LITMIR.BIZ

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what’s the problem?”

      “I quit my job,” Donne said. Artie nodded.

      “My mother has Alzheimer’s. She’s dying.” He took a sip of beer. Artie said nothing. “My brother-in-law’s restaurant blew up.” Another sip. Still nothing.

      “My aunt and uncle were murdered and the cop at the scene thinks I did it.”

      Artie turned around and started to walk away from him. Donne finished off his beer and said, “Where are you going?”

      He stopped at the taps, took two more pint glasses and filled them. Then he found the bottle of Jack and two shot glasses.

      “We’re both going to have to drink.”

      He put the glasses down and started pouring the Jack Daniel’s. He tried to keep his face straight, but when he made eye contact with Donne, he broke into a huge grin and started laughing.

      “Man,” Artie said. “When the shit hits the fan for you, it really hits the fan.”

      After today, his neck tense, the buzz of the alcohol swirling through him, he couldn’t help himself. Donne laughed too.

      They did a shot, and toasted Donne’s aunt and uncle. “So, what happens tomorrow?” he asked.

      “I get back to work.”

      “Thought you said you quit.”

      Donne took a deep pull from the pint glass, draining half of it. The beer went down smooth. He was flying high. After the next beer, he wouldn’t feel anything until tomorrow morning.

      “I have a new job,” he said. “I’m going to find out what the hell is going on.”

      ***

      Franklin Carter needed to call his wife. He’d spent all day in the city, and his cell had been ringing nonstop. But he didn’t have time now. Special Agent Sam Draxton sat across the table from him. They were in the local Starbucks. Draxton was on his third cup. Carter bit into a black and white cookie.

      “So,” Draxton said. “You gonna tell me what happened?”

      “What do you mean?”

      Draxton took a sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving Carter. “You and I both know this isn’t terrorism.”

      The cookie suddenly tasted stale. He placed it on the napkin. “It isn’t?”

      “No. Terrorists want casualties. They’re not going to blow up a restaurant at three in the morning. So, what’s going on here?”

      “Why would I know?”

      The coffee shop was empty. No one wanted to be in the area. Franklin Carter had never seen the streets this empty. The silence in the neighborhood was eerie.

      Draxton’s cell phone rang. He answered and quickly said, “Yeah, you can tell ’em. And get the tunnels and bridges open.”

      He closed the phone and said, “We know things we can’t let on. We know this isn’t Al Qaeda or any of those organizations. They would have taken credit. So now we have to interview suspects.”

      “Are you saying I’m a suspect?”

      Draxton spread his hands. “I’m saying you probably know something.”

      “I don’t.”

      Now the agent nodded. “I’m sure you don’t. Let me ask you something. Are there people out there who dislike you?”

      “I’m sure there are people who aren’t happy with me. I’m sure someone didn’t like a dish that was served there. Customers are unhappy all the time.”

      “You know that’s not what I mean.”

      “What would you like me to say? I haven’t a clue what’s going on. I’m fucking tired and I want to go home to see my wife.”

      “Have you been in competition with any other restaurants?”

      “There’s always competition.”

      “Friendly?”

      “Yes. When we opened, the Chicken Roost owners came down to eat at our restaurant. Brought a bottle of wine, spent a fortune, tipped our waitress great. But then they asked us to come eat there. I never went. We’ve been rivals ever since. But nothing like this would come of it.”

      Carter shifted in his seat. The damned Starbucks stools were the least comfortable chairs he’d ever sat in. They should have gone for the couches. But Carter was pretty sure Draxton wanted them to sit in these seats for some reason.

      “When can I go home?” Carter asked.

      “We’ll get someone to drive you home now,” Draxton said. “Just one more question.”

      “What’s that?”

      “Do we have any reason to be worried about your Montclair restaurant?”

      Carter shifted again. What should he tell them? There was every reason to be worried about it. But if he said yes, the feds would want to know why he was worried. And he couldn’t tell them that.

      He took a deep breath.

      “No,” he said. “There is absolutely no reason to be concerned. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to let my wife know I’ll be home soon.”

Chapter 8

      His mother was awake when Donne visited her the next morning. She was still lying in the bed, but her eyes were focused as she took him in. Her mouth opened to speak, and he braced himself.

      “Jackson?” she said with a hoarse voice.

      He reached over to a cup of water and helped her sip some. “Yeah, Mom. It’s me.” Today she didn’t think he was her father.

      Progress.

      “I want to go home,” she said, her voice loosening up a little. Donne wondered when she last spoke. Was it yesterday when he was visiting?

      “I know,” he said. “Maybe soon.”

      “Thank you. I miss my house.” She sipped some more water.

      Outside the room, Donne could hear a woman screaming. She wanted to go home too. She just announced it more forcefully.

      “I miss you too, Jackson,” she said.

      Donne didn’t know how much time he had before his mother’s focus faded into oblivion. He wanted her to know what happened. But it could completely mess her up, set her back.

      She put her hand in his.

      His mother should know. She was still human, she was still alive. She should know about her own brother.

      “Mom, I have some bad news.”

      His mother didn’t speak. She blinked.

      “Aunt Faye and Uncle George died yesterday. Someone shot them.”

      Outside the screaming woman stopped. In the hallway, the only sounds were the beeping of medical machines. His mother leaned back in the bed and shut her eyes. Donne wondered if she understood.

      “Daddy,” she said.

      He squeezed her hand, sure he’d lost her focus. The news was too much for her to handle. He had sent her back into the abyss that her life had been swimming in. A small tear trickled from the corner of her left eye. She returned the squeeze.

      “This is all your fault, Daddy,” she said. “What?” he asked. “Mom, what did you say?”

      Behind him one of the nurses entered. She wore blue coveralls and held a clipboard in her hand. She gave him a brief smile.

      “I’m

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