Page 18 of Never Flinch

The waitress brings their drinks and says their food will be right out. Izzy waits until she’s gone, then pushes her tea to one side and leans across the table. “We’reassumingit’s Duffrey who set this Bill Wilson off, but he could just be a wacko who thinks he’s avenging Taylor Swift or Donald Trump or… I don’t know… Jimmy Buffett.”

“Jimmy Buffett is dead,” Holly feels compelled to add, although she knows Izzy is just making a point.

“Annette McElroy’s husband, who’s totally grief-stricken, didn’t even know who Alan Duffreywas, and says he’s pretty sure his wife didn’t, either. He says they avoid the news as much as possible, because it’s all so bad.”

Holly can relate to that. “The Alan Duffrey part doesn’t matter, though, does it? Wilson said he was going to kill innocents to punish the guilty. If Letitia Overton is guilty, at least in this guy’s mind, you need to talk to her.”

“No kidding. She’s a real person, lived at 487 Hardy, but no longer resides in the city. She and her husband moved to Florida, according to her neighbor. The neighbor thought Tampa, or maybe Sarasota. Herhusband got a better job, apparently. Regional manager for Staples. Except it might have been Office Depot or Stats & Things. We’re running it down. Might have something tomorrow or after the weekend.”

“You’ve been busy.”

“This is a big deal, because the nutbag is promising more murders.” Izzy looks at her watch, then around for the waitress. “I’ve got forty-five minutes, and then I have to re-interview the people from the bank, plus Duffrey’s lawyer. Run the name Letitia Overton past them. Also Annette McElroy’s name, but that’s just busywork. McElroy was a target of opportunity.”

“An innocent,” Holly murmurs. She tries not to hate anyone, but she believes she could come to hate “Bill Wilson.” Only why waste the emotion? It’s Izzy’s case.

The waitress comes, bearing sandwiches. Holly bites into her Aussie Melt and finds it delicious. She thinks lamb may be the great overlooked meat. As a young woman she went through a vegetarian phase but gave it up after eight months or so. She supposes she’s a carnivore at heart. A hunter, not a gatherer.

“You said you knew a bartender who goes to those sober meetings,” Izzy says. “Would you be willing to talk to him?”

“Happy to,” Holly says.

“But keep it on the downlow. I don’t want the brass to find out I’m…” What was it Lew Warwick said? “That I’m outsourcing our investigations.”

Holly wipes away a little sauce—delicious!—then makes a zipping gesture across her lips. She says, “When you track down Letitia Overton, would you let me know what she tells you? On the downlow, of course.”

“Absolutely. I have those re-interviews this afternoon. What are you doing?”

“Looking for stolen jewelry.”

“Much more exciting.”

“Not really. Just visiting pawnshops.” Holly sighs. “I hate that donkey.”

“What donkey?”

“Never mind.”

3

The northeast part of Buckeye City is called Breezy Point. Here the not-so-Great Lake the city is situated on gives way to shallow polluted water that cancer-friendly oil slicks dye every color of the rainbow. There are few breezes, but when they blow, they bring the stink of mud and dead fish. Breezy Point mostly consists of public housing. These are four- and five-story brick buildings that look a lot like the accommodations at Big Stone, the state penitentiary. The streets all have tree names, which is sort of hilarious because few trees grow in the Breeze. Every now and then, on Willow Street or Mulberry Street or Oak Drive, the pavement splits and mud oozes up. Sometimes sinkholes big enough to swallow a car also open up. Breezy Point was built on a swamp, and the swamp seems determined to take it back.

Far out on Palm Street (a stupid name for a street in the Breeze if there ever was one), there’s a dingy strip mall with a Dollar Tree, a pizza shop, a medical marijuana dispensary, a Wallets check-cashing store (where quick loans may be negotiated at outrageous interest rates), and a laundromat called the Washee-Washee. This may be politically incorrect (or downright racist), but the Breezy Pointers who use the place don’t seem to mind. Nor do Dov and Frank, a couple of veteran winos who often cruise the strip mall for interesting leftovers and then plant their tatty lawn chairs behind the laundromat on chilly days like this one.

It’s 48 degrees in most of the Breeze, but behind the Washee-Washee, it’s a balmy 74. This is because of the exhaust from the coin-op driers. It’s as pleasant as can be. Dov and Frank have magazines,Atlanticfor Dov,Car and Driverfor Frank. These were trash barrel finds from their latest scavenging run behind the pot store. In addition to the mags, they collected enough returnable cans and bottles to purchase a sixer of Fuzzy Navel Hard Seltzer. After a can each, they are starting to level out and enjoy life on life’s terms.

“Where’s Marie?” Dov asks.

“Lunch break, I think,” Frank says. Marie works in the Washee-Washee, and sometimes comes out back to smoke a cigarette and be sociable. “Look at this Dodge Charger. Is that nice, or what?”

Dov gives it a brief look and says, “The fruits of capitalism always rot on the ground.”

“What does that even mean?” Frank says.

“Educate yourself, my son,” Dov replies, although he is in fact ten years younger than Frank. “Read something that’s not…”

He pauses as a man comes around the corner of the Washee-Washee. Frank has seen him before, although not recently.

“Hey, man. Didn’t I see you at some of those meetings in Upsala a few years back? Maybe the Shine at Noon? I used to live up that way. I’d invite you to sit, but you don’t have no chair, and ours—”