D. Schmidt - They Ate the Waitress?

After an hour or so, Nick said, “You know, I never introduced myself. I’m Dr. Glen Ridwick. I’m with Scunner Consulting. Mr. Mason wanted me to ask if you would do another job for him.”

“Doing what?”

“The, ah, same thing you did before. Exactly like that.”

“You need more information?” Gordon asked, scowling. “Already told you guys everything I know about those people. Can’t get any new info because I was fired for stealing office supplies. And money. And a refrigerator.” He shook his head sadly. “Didn’t think they were watching.”

“Oh, darn. And we really needed your help to fight the good fight against overpriced, poorly-lit restaurants for well-to-do cannibals. Anyway, who did you give this information to? I’d like to talk to them.”

“What information?”

“The info you had about your friends at Hand to Mouth. The reason we paid you.”

“I paid for what?”

“Oh, god. I waited too long!” Realizing he had to buy some time for Gordon to sober up, he grabbed Gordon’s arm and helped him walk the five feet to the nearest table. He waved over a nearby waitress, a heavily-tattooed blonde with a pair of lip rings. “Do you have any actual food in this place?”

“Sure, honey. French fries, chicken wings, shrimp cocktail, onion rings, pickled eggs, grilled swordfish with mango chutney served on a bed of Russian caviar…”

“You can’t be serious.”

“No, really!” she said. “Pickled eggs!”

“Fine. Two shrimp cocktails and two coffees.”

“No,” Gordon grunted, banging a meaty fist on the table. “Tea. Want a tea!”

It took twenty minutes for the waitress to return with their order. Gordon seemed marginally more alert. “This is good stuff,” he mumbled around a mouthful of shrimp. “Every time I have seafood, I think about this girl I used to know. Erin something. She never wanted to eat anything when we went out, only when we were making love.”

“That’s awfully weird.” Nick didn’t want to hear the rest of the story, but he didn’t want to risk alienating Gordon before he found out what else he knew.

“It’s not that unusual,” Gordon said slowly, still somewhat stoned. “Lot of people associate food with sex, love, comfort.” He paused to finish his glass of tea. “It’s oral fixation, like Siegfried Freud… People learn it when they’re babies. That’s why people like to kiss. Putting someone in your mouth makes you feel more in love. That’s also why cats carry their kittens in their mouths. That, and they don’t have hands… What was I talking about?”

“Are you drunk?” Nick asked.

“Maybe just a little,” Gordon laughed.

“How the hell are you drunk ?”

“Their ice tea… It’s imported from Long Island.”

“Oh, holy hell.” He grabbed Gordon’s jacket, pulling him close. “Listen up, you fat idiot: Reid Mason paid you for information about Hand to Mouth. Reid’s not the type of guy to get his hands dirty, so the killer must have been someone else. Who did you give this information to?”

“Think you mean, ‘To whom did you give this information’,” Gordon slurred.

“Just tell me!” Nick slammed his fist on the table, drawing angry looks from the nearby tables. “What the hell is your problem?” he asked the room. “Haven’t you ever seen an undercover interrogation before?”

“Donald Canard,” muttered Gordon, right before he fell off his chair. “Should go visit Lawn Island, an’ meet the guy who makes this delislush bedvergage…”

“Well, he’s gone. Nothing more I can do here. I should go home and conduct some serious research.”

A young woman in a dangerously short, black dress breezed up to his table. She had chin-length, blonde hair and a tiny, gold crucifix around her neck. Like a cigarette girl in the Old Days, she had a large, multi-compartment tray hanging from her shoulders on a leather strap. However, most tobacco companies had gone out of business six days after the end of the “war on drugs”. Her tray was filled with brightly-colored vials, test tubes, and syringes.

Her smile was deadly. “Hey there, cutie,” she said sweetly.

“And what’s your name?”

“I am Faith.”

“Of course you are.”

“Our top story today, a local man has set a new record for the world’s largest bonsai tree…”

When Nick opened his eyes, he had no idea where he was. The last thing he remembered was flirting with a needle girl, but this didn’t look like her bedroom. Besides, he wasn’t feeling the usual post-coitus cocktail of relaxation and guilt. The only thing he felt was pain. His entire body ached, from his head to his flexor digitorum brevis muscles. He was in bed in a sterile, white room, a morning news program playing on the ceiling above him.

“The hospital,” he realized. The smell was unmistakable. The room had a can of air freshener on a timer going off at fifteen minute intervals, but its efforts were futile. All it could do was add the scent of wild flowers to the potent mixture of industrial-strength disinfectant, stale body odor, urine, and death.

Sophia was sitting in an armchair at the side of the bed, reading. She looked up from her magazine and jolted. “Oh, you’re awake! God, I was so scared! It’s such a relief to see that you’re okay.” She pulled her chair closer to the bed and thumbed a button on the headboard, switching off the ceiling.

“What happened? Did they put something in the LSD?”

“Not quite.” Her hands tightened, crushing the magazine. She wanted to strangle him but, given his current condition, she decided to take out her anger on her copy of Lady’s Monthly. “The doctors said you had heroin and cocaine in your system. Marijuana isn’t enough anymore? You have to do speedballs, too?”

“Wynne, you know I don’t do uppers. I’m perky enough already.”

“Oh, right,” she said, folding her arms. “How did that stuff get in your blood if you didn’t put it there?”

“I don’t remember a lot of what happened last night, but I have some ideas. It was an overdose, but it wasn’t an accident. Someone must have wanted me dead, injected that stuff in me when I was too… distracted … to notice.”

“So you’re in the middle of a murder investigation, and you decide to get high? Didn’t you think that was dangerous? Or at least counterproductive? God, you must be crazy.”

“Maybe I am,” he said. “Insanity runs in my family. My mother had obsessive-compulsive disorder and attention deficit problems. She would clean everything neurotically, for three minutes at a time. My dad was even worse. He was a chronic procrastinator with a messiah complex. He would always talk about how he was going to save the world, eventually. And my cousin–”

“Stop it, Nick!” she snapped. “Every time I try to talk to you about something serious, you tell stupid jokes!” She took a breath and released it slowly. She rose from her chair and sat on the edge of the bed. “I can’t understand why you’re so defensive around me when all I want is to be close to you and to know that you’re safe.”

“Why do you care? I’m just another customer. It’s not like you give a damn about me.”

“Right, Nick, I don’t care. That’s why I left work and drove all the way out here to see you. That’s why I’m…” But her voice was lost in tears.

He sat up in bed and wrapped his arms around her. Softly, he said, “Wynne, it’s going to be alright. Don’t worry. Don’t cry.”

“But why do any drugs there at all? The doctor said the bar they found you in wasn’t even safety rated.”

“Sometimes I have to get away from my life. Just take a break from everything. Using drugs is like hitchhiking with a sign that says ‘anywhere but here.’ I enjoy catching bad guys. I enjoy knowing that I’ll have money coming in from my past arrests, even if I can’t work anymore. I enjoy breaking into a suspect’s house and looking through their stuff. But most of my life is awful.” He was suddenly aware of how tightly he was holding her. He forced his arms to relax. “Sure, occasionally I get to beat up a rapist and leave him naked in the baboon cage at the zoo, but still… It’s not fun. Half the time, I don’t even trust the people that hire me.”