glass.
“You and Vince not having dinner tonight?” It was Monday, their regular night to dine together—if you could call it dining.
“Vince is in the kitchen making us some sashimi. It was Bob’s favorite. We thought we’d eat, hoist a few rounds, wish him Godspeed on his heavenly journey, wherever the hell that is.”
Bram pulled out a chair and sat down. “You’re not a religious man?”
“Nope. Not after what I’ve seen in my life. I don’t believe in heaven and I don’t believe in hell—unless you call this life hell.”
He seemed depressed. “I’m sorry about Bob. He was a great guy.”
“The best,” said Lyle, pouring himself another shot. “Now, Bobby, he believed in heaven. No doubt in his mind. He said Valerie was there just waiting for him to join her.” Tipping his head, he tossed back the drink. “God love him, I hope he was right.”
Vince burst into the room through the swinging kitchen door. He was carrying a small oriental platter. “Baldric, hi. You joining us tonight?”
Bram shrugged. He liked sashimi. Why the hell not. “Sure.”
“Cool,” said Vince, glancing at Lyle with an amused smile on his face. “You want a glass of wine? Beer?”
“I’m fine,” said Bram. He glanced at his watch. “I’m here with my daughter. We’ve got dinner reservations in a few minutes.”
“Well, then consider this your appetizer.” Like Vince’s, Lyle’s smile grew amused.
Bram wondered what the hell was so funny. “What’s the sauce?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t pulverized pig genitals.
“Soy sauce,” answered Vince. “Chopped chives and grated radish.”
Vince was one of these lean, sinewy types who could eat anything and never gain a pound. Bram hated him on principle. But Vince was also totally bald, his head shaped like a hundred-watt bulb. Bram’s hair, although starting to gray around the temples, was still thick and chocolate brown. Maybe that evened the score.
Vince grabbed a wine bottle off a small buffet table, pulled a corkscrew out of his pocket, and began to open it. “Did Lyle tell you we’re putting together a reward?”
“Reward?” repeated Bram.
“For information leading the cops to Bob’s murderer,” said Lyle. “Unless I find him first. In that case, the bastard’s history. His body will never be found.”
Vince shot him a cautionary look. “We’ve already got close to twenty-five thousand dollars. You want to donate, just let Sheldon Larr know. He’s keeping the kitty.”
“Sure,” said Bram. “Thanks for telling me.”
“I guess we were the last two people to see old Bobby alive,” said Lyle, his head sinking back down on his hand. “Except for the guy who gunned him down.”
“You were?” said Bram.
“We had a kind of spur-of-the-moment meal here at the club,” said Vince. “Nothing special. It was a hard night for Bob. It was the anniversary of Valerie’s death. He didn’t want to be alone, so he called Lyle and we arranged a dinner. If we’d just kept him here awhile longer, maybe—” Vince looked down at the bottle in his hand. He’d cut himself somehow. Blood oozed from a gash in his thumb.
“Shit,” said Vince. He pulled a work cloth off his apron and pressed it against the cut.
“Any idea who did it?” asked Bram.
Lyle grunted. “Police asked me the same question.”
“You talked to the police?”
“We both did,” said Vince. “We were the last people to see him that night, so that automatically made us ‘persons of interest.’ ”
“Jesus,” snapped Lyle. “All that new government terminology. We’ve turned into a friggin’ Fascist state, but nobody sees it. The St. Paul PD has been all over Vince and me. Like we would have shot Bob. Us. His best friends. I hate this government.”
“You’re ranting,” said Vince.
“So what if I am? What did they ever do for me?”
“They taught you how to fly.”
“Well, there is that, yeah.”
“Here,” said Vince, pushing the plate
“You and Vince not having dinner tonight?” It was Monday, their regular night to dine together—if you could call it dining.
“Vince is in the kitchen making us some sashimi. It was Bob’s favorite. We thought we’d eat, hoist a few rounds, wish him Godspeed on his heavenly journey, wherever the hell that is.”
Bram pulled out a chair and sat down. “You’re not a religious man?”
“Nope. Not after what I’ve seen in my life. I don’t believe in heaven and I don’t believe in hell—unless you call this life hell.”
He seemed depressed. “I’m sorry about Bob. He was a great guy.”
“The best,” said Lyle, pouring himself another shot. “Now, Bobby, he believed in heaven. No doubt in his mind. He said Valerie was there just waiting for him to join her.” Tipping his head, he tossed back the drink. “God love him, I hope he was right.”
Vince burst into the room through the swinging kitchen door. He was carrying a small oriental platter. “Baldric, hi. You joining us tonight?”
Bram shrugged. He liked sashimi. Why the hell not. “Sure.”
“Cool,” said Vince, glancing at Lyle with an amused smile on his face. “You want a glass of wine? Beer?”
“I’m fine,” said Bram. He glanced at his watch. “I’m here with my daughter. We’ve got dinner reservations in a few minutes.”
“Well, then consider this your appetizer.” Like Vince’s, Lyle’s smile grew amused.
Bram wondered what the hell was so funny. “What’s the sauce?” he asked, hoping it wasn’t pulverized pig genitals.
“Soy sauce,” answered Vince. “Chopped chives and grated radish.”
Vince was one of these lean, sinewy types who could eat anything and never gain a pound. Bram hated him on principle. But Vince was also totally bald, his head shaped like a hundred-watt bulb. Bram’s hair, although starting to gray around the temples, was still thick and chocolate brown. Maybe that evened the score.
Vince grabbed a wine bottle off a small buffet table, pulled a corkscrew out of his pocket, and began to open it. “Did Lyle tell you we’re putting together a reward?”
“Reward?” repeated Bram.
“For information leading the cops to Bob’s murderer,” said Lyle. “Unless I find him first. In that case, the bastard’s history. His body will never be found.”
Vince shot him a cautionary look. “We’ve already got close to twenty-five thousand dollars. You want to donate, just let Sheldon Larr know. He’s keeping the kitty.”
“Sure,” said Bram. “Thanks for telling me.”
“I guess we were the last two people to see old Bobby alive,” said Lyle, his head sinking back down on his hand. “Except for the guy who gunned him down.”
“You were?” said Bram.
“We had a kind of spur-of-the-moment meal here at the club,” said Vince. “Nothing special. It was a hard night for Bob. It was the anniversary of Valerie’s death. He didn’t want to be alone, so he called Lyle and we arranged a dinner. If we’d just kept him here awhile longer, maybe—” Vince looked down at the bottle in his hand. He’d cut himself somehow. Blood oozed from a gash in his thumb.
“Shit,” said Vince. He pulled a work cloth off his apron and pressed it against the cut.
“Any idea who did it?” asked Bram.
Lyle grunted. “Police asked me the same question.”
“You talked to the police?”
“We both did,” said Vince. “We were the last people to see him that night, so that automatically made us ‘persons of interest.’ ”
“Jesus,” snapped Lyle. “All that new government terminology. We’ve turned into a friggin’ Fascist state, but nobody sees it. The St. Paul PD has been all over Vince and me. Like we would have shot Bob. Us. His best friends. I hate this government.”
“You’re ranting,” said Vince.
“So what if I am? What did they ever do for me?”
“They taught you how to fly.”
“Well, there is that, yeah.”
“Here,” said Vince, pushing the plate
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