What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel by David Housewright (most read books txt) 📗

over there?” Nina gestured at Jenness. “She has a cell phone in her hand. If I so much as glance at her she’ll call the police.”

“What?”

“You’re either a guy who’s having a very bad day just like me in which case I’ll be so embarrassed I’ll probably give you a lifetime pass to the music upstairs. Or you’re here to make my day even worse. Or, let’s hope, you’re here to make my day better. Which is it?”

He rotated the glass in front of him one quarter turn at a time.

“How did you make me?” he asked.

“I walk by and a guy doesn’t so much as glance my way, it makes me nervous. Makes me think I’m losing my youthful good looks.”

The man chuckled.

“I find that hard to believe,” he said.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Schroeder is going to be so pissed off at me.”

Nina exhaled. Up until then she wasn’t even aware that she had been holding her breath.

“Show me,” she said.

The man reached into his pocket.

Nina raised her hand.

The man pulled out a wallet and opened it. On one side was an ID card identifying him as a detective working for Schroeder Private Investigations and on the other was a gaudy gold badge.

Nina lowered her hand.

“Schroeder could have told me,” she said.

“He said that you wouldn’t want us here.”

“Normally, I wouldn’t. You said us?”

“I have two partners.”

“Where?”

The detective pointed out a couple sitting at a table.

“I hadn’t noticed,” she said.

“So I’m the only one who screwed up?”

“Enjoy your beer. You and your partners enjoy whatever you want, on the house.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll be leaving soon to go to the hospital. Regions Hospital. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Nina squeezed the detective’s hand as if they were old friends.

“If you’re concerned about getting into trouble with your boss, we can pretend that I don’t know that you’re here.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“But I’m glad that you’re here.”

Herzog held the door open while Chopper wheeled himself inside RT’s Basement. The hip-hop artists working the stage had just finished their set and there was a lot of commotion in the club, some patrons heading for the restrooms and others for the door and still others lining up at the bar. A square table in the center of the room opened up and Chopper rolled himself toward it while its previous occupants flowed around him. Herzog pulled one of the now empty chairs out of the way and Chopper slid into the vacant spot. Herzog sat next to him and pushed the glasses and bottles left by the previous tenants to the far side of the table.

“Place is bustling,” he said.

“More white customers than you’d expect, don’t ya think?”

“Does look integrated. Wonder how many of ’em be customers of Jamal.”

A young black woman arrived at the table as if she had been waiting for them and began loading her tray with the used bottles and glasses.

“What you drinking?” she asked.

“What do you have on tap?” Chopper asked.

The woman closed her eyes and listed eight brands from memory in alphabetic order.

“Bud’s fine,” Chopper said.

The woman pointed at Herzog.

“Jim Beam neat,” he said.

“You’re Herzog, aren’t you,” the woman said.

“Could be.”

“If he’s Chopper then you need to be Herzog. RT, he’s the owner…”

“We’ve met.”

“He said to tell him if you came in.”

“Was he expecting us?” Chopper said.

“I dunno. I guess. Be right back.”

Herzog’s eyes followed the woman to the waitress station where she had to line up behind two other waitresses before she could place their order. RT wasn’t behind the bar; a tall, thin African-American poured the beer and Jim Beam. He placed the drinks on the woman’s tray where she had abandoned it before stepping through the door that Herzog knew led to RT’s office. She emerged a moment later, retrieved the tray, and brought it back to the square table where she served the drinks.

“What did he say?” Herzog asked.

“What?”

“When you told RT that we were here.”

“He said he’d be right out.”

“Good.”

The woman left the table to work the rest of the bar. Chopper sipped his beer.

“How can you drink that shit?” Herzog asked him.

“Did you hear the woman say Lift Bridge or Surly or Bent Paddle or any other decent craft beer when she recited her list?”

“No, but…”

RT appeared at the table, interrupting his thought.

“Knew you’d be back,” he said.

“We have more questions,” Chopper said.

“Yeah, Jamal told me.”

“Mr. Brown, he broke his promise.”

RT took a seat.

“He owes me a lot more than he owes you,” he said. “’Sides, Jamal mighta broke his promise, but he didn’t lie. Everything he said to you was the truth. I gotta nice side hustle here lettin’ certain parties rent my back space goin’ to waste anyway, so you now know why I don’t want no po-lice fuckin’ around. Don’t want you fuckin’ around, either. I know you. Everyone in the Cities know you, ’specially after what happened to the Dragons last year, so I’m willin’ to step back some. Comes a time, though, when a man’s gotta protect his own, know what I’m sayin’?”

“You’re sayin’ we should forget that our friend is lying in the hospital with a bullet in his back,” Herzog said.

“I’s sorry ’bout your friend. But one thing ain’t got nothin’ to do with the other.”

“Somebody lured McKenzie here to shoot him,” Chopper said.

“Look ’round. Plenty of white folk might have a grudge against your friend. Or maybe an Oxy junkie got spooked seeing a white man in an expensive sports jacket looking out of place, thinking he’s po-lice. Don’t mean it’s got anything to do what’s going on in my back room.”

“We don’t know that,” Herzog said.

“What more you want me to do? You got the video. You know everything I know.”

“Do you have cameras in your back room?” Chopper asked.

“Your friend wasn’t shot in the back room and no I don’t, fuck, man.”

“We could ask questions of your clientele; go table to table.”

“If it was just me I wouldn’t give a shit. Ask away. But…”

“But?”

“Some of ’em ain’t my customers so much as my…”

“Partner’s?”

“He ain’t my partner. His