Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

"Nick, did you pass out after you were shot?"

Nick thought for a moment, forehead furrowed, scrounging his memory. "I guess I must have," he said at last. "I mean at first I didn't feel anything. It was like I couldn't even believe he actually shot me. I was lying on the ground and I couldn't move. Then, my chest started to burn real bad and he was standing over me, aiming the gun at me like he was going to shoot me again. I thought for sure he would. I don't know what happened after that. The next thing I remember, I was in the emergency room."

"Father Steve said he and King had just come from King's office. You said you called King at home and he told you to meet him at his office in half an hour. King lives almost thirty minutes away. There would have barely been enough time for him to get to his office, meet with Father Steve, and then come back downstairs and wait outside for you. Even if there was enough time, how did Father Steve know King was going to be there?"

"Mr. Mason, I don't understand anything you're talking about."

"Neither do I," Mason said. "All I know is that it's time for Father Steve to make confession."

"You're Jewish, Mr. Mason. How are you going to get a priest to do that?"

"It shouldn't be too tough. I have a feeling Father Steve's collar is getting a little tight."

"What about Whitney King?" Nick asked.

Mason sat on the edge of Nick's bed. "That's why the cops want to talk with you," he said, repeating what Samantha Greer had told him, gauging Nick's reaction.

Mason gave the kid a lot of credit. He didn't fall apart and he didn't bluff that he wasn't afraid. He clenched his fists, the veins in his arms rising.

"Mr. Mason?" he asked. "Is it too late to file that lawsuit?"

Samantha Greer questioned Nick about the shooting, flashing a look at Al Kolatch when Nick told her the priest wasn't there when King shot him. Kolatch left, and Mason was certain he was headed to St. Mark's for a private prayer with Father Steve. Mason knew there was no point in trying to beat Kolatch to the punch. If the priest had lied to the cops, Kolatch would help him renew his vows.

Mason called Mickey from the car, telling him to meet him at The Peanut at Fiftieth and Main for lunch. Driving north from the hospital, Mason could see a faint darkening of the sky on the far horizon.

In some parts of town, The Peanut would have been called a dive. Since it was on the east edge of the Plaza, its warped and worn hardwood floors, tables with uneven legs, and pool hall lighting qualified it for quirky cool, proving again that location is everything. The Peanut thrived by turning the BLT into an art form. Mason considered himself a connoisseur.

Mickey and Blues were waiting for Mason when he arrived at The Peanut. He blinked his eyes while they adjusted from the sunlight to the blue light, finding his friends at a table against the far wall. He hadn't asked Mickey to bring Blues and he knew Blues hadn't asked Mickey if he could come. Blues wasn't good at asking permission. He was much better at knowing when Mason needed him.

Mickey's idea of business casual had always been a shirt with a collar and jeans that didn't have a hole in the knees. He was wearing gabardine slacks and a linen shirt. The mouse he'd grown in the cleft of his chin was gone, his anarchic hair style subdued by a close cut. Mason took one look at him, glancing at Blues who turned his head, biting his lip.

"Don't tell me," Mason said. "You gave up politics for selling cars."

Mickey laughed, plucking the front of his shirt. "Sucks, huh? It's Abby's new man plan. She said that the staff is a reflection on the candidate. If I had stayed another week, she would have made me bleach my teeth."

"So you didn't come back to help me," Mason teased. "You just needed a change of clothes."

Mickey said to Blues, "And I'm getting paid to take this abuse."

"Don't count on it," Mason told him. "How's Abby?" he asked as he scanned the menu, doing a lousy impression of nonchalance.

Mickey nodded. "She's good," he said. "Fine, really. Busy as hell. The campaign runs twenty-four-seven and she's working twenty-five-eight."

"That's great," Mason said with a puckered smile. "She okay with you coming back?"

"What is it with the two of you?" Mickey asked. "You guys act like you're my divorced parents fighting over custody."

Blues explained, "They're not divorced, just separated. And, you're not their baby. They just think you are."

"Nice, very nice," Mason said. "Abby got you the job with Seeley's campaign to protect you from me. Coming back to work for me is not part of her new man plan for you."

"Why do I need to be protected from you?" Mickey asked.

"Because," Blues answered, "people like to shoot at Lou and his friends."

"Oh, that," Mickey said. "I get it."

"Don't let Blues kid you, Mickey. That's the straight story. Abby was doing you a favor."

Mickey looked at Mason, then at Blues. Their banter was a thin coat of armor. "I've been down this road with you guys before," he reminded them. "Maybe I'm the one doing you a favor."

A television hung from the ceiling in a corner above the bar, the early laps of a NASCAR race running silently, the sound muted. Looking over Blues's shoulder, Mason read the crawl running across the bottom of the screen. It included a notice that a severe storm warning had been issued for the greater metropolitan Kansas City area until ten P.M. Though the storm clouds Mason had seen a few hours ago were on the far horizon, he wasn't surprised by the forecast. In the course of a Kansas City summer day, weather bulletins could progress from watches to warnings, from thunderstorms to severe storms, and, finally, to tornadoes.

A watch meant maybe. A warning meant probably. A thunderstorm meant lights and action. A severe storm meant pay attention and a tornado meant take cover.

This warning meant the five counties on either side of the state line could get anything from a cooling summer shower to a force five tornado, depending on the alignment of the planets over the next ten hours. The pattern could move lazily through the day or turn deadly on a dime. It also meant that nothing could happen, some vagary in the winds shifting the whole system east where it would pound the daylights out of a trailer park.

Mason, like most people in Kansas City, treated severe weather warnings with the same nonchalance as Californians considered the threat of earthquakes. There was nothing to be done about either and the threats were almost always overstated. Some people even served as self-appointed, unofficial tornado spotters for local radio and television stations, as if standing outside during a thunderstorm in the hopes of spotting a funnel cloud was a less than extreme sport.

They ordered singles with extra bacon, Mason filling them in while they waited for their sandwiches. Blues leaned back in his chair, his face flat. Mickey fiddled with sugar packets, drumming his fingers on the tabletop until Blues made him put his hands in his lap. The food arrived as Mason finished. The conversation about murder was tabled while they ate.

"Why would Father Steve cover for Whitney King?" Mickey asked, picking a stray bacon crumb off the table when they'd finished.

"Money, I guess," Mason answered. "The church needed it and King had it. Father Steve's job was to get it."

"I don't buy it," Blues said. "He's a priest not a bagman. He's not going to take chances like that just so the church can buy new carpet for the rectory."

"Then what?" Mason asked.

"They must have some history," Blues answered. "Maybe King has pictures of the priest with an altar boy. Whatever it is, King's got Father Steve by the collar, but it's not about money."