The Third Brother - Andrew Welsh-Huggins Andy Hayes Mysteries

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her scarf again, and this time pulled it clean off. He shrieked in triumph like a movie Indian counting coup as the woman cried out and put both hands on her head.

      I stepped in front of her, keeping my eye on the gun.

      “Why don’t we all calm down a little? No one wants to get hurt.”

      “Sure about that?” Tattoo said, charging up to me, scarf balled in his hands as he stuck his face in front of mine. I saw bloodshot eyes and smelled breath that would have wilted poison oak. “You shouldn’a gotten involved.”

      “And you should try picking on people your own size for a change.”

      “That’s what I’m about to do.”

      “Have it your way—”

      “Let’s get out of here,” Grizzle interrupted.

      “What?” Tattoo said.

      “I said, let’s go.” He held up a phone in his free hand.

      “Gimme one minute with this douche. Just one fuckin’ minute.”

      “Forget it,” Grizzle said. He waved the phone at Tattoo. “He’s saying JJ’s, now.”

      Reluctantly, Tattoo took a step back, though his eyes never left mine.

      “Don’t try anything stupid, ya dumb shit,” he said. “Raghead lover. Traitor.”

      “There’s a cop,” I said.

      “What?”

      “Behind you.” He looked around. As he did I grabbed the scarf out of his hands for the second time that day.

      He twirled back, eyes blazing, right arm cocked. But Grizzle whistled and held up his phone again. “JJ’s,” he said. Lowering his gun, he turned and limped toward a rusted brown pickup truck three rows over. Too far to see the plate.

      “We ain’t done here, douche,” Tattoo said, following his partner.

      “I’m free most Thursdays,” I called after him. He flipped me the bird. A minute later they were gone in a squeal of tires and cloud of diesel and a long, defiant blast of their horn.

      I took a breath and turned to the woman.

      “You all right?”

      She nodded unconvincingly, phone already pressed to her ear as she made a call.

      I’d had worse shopping trips, I consoled myself, reaching for my own phone. I was conscious, anyway.

      Then it hit me: I’d forgotten to use my coupons at checkout.

      Shit.

      2

       “JJ’S?”

      “That’s what he said.”

      “That a person?”

      “Maybe. Or a bar. Or a pool hall in Spencer, Indiana, according to Google. I really don’t know, and I’m not sure I care. I was too busy looking at his gun.”

      I was sitting in an Adirondack chair in my postage stamp of a backyard on Mohawk Street two days later. Sunday morning, the quiet kind that I don’t get enough of. Until a minute ago I’d been on my second cup of coffee, reading Dreamland and starting to think about breakfast. Hopalong, dozing at my feet, stirred briefly as my phone went off. I saw from caller ID it was Burke Cunningham. I almost didn’t answer, and not just because I liked listening to my new ringtone. A call from Cunningham on a Sunday morning was like the cluck of a dentist as she works on your teeth. The news can’t be good. On the other hand, because he’s one of the most sought-after defense attorneys in Columbus, Ohio, the news would probably involve a job, which I could use right at the moment. But it also meant an end to a quiet Sunday morning of the kind I don’t get enough of. I answered anyway. Unlike my conscience, my bank balance always gets the better of me.

      “What’d the cops say?”

      “They said it was a good thing I didn’t get my ass shot.”

      “They did not.”

      “Perhaps I’m paraphrasing.”

      “Any leads?”

      “Not at the moment. They took the info. Put out a news release.”

      “I saw the coverage. You’re a hero, again.”

      “Slow news day. A zoo baby would have bumped me off the lineup in a heartbeat.”

      “How about the woman? Is she all right?”

      “Scared and angry. But physically OK.”

      “Any idea who they were?”

      “No.”

      “Any guesses?”

      “Let’s see. Two redneck Americans looking to have a little fun at the expense of an immigrant who dresses funny to them. Other than that, no.”

      “And you’re OK?”

      “I’m out eighty dollars in groceries and my pride’s a touch wounded. I never should have let the kid get the drop on me like that.”

      “What’s with the groceries?”

      “I lost track of my cart afterward. Is there, ah, anything I can do for you?” I glanced at my book and my coffee.

      “Just the opposite. I might have an assignment.”

      “Now?”

      “Something a bit more long term. If you’re interested. Are you available tomorrow morning? Perhaps we could discuss it then.”

      “I’ll have to check my calendar. Why, yes, it turns out I’m free. Anything you can tell me beforehand?”

      “Probably easiest if we talk in person. Nine o’clock work? My office?”

      “See you then.”

      I tried returning to my reading but made it only a page or two when I was interrupted by a sound at the back door. I turned and saw Joe, barefoot in red shorts and the Hogwarts T-shirt my parents bought him for his birthday.

      “Morning.”

      He nodded, wiping sleep from his eyes. I held out my arms. He stumped forward, hesitated a moment, and climbed onto my lap. I hugged him. I tried not to squeeze too tight. I had at best three or four nanoseconds of his childhood left before he was too old for this kind of thing.

      “How’d you sleep?”

      “Fine. Can I play on the Xbox?”

      “In a little while. Is Mike up?”

      He yawned and shook his head. He looked down at Hopalong. “Can I take him for a walk?”

      “Maybe later. Once we’ve had breakfast.”

      “He needs exercise. He’s lazy.”

      “He’s an old Labrador. There’s a very slight difference.”

      “Can we go swimming today?”

      “Not a bad idea. If it doesn’t rain.”

      “What’s it matter if it rains? We’re wet either way. It’s so hot. Why don’t you have air conditioning?”

      “It’s a zoning code thing.”

      “Sure it is, Dad.” He snuggled into me and I held my breath. He was a slight kid, just on the cusp of puberty, edges still soft here and there. Not like his half brother, already shooting up and bristling with muscles and testosterone and attitude. The window for lap sitting with Mike had been almost nonexistent, though most of that was on me. There’d been a scene with him the day before when I told him we couldn’t stop at a food truck on the way to

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