LITMIR.BIZ

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on him. I didn’t know if he’d had a sudden heart failure, a stroke, or what, but felt he’d clearly died of natural causes. I realized that Buster was a big wheel in Nashville, no pun intended. I figured that was why a whole swarm of NMPD cruisers had come screaming up to the deli after Luke’s cousin and pastrami escort, Red the cop, arrived to find him motionless onstage. But the place resembled a major crime scene, the police cars outside clogging Broadway’s main drag, their roof bars flashing into the already garish neon glow of the honky-tonks to draw gawks from curious nightclubbers.

      Insensitive as it might sound, I was worried about the harm that sort of attention might do to business. A customer dropping dead on my first Kosher Karaoke night—a famous customer, no less—was about the worst sort of publicity imaginable. I knew the local media would be all over the story and could almost hear the nightly news promo. “Coming up at eleven: Main Course, Heart Attack! King of the Road Dead Ends at Murray’s Deli.”

      I frowned. A man had passed away in my restaurant and here I was consumed with self-interest. I felt desperately ashamed.

      Okay. Maybe that’s an exaggeration. But I sincerely wished Buster was alive, well, and enjoying his dinner. And I did have a desperate yearning for some comfort chocolate. My automatic grab would be a Nestlé’s Crunch mini-bar from the bag up in my office, although I also had some Goo Goo clusters that my next-door neighbor Cazzie had given me to check out. Too bad the office stairs were off limits in the kitchen—an architectural quirk that had something to do with the location of a support wall and the interior redesign that had turned a decrepit century-old tavern into Murray’s.

      Chocolate and a smoke, I thought longingly. They went together like…well, chocolate and a smoke.

      “Nash, you look a fright.”

      Oh joy, I thought. Thomasina had arrived to further undermine my confidence. Was there such a thing as an anti-cavalry?

      I looked around, my eyes climbing to her face. At five-foot-eight, she stood a full six inches taller than I did, making me glad she favored slip-ons with a medium-wedge heel to reduce her intimidating height advantage. Now she’d pushed over through a group of cops, leaving the officer with the notepad still talking to A.J at the front counter. Or more likely trying to score a date, since the pad was back in his breast pocket, his eyes were locked on hers, and they were swapping big, bright, cutesy smiles.

      “Thanks,” I said to the countenance looming overhead. “Utter catastrophes have that effect on my appearance.”

      A don’t-get-uppity look smashed down on me. Thom had a thing for color-coordinated outfits, and tonight was wearing tan slacks with beige wedges and a sea green Indian blouse the same color as her eyes (she claimed they were her best feature). There were little iridescent white beads across the breast of the gauzy top, emphasizing what she boasted was her second best attribute.

      After a long moment of gazing upon Mount Thomasina with dread and awe, I turned toward the booth where the cops had gathered the Yakima-Sergeant party. The brim of his outsized Stetson dunked way down over his nose, one of the Japanese execs stood there taking questions from a burly officer I doubted he could even see.

      “Was Mr. Sergeant actin’ funny or anything before he collapsed?” I heard the cop ask him.

      “Yes, funny!” The exec gave a wistful smile, his mouth the only part of his face left uncovered by the hat. “He a funny, funny man.”

      The cop blinked, puzzled. “Think maybe you misunderstood,” he said. “What I want to know is…did he do anything, like, out of the ordinary?”

      “Yes, yes. Comedy and beautiful karaoke singing! Mr. Sergeant was total entertainment!”

      I looked back at Thomasina. “This can’t be real. I’m in bed with a high temperature, right? Having nightmarish hallucinations.”

      “That’s so. I think the same fever’s messing with my brain.” She glanced past me toward Luke and his cousin. “You got any idea what they’re tanglin’ over?”

      “Nobody’s allowed in or out of the kitchen,” I replied with a nod at Red. “He said something about preserving the integrity of the investigation.”

      “Investigation? What’s to investigate?”

      “Well, under the circumstances, I assume he meant Buster Sergeant’s death…”

      “It isn’t like someone on the kitchen staff went crazy on him. The man kicked all on his own!”

      “Look, you asked what’s going on. And I told you. Doesn’t mean I agree with it.”

      Thom’s scowl deepened. “Red got his nerve,” she said, raising her voice loud enough so he could hear. “We been takin’ good care of the boys from the station for years.”

      Nice, I thought. Perfect. Antagonizing the cops was always helpful.

      I felt my molars grind together as Red peered over at us from the kitchen doors.

      “Thomasina, I resent that comment,” he said. “None of us ever come in here expectin’ special treatment.”

      She glowered. “That correct?”

      “I’d say it is absolutely, one-hundred-percent correct.”

      “Well, then, I’d suggest you peek at the menu,” she said. “Surprise, surprise, you’ll find out egg creams ain’t on the house.”

      Before things could escalate, I edged between Thomasina and the cop. “He’s got his orders, Thom,” I said, my back to him. “I don’t see how we can get around them.”

      Looking disgusted, she shifted her attention from Red to Luke. “Say what you want about me bein’ a prude, it’s my opinion the kid’s tight jeans ain’t proper restaurant attire,” she told me in a lowered voice. “Luke can show his package all he wants while he’s shakin’ his hips next door at Trudy’s. But nobody comes here to get porn served with the pastrami. You really think a waiter ought to share that much personal information with folks?”

      I gave him a hopefully inconspicuous sidelong glance, wondering if Thomasina the Pure considered her huggy Indian top any less info-packed.

      “Can’t see how it hurts,” I said, clearing my throat. “But I don’t get what that has to do with anything right now. Or am I somehow missing your point?”

      Thom fixed me in a hard stare. “My point, so it’s clear, is that in spite of Red’s thick skull, I can’t blame him for not takin’ Luke seriously,” she grunted after about ten seconds, stepping away.

      “Hold it,” I said. “Where are you going?”

      “To give our blue-denim loverboy some help,” she said. “I see no good reason for keeping those kitchen doors shut—”

      “One minute, Thomasina,” somebody said behind us. “That isn’t for you to decide.”

      She paused in midstep at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. Or more accurately, unfamiliar to me.

      We spun toward the main aisle, where I noticed a couple of things at the same time. One was the emergency techs wheeling Buster Sergeant toward the door on a gurney, a sheet pulled over his head—not a positive clinical sign. The other was the tall, lean guy approaching us in a charcoal sport jacket and tan slacks, his dark brown eyes very intent.

      “Kind of you to visit, Beau McClintock,” Thom said. And, yes, that was very definitely sarcasm dripping from her words. “Beau’s a detective with the Metro police. And an old friend. Don’t see him much these days, but he always shows up for happy occasions.”

      Deee-ripping.

      He looked at her pointedly before shifting his attention to me. “How do you do, Ms….”

      “Katz,” I said. “Gwen Katz.”

      McClintock nodded. No handshake offered.

      “You’re

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