Vicki Pettersson - The Given

“The full story, right?” Kit had been anticipating that.

“Hey!” Zicaro was suddenly sitting up in his seat, eyes bulging like an angry bullfrog perched atop the lily pad of Marin’s Persian rug. “I got the disks, it’s my story!”

Marin may have been seated in her living room wearing nothing more than a kimono, but as she shifted her gaze his way, she was every bit the editor in chief. “Why should I give you a byline? Because your crazy-ass rants finally got you locked up?”

“Marin—”

But she held up one finger, silencing Grif. Kit, too, would’ve gone easy on the old guy, but she knew better than to interfere. If Zicaro wanted a byline, he’d have to earn it. Knowing it, he straightened in his seat. “I had to put up with those knuckleheads questioning me day in and day out. It got on my nerves. And the food was crappy there, too.”

Marin just stared.

“It’s bad if my blood-sugar levels get low,” Zicaro told her.

Picking up her own wineglass, Marin shrugged. “Well, my kitchen is closed.”

That was Kit’s opening. “You know what? I’m pretty hungry, too. Let’s go hunt something down while Amelia goes to work on the files, shall we?”

Zicaro sputtered. “But—”

“Thanks again, Marin,” Grif said, moving behind Zicaro, clearly intending to wheel him out forcibly if he had to. Yet all Zicaro did was chug his white wine before warning Amelia not to muck up his damned story.

Zicaro was still ranting as Kit swung onto Sahara Avenue and arrowed past a city block advertised as the world’s largest gift shop. Kit made polite noises as Zicaro continued to huff and puff, but Grif tuned him out, coming around only when struck by a bony elbow or a faceful of wheezing breath. If the old-timer was going to roll with them, he thought, they were going to have to get a bigger car.

But then Kit swerved and even Zicaro fell silent at the sight of a giant golden cow.

“The Golden Steer?” Zicaro asked, and pumped his bony fists at Kit’s answering nod.

Shooting Grif a smile, Kit shrugged. “I think Loony Uncle Al deserves one of the best steaks on earth after his time of enforced confinement. Besides, if the past is intent on rearing its head, we might as well go in for a touch of nostalgia as well.”

“Oh, honey,” Zicaro said before Grif could reply. “I’d kiss you if it weren’t already dangerous enough with you behind that wheel.”

He wiggled, doing a little dance when Grif snorted, though he stopped when Kit exited the car and slammed the door shut, leaving Zicaro to fend for himself.

“Good job, sport,” Grif muttered, and went to wrangle with the wheelchair by himself.

They met up with her again inside the Golden Steer, Las Vegas’s first steakhouse. Built in 1958, the iconic gold steer out front was still hard to miss, though now overshadowed by spearing towers, plummeting roller coasters, and flashing signs. Yet back in Grif’s day, this was the stomping ground of Sinatra, Monroe, the Duke—John Wayne—and every made mobster ever to set foot in the valley. Longhorn steaks at just five bucks a pop, a private dining room, and a hidden exit door just in case the fuzz busted down the front.

The prices had changed in the ensuing years, but the decor had not, and as Grif stared at the mahogany wainscoting and deep velvet wallpaper dotted with landscapes of the Old West, he felt himself being dragged by the collar right back into the past. The burgundy carpeting muffled even Kit’s heels as they sidled into the bar. Tuck-and-roll booths could be seen lining the walls, offering both intimacy and a clear view of the entire dining room. The waitstaff, all male and tuxedoed, looked like they’d been there for almost as long as Grif had been dead.

“My God,” Grif said, turning around. “Some things never change.”

He glanced at Kit, who was watching him carefully. So the old-school atmosphere wasn’t a mistake. It’d get Zicaro talking, yes, but after the events of the past day, and in a world where everything changed too quickly, it was nice to take refuge in a place that had roots.

“Thanks,” he said softly.

“Don’t thank me,” she said, and smiled sweetly. “You’re paying for it.”

The maître d’ approached. “Reservations?”

Grif peeled off a bill that made even this jaded man’s eyes go wide. “Table for three.”

Kit immediately corrected him. “Four, actually,” she said, and gestured back to the entrance. Grif turned just as Dennis Carlisle spotted him, and they both scowled. The intimate dining room no longer seemed as homey.

“What?” Kit said, as Dennis joined them. “You called him when we were out at Sunset.”

“I called the cops.”

“I’m still a cop in my off-hours,” Dennis reminded Grif, his gaze almost shining it was so hard.

“And a friend, remember?” Kit said, voice gone soft. Grif’s eyes flashed between the two of them, though he relaxed a bit when he saw Dennis doing the same with Kit and him.

And Dennis was off duty, his jeans cuffed high, T-shirt sleeves rolled, hair now slicked with enough grease that the candlelit tables might prove a danger. He, too, looked like he’d just walked out of the fifties, though the maître d’ didn’t seem to appreciate it as much.

Dennis caught the look. “I brought a jacket,” he said before the man could speak, and he shrugged into a sports coat while Kit nudged Grif. He sighed, dug into his wallet for another bill, and handed it over.

“This way.” The maître d’ led them to a corner booth where Zicaro shunted aside his wheelchair and squeezed in between Dennis and Kit. Oblivious to the tension at the table, he proceeded to pore over the timeless menu, face stretched in glee. “Look at that! Beef and spuds!”

Grif and Dennis, seated across from each other, propped their menus in front of their faces.

“So,” Grif finally said, eyes trained on his menu. “Still like the beat?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Dennis replied flatly. Kit swallowed, almost audibly, and bent her head over her menu, too. “Every day is different. You never know if you’re going to get a domestic disturbance, a routine traffic stop. An anonymous tip about a dead woman in a high-rise apartment.”

Dropping his menu, Grif speared a look at Kit, and this time Dennis’s gaze, too, stuck.

“It’s Dennis ,” she said, with a lift of her slight shoulders, causing Grif to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“So are you going to tell me about it?” Dennis asked, flicking his napkin to his lap.

“We all are,” Kit said, but didn’t look him in the eye.

Nope, Grif thought, as the waiter poured water and brought bread. They hadn’t been seeing each other. He’d have felt good about that except that his relief came at Dennis’s expense. And what had the poor sap done, really? He’d fallen for Kit, he’d taken a bullet for her and almost died because of it. Nothing Grif wouldn’t have done himself.

Except that he hadn’t.

“And how’s the head?” Grif asked, more softly, jerking his chin at Dennis’s right ear. The hair had grown back in the months since his hospital stay, but a bright red scar still peeked from underneath.

“Pretty good,” Dennis admitted, unconsciously touching the scar. “The doc gave me a clean bill of health. Said it was a miracle I didn’t die.”

Grif nodded. Miracles were commonplace when one was possessed by the Pure. Even if the angel was only using the body to manipulate his environment, and, he thought, looking at Kit, those in it.

“I’m glad, Dennis,” Grif finally said, lowering his menu and nodding once. “Really. You saved Kit’s life, you did it square. It was the bravest damned thing I’ve ever seen.”