Day Shift
Page 81

Fiji and Bobo walked ahead. While Manfred and Magdalena were out of hearing, he asked, “Just out of curiosity, can you find out the terms of Morton’s will?”
“It’s a matter of public record,” Magdalena said. “If you want to pay for my time, of course I can get a copy.”
“I do, and the sooner the better.”
“I’ll tell Phil tomorrow.”
When they were about to cross the Davy highway, they saw Chuy and Joe emerge from their shop doorway. They, too, were eating out tonight. Now that the strangers were gone, and so was Rick Horowitz (né Barry Bellboy), everyone was happier except maybe Shorty Horowitz. Manfred was glad Barry was on his way to safety; he was glad no vampires would come to Midnight. Crisis averted.
And, he had to confess to himself, it was a relief to have the telepath gone from their midst, as much as he’d been curious about what Barry was “receiving” from his companions.
“By the way,” Magdalena said.
“What?”
“I only agreed to your little press conference because the Bonnet Park police had already called me to tell me they’d found the jewelry. You’d just been cleared. So it was safe for you to deny all the charges in public.”
Manfred stared at her, his mouth hanging open. “I should have wondered harder why you agreed to do it,” he said. “You know what? I’m just happy it’s over. I couldn’t have killed her, and I didn’t steal anything, and it’s all public knowledge.” He felt amazingly lighthearted.
Chicken and dumplings was on the menu that night, along with baked tilapia. These were new, so they were all more interested than usual in their food.
Manfred wasn’t the only one to notice that Arthur chose a chair by Magdalena, or perhaps Magdalena had arranged to have an empty seat available. She was a lawyer and used to strategizing. But after Arthur had ordered, his phone buzzed, and he stepped outside to take the call. Dillon was in the kitchen getting another pitcher of iced tea, and Madonna was cooking.
Manfred had been able to see the tension in the way his landlord was sitting. There was something Bobo wanted to say, and since he couldn’t get rid of Magdalena as well, he leaned forward with sudden resolution.
“I wonder where our missing citizens are,” Bobo said. Since they were all seated around the big round table that dominated the little restaurant, they could all hear him even though he didn’t raise his voice. He meant the Rev and Diederik.
“Just one more night,” Fiji said, even more obliquely.
Manfred wasn’t sure he really wanted to know what the Rev was up to. “I guess we’ll find out if we’re supposed to know,” he said, and grabbed a piece of corn bread from the basket in the middle of the table.
Arthur came back in, Magdalena stopped looking from one to the other of them as though she expected them to speak in tongues, and Dillon eased through the swinging doors to the kitchen with a brimming pitcher of tea. He refreshed their drinks, but he seemed subdued. Manfred had a moment of doubt. Was the atmosphere of Midnight contagious? Dillon had always seemed like a normal ranch teenager. Now he was preoccupied.
“Dillon, you doing okay?” Bobo asked, just before Manfred could get the words out.
“Yeah, just broke up with my girlfriend,” Dillon said, and smiled weakly. “I made her mad. I told her I saw . . .” He hesitated, and the smile faded away. “Well, never mind. She just got mad at me. When she cools off, we’ll talk.”
“That’s a good plan, Dillon,” Bobo said. “Give her time to come around.”
He ducked his head. “Can I get you guys some more bread?” The basket for rolls and corn bread was almost empty.
“Sure,” Manfred said, not because he wanted any more but because he wanted to give Dillon a reason to exit.
Arthur looked after the boy. He seemed lost in thought for a moment.
Magdalena was unexpectedly entertaining at table talk. She had a number of stories that Manfred suspected were stock stories, anecdotes she told to keep the social ball rolling: terrible clients, terrible judges, funny lawsuits. Arthur was more engaged in that world than any of the others, and he laughed the hardest. He was inspired to tell “best arrest” stories. And Bobo told a few “weird things people wanted to pawn” anecdotes—the used coffin, the grenade, the blank tombstones.
This was high entertainment for a Midnight dinner. Manfred looked at the smiling faces around the table: at Joe and Chuy, who were clearly enjoying themselves; at Fiji, who laughed out loud; at Olivia’s guarded smile and Bobo’s animated face. Dillon brought out a buttermilk pie with Madonna’s demand that they all try it, since it was a new recipe. It was already sliced, and they each took a piece. It was rich and delicious, but Manfred thought it too sweet. However, Madonna was so formidable that he didn’t say anything.
At eight thirty, the diners scattered for home as though they’d heard a warning bell sound. The glow in the sky was golden pink, and Magdalena’s and Manfred’s shadows preceded them as they strolled back to his house, where her car was parked. They didn’t talk: It was hot, and they were full, and Manfred had things to think about. Apparently, so did his lawyer.
Magdalena unlocked the car and opened the driver’s door. A blast of furnace-hot air gusted out. There was no question of leaning against the metal; she stood, shifting from foot to foot, a woman whose shoes were definitely pinching.
“You call my mom yet?” she asked.