Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (android e book reader txt) 📗

“I forgot to thank you for sending Mr. Charm to pick me up last night,” I said, sipping my coffee at the counter.

“That’s right,” he said. “You owe me, remember?”

“I took care of your pal Tony,” I said. “Get your payment from him.”

Fadge sulked. He was sitting a few stools away, flipping through some bills. He grunted then impaled the lot on a spindle in front of him.

“All paid?” I asked, trying to engage him.

He snorted with derision. “Yeah, they’ll get paid when I rob a bank.”

“Are things that bad?”

He shrugged. “I’ll be all right once spring comes. And besides, they know they can’t cut me off or they’ll never get their dough.”

“Speaking of owing,” I said, feeling guilty, “I think my tab for last week is a dollar eighty-seven.”

I placed a single on the counter, counted out some change, and slid it over to him. He didn’t bother to check it. Just stuffed it into his pocket. No wonder he had trouble making ends meet; I’d seen him use the cash register as his personal wallet. Whenever he needed money for pizza or beer or records, there was a drawerful of cash waiting for him.

“If nobody buys ice cream in the winter,” I said, “why don’t you just close the store and drive to Florida for a couple of months?”

“I can’t go south for the winter because I don’t want my regulars taking their business to Mack’s Confectionery while I’m gone.”

“But you told me yourself that these cheapskates only buy the newspaper and the occasional quart of milk. What do you make on a newspaper? A penny?”

“Some of them buy a cup of coffee, too,” he said, casting a sideways glance my way.

“Okay, I’ll take a dollar’s worth of penny candy, a pack of cigarettes, some gum, and two of your dirtiest magazines.”

“How sweet of you to finally buy one. But I don’t need your charity.”

To prove I was serious, I swiveled off my stool and examined the chewing-gum display opposite the counter: Wrigley’s Spearmint, Doublemint, and Juicy Fruit; Beech-Nut Peppermint and Pepsin; Life Savers of all colors and combinations; Adams Chiclets and, of course, Black Jack gum. I picked up a package of Black Jack and turned it over in my hand, examining the black-and-blue label, thinking of Darleen Hicks.

Fadge noticed and asked how my investigation was going.

“Nothing much so far,” I said. “She’s got some pretty weird neighbors, though. Last night I met the folks who live on either side of her farm out in the Town of Florida. Say, why do they call it Florida anyway?”

“I forget why. We studied about it in the seventh grade. Has something to do with Ponce de Leon, but I don’t remember.”

“Anyway, the one neighbor was almost seven feet tall,” I said. “The others were that strange Karl family. I suppose I could picture the son as a homicidal psychopath. And the giant was juggling a bloody ax for my entertainment. He’s a scary one.”

“That must be Walt Rasmussen,” said Fadge. “He comes in here a couple of times a year. In the summer, of course. He always gets a double banana split in a booth as far back as he can.”

“Let’s not aggrandize, Fadge. You’ve only got four booths.”

“He likes the last booth if he can get it, El, okay?” he sneered. My heart jumped; my brother used to call me El. “You can sit at the counter with the pimple-faced boys from now on.”

“You’ll always make room for me,” I said, pushing Elijah’s memory to one side. “You’d kick six double sundaes out of a booth for me, wouldn’t you, Ron? Even if I just wanted a glass of ice water.”

“Sure,” he smiled. “Next time, you’ll have your ice water in that little room in the back. You know, the one with the porcelain chair.”

We had a good chuckle over that one. Fadge’s sense of humor hadn’t progressed beyond the bedroom and the bathroom, but I didn’t mind. He was my favorite guy in the world.

“So what were you saying about Walt Rasmussen?”

“Nothing. Just that when he comes in, he orders a banana split and likes the back booth. Then when he leaves, he gets a quart of hand-packed ice cream to go. Butter pecan if we have it. Otherwise, coffee.”

“Friend of yours?”

“No. That man is friendless in the world. But he won’t let anyone else wait on him but me. Once, Tommy Quint asked him what he’d have, and Walt almost made him cry. Poor Tom. For some reason Walt puts up with me waiting on him. Maybe because I own the place, and someone has to take his order. He’s a funny one. Parks that pickup truck of his at the curb, climbs down, and lumbers in here in his muddy boots. And he always shows up late at night, around eleven or eleven thirty. Just before closing.”

“Why’s that?” I asked. “A vampire?”

Fadge shook his head and seemed to be thinking hard about his answer. “The kids stare at him, you know? They can be so mean, the little bastards. They stare at him like he’s some kind of freak because he’s so huge. They peep around corners, laugh with each other, point at him. And Walt just sits there in the booth, as big as Goliath, looking straight ahead and ignoring them. But you can tell it’s burning him up. Like maybe he’d like to squash those kids like bugs and be rid of them.”

“Or maybe wring their necks and chop up the bodies in the barn?” I said.

Fadge shrugged. “Imagine what it must be like to go through life having people point at you like you’re a sideshow attraction.”

I’d met the guy. I wasn’t feeling too much sympathy for the man who’d waved an ax in my face.

A horn sounded outside. It was Vinnie Donati from Ornuti’s Garage at the wheel of my Royal Lancer, which he’d just towed back from the Karl farm. I abandoned Fadge and ran out to