. We were a real Lady and the Tramp combo, since I was dressed for Pancho’s and she was for whatever you still dressed for these days. Luckily, I was at least wearing my brand new Banana Republic jeans – and of course, my nice new silver watch, which quickly caught her eye.
“Nice watch,” she said, looking over the top of her menu. “Did you just get that? I don’t remember you wearing that when you were at the house.”
“You’re observant.”
Her approval faded as she looked me in the eyes.
“You still look pale. Maybe you should see a doctor.”
“No, I should’ve seen less whiskey last night.”
“Hmmm,” she said, “Again with the whiskey. Do you perhaps need to go to a meeting?”
“I’m not an alcoholic, but thanks for asking. No, last night was a special occasion. Call it a return to the scene of the crime.”
A waiter stopped by. Angela ordered a wine that I could neither pronounce nor afford. The waiter was impressed by her selection, so I joined in the general excitement. When he was gone, she went back to her menu and continued the cross-examination.
“What kind of crime are we talking about?”
“My first marriage.”
She peered over the top of the menu at me again.
“Who was the perpetrator?”
“I’ll leave that to a jury of my peers.”
She actually laughed and went back to the menu. “Well, that’s a trial I hope gets televised. Mine didn’t go so well either. And neither did the second one. And now at my advanced age, it’s tough finding guys like you. The roast chicken looks good.”
Wait, what did she say before the thing about the chicken?
“Guys like me?” I asked. Shit, did my voice just go up an octave?
“Guys who are just…guys. Straight-shooters, like my dad. No bullshit.”
“You must have men lining up. You’re in good shape. And aren’t there a lot of big shots who’d just like to have the Davidson name attached?”
“Who the hell needs someone like that? They don’t give a shit about me or anything about me. I’ve been through that too many times. The first husband married me for my money. The second for my name. I’m not optimistic about there being a third.”
“So you’re not seeing anyone right now, I take it?”
“No, you?”
“There’s someone. A singer who can’t sing. It’s casual.”
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. I didn’t have to take it out and look at it, I knew it was Jules. As usual, her fucking witch-like powers sensed a female encroaching on her territory.
“Does she know it’s casual?”
I shrugged like a guy would. She seemed to find that attractive.
The wine came and, as the waiter poured, we both ordered the roast chicken. A little later, the food came and then another bottle of wine. We became almost as roasted as the chicken. During all that, we talked a little about baseball, movies, a few other safe subjects. Too much
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