LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Then CYA.”

      No kidding, I thought. “Meaning?”

      She hesitated, leaned forward confidentially, and whispered, “Cover your ass.”

      It was panic redux time. “Cover my…why?” A.J. shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe ’cause the speed limit on the pike’s just forty-five miles an hour. You should call Luke and find out.”

      I blinked. Under normal circumstances, I was a methodical, rational person. Back in my old life, I’d made a successful career out of being methodical and rational. How could I not have thought to simply one-touch Luke’s number and ask him what was up?

      I punched it into the phone, waited. He answered after three rings.

      “Gwen!”

      “Luke, where are you—?”

      “In my wheels with the pastrami,” he said. “Baby’s safe n’ sound—ridin’ shotgun next to me.”

      This time I guarded against becoming too reassured. “How long till you’re here?”

      “Oh…I’d say about three minutes.”

      “Don’t joke.”

      “I ain’t,” Luke said. “It took some doin’…I got a police escort.”

      “A what?”

      “Can’t talk anymore,” he said. “Tell the kitchen boys to have their carvin’ knives ready. Bye!”

      I stood grinning as he broke the connection. Luke wasn’t just a good waiter. He was my knight in skintight blue jeans.

      I finally let my relief settle in.

      “Everything okay?” A.J. was watching my face.

      “Great,” I said. “Seriously great.”

      She beamed a smile at me, nodded toward the stage. “Seems things’re picking up all ways round. Will you look who’s singing now?”

      I looked. Buster Sergeant himself had taken the stage, dressed in black from his gleaming ostrich Western boots to his enormous ten-gallon hat. Tall, square-jawed, and looking every inch the successful car and truck entrepreneur, he’d launched whole hog—pardon the expression—into a rousing version of “King of the Road.”

      It didn’t take him long to impress his audience, especially the Japanese honchos, some of whom had joined in the fun by wearing Buster-esque cowboy hats that looked way too big for their heads. They cheered. They clapped enthusiastically. As he went on singing, they drummed their palm on their tables and raised their beer mugs to toast him.

      Meanwhile, A.J. stood beside me swinging her hips to the music. I saw a male customer to my right check out her dipping tat and almost told her to CYA, but decided against it. She got the best tips in the house, and more power to her.

      “I better go take some more drink orders,” she said, motioning to the Yakima group. “Got a hunch they’ll want refills before too long—”

      She abruptly stopped talking, her eyes glued to the karaoke stage. As the song built to its climax, Sergeant had whipped his hat off his head with a dramatic flourish, and then spread his arms wide for the final refrain.

      “I’m a man of means by no means, King of the roooa….”

      He’d been holding the word road for about four seconds when he coughed.

      Once.

      Then, his arms still outstretched, he suddenly dropped the hat and fell straight backward with a hard, loud crash.

      I gaped at the stage. Some of the Japanese guys had stood up to applaud, figuring the fall was part of his act. But I didn’t like the look of things. Nope, nope, not at all.

      Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I’d seen Buster’s face turn eggplant-purple before he went down.

      I stayed rooted in place for an endless moment. Buster wasn’t moving, another bad sign. Dimly now, I heard a siren howl somewhere in the background.

      A.J. looked at me in growing dismay. “You figure an ambulance could’ve come this quick?” she asked.

      I shook my head.

      “Actually,” I said, “I think it’s the pastrami.”

      Chapter Two

      “How can you tell me nobody goes in or out, Red?” Luke asked the aptly carrot-topped cop blocking the kitchen entrance. “You realize I got perishable meat over here?”

      “If I didn’t, you’d still be stuck in traffic,” the cop said. Arms folded across his chest, he nodded sideways toward the karaoke stage, where several other uniformed policemen had gathered around the sprawled body of Buster Sergeant. “Problem’s the perishable meat over there. And he ain’t packed in dry ice same’s your corned beef—”

      “It’s a pastrami,” Luke said.

      “Whatever.”

      “There’s a difference.”

      “Like I said, whatever.” Red frowned. “I swear, you ain’t never changed.”

      “Huh?”

      I watched the cop uncross his arms.

      “Been spoiled rotten since you were this high,” he said, holding his palm about three feet above the floor. “You can gripe till the cows come home or boo-hoo-hoo about it in one’a your cryin’ songs, but you ain’t gonna get your way just ’cause—”

      “Hold on there. Was that a knock on my song-writin’?”

      The cop shrugged again. “I’m just sayin’ you’ll have to wait for us to get done.”

      “And when’s that gonna be?”

      “Whenever it is, cousin.”

      It was Luke’s turn to frown. He hefted the carton he’d schlepped in from outside the restaurant. “Talk about cows…the hunk I got in my hands weighs more’n thirty pounds before the ice. And costs over five hundred dollars. That about right, Nash?”

      He looked over at me. Red the cop’s eyes followed. While I wasn’t thrilled to find myself in their trajectory, I knew Luke needed some backup. The carton was heavy, sure. But he was arguing at least partly on my behalf.

      “We spent exactly five hundred fifty-four dollars on the pastrami,” I said. “Plus another thousand and change on shipping.”

      Red stared at me. “Mercy,” he said.

      “Yeah, well,” I said. “I definitely didn’t get any when it came to the price.”

      Red shook his head sympathetically, but didn’t budge from in front of the kitchen’s double doors. I could see Newt and his staff behind the doors, crowding to peer through their rectangular glass panes. They were stuck there on the other side, having been instructed to stay put by the cops.

      “I truly apologize for this inconvenience, ma’am.” Red expelled a breath, tipped his head toward the karaoke stage again. “But there’s a lot goin’ on, as y’all can see.”

      That I could. Crouched over Buster Sergeant’s body were two paramedics who’d dashed in from an EMT wagon moments after the squad cars showed up. A cop stood by the stage watching them work, with more uniformed policemen crowding the front of the restaurant—among them a tall, handsome officer with a pad and pencil talking to A.J. and Thomasina over by the register. Another pair of cops had hustled the members of the Yakima-Sergeant’s Cars and Trucks party toward a corner booth for interviews. The Japanese corporate types were still wearing cowboy hats that were mostly too large on them. I noticed they’d spun halfway around their heads and in some cases dipped low

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