Double Black Diamond (Mercy Watts Mysteries) (8 page)

“She was asleep in my purse,” I said.
 

The bartender came over. “Oh, she is so cute. Can’t she put her back in the purse, Ray?”
 

“Sorry, no,” said Ray.

“Come on,” said the bartender. “Everybody,” she yelled, “do you care if she has her tiny pug in here?”
 

The whole bar yelled, “No!”
 

Ray smiled and whispered, “Just keep her in the bag, okay?”
 

I agreed and went back to the table. Pete finished his remaining coffee and said, “Why do you have Wallace?”

“I really don’t know.” My head was getting a little funny. My eyes met Rory’s and he grinned at me. The grin dropped off his face as the old-guy table erupted. One of them, a man with thick dark hair tied back in a ponytail, banged on the table and yelled, “Son of a bitch.”
 

“We need to talk this through calmly,” said another, bald, dressed completely in black.

Ponytail banged on the table again and the girl’s small purse fell off. “This is calm!” he yelled.
 

The bald one got up, threw a wad of bills, and left. “You’re both shitheads.”

The girl leaned over to retrieve her purse. Her tank slid up and exposed a over-sized tattoo in black and red with initials in the center. JDS. Classy.

The guy across from Ponytail, a shaggy blond that might’ve been wearing makeup, began cussing about the purse, which seemed a bit of an overreaction. By this time, the entire bar was watching their table. Pete leaned over. “I knew those guys looked familiar. I think that’s DBD.”
 

The Jager was hitting me and I mumbled, “Huh?”
 

“Double Black Diamond. You know that band.”
 

I perked up and looked again. They did look familiar, especially when the one with the ponytail raised his sunglasses. He had distinctive dark eyes with thick luxurious lashes. He crouched over the table and snarled something low.

“Mickey Stix,” I said. “My dad loves him.”
 

Actually Dad loved the whole band, much to my detriment. When I was a kid, Dad liked to take me camping and he always chose campgrounds a minimum of four hours away and the only CDs Dad owned were of DBD. By the time we got to the campground I was ready to fling myself into oncoming traffic. There were only so many hot girl/rockin’ party songs I could take. It didn’t help that at the end of these DBD marathons was a campground that Dad picked. He favored campgrounds with minimal trees, angry yellow jackets so thick you couldn’t move, rivers wiggling with water moccasins, and plenty of loose silty dirt. Add to that our Korean War era army tent that smelled like feet, Dad always picking the hottest weekend of the year, and marauding raccoons stealing our stuff all night. It was typically three days of hell that ended with another DBD marathon. It made me mad just thinking about it. The best thing about being an adult was I didn’t have to camp with Dad anymore.

“What’s with the face?” asked Pete.

“I hate DBD,” I said.
 

“I like them. “Sexy Curve”
reminds me of you.”
 

“That’s the worst one. Dad sings it to Mom, and he cannot sing.”
 

Pete laughed and hailed a waitress. “Do you think I could get their autographs?”
 

“They look ready to murder each other. I wouldn’t,” I said.
 

“They’re always like that. You’d think they’d get over it. They have to be close to sixty.”
 

Mickey Stix stood up and yelled, “There are two sides, you fuck! Choose one.” Then he stood up, knocking over his chair into Rory and stalked off, being trailed by a heavily muscled guy in a shiny tracksuit, presumably a bodyguard.
 

“Maybe later,” said Pete. “I bet you could get as many autographs as you want. Bring any tight stuff?”
 

“You’re willing to pimp me for autographs?”
 

“It would be the best Christmas present your dad ever got,” he said.

True. “I’ll think about it.”

Rory set Mickey’s chair upright and gathered his gear. He jerked his head toward the door and I gave a slight nod. He walked out and I stood up, grabbing my jacket. The waitress brought Pete another Irish coffee that came with a bra-flashing bend-over. Pete was transfixed for a second and I hoisted the Wallace bag onto my shoulder.

“Wait,” said Pete, when his eyes could focus on me again. “Where are you going?”
 

“To the condo. Not feeling so hot. Thanks to you.”

“But I just got this drink,” he said.
 

“Finish it,” I said. “You can chat up the waitress.”
 

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Right.” I waltzed out. It feels great to be self-righteous, especially when you’re chasing down your drug connection.

I caught up to Rory at the ski rack. He flung his snowboard over his shoulder and nearly cracked me in the head when he turned.
 

“Nice dog,” he said, looking down at Wallace, who was snarling at his gigantic orange boots.

“She sucks. Do you have it?” I asked.

“Not on me. I was shredding. Can you get away from Bill Nye the Science Guy tomorrow morning around eight?”
 

It took me a second. “Oh, you mean Pete. Yeah, no problem.”

“So you two…” He looked doubtful.

“We do.”

“How does that happen? What’s he, a chemistry teacher?”

“Come on. He’s not that obviously nerdy,” I said.

“He’s pretty obvious.”
 

“Says the guy with purple hair.”
 

“You got me there. What’s he do to get you?” Rory asked with probably the most charming grin I’d seen outside of my dad.

“Doctor.”
 

“That explains it. Does he know?”

“About Keegan? No, not even a little bit.”
 

Rory tossed his purple hair over his shoulder. “Science Guy wouldn’t get onboard this train?”
 

I so wanted to touch that hair. The texture was crazy. “I’m not taking the chance.”
 

“By the way, it’s cool what you’re doing. That kid’s desperate. I saw the video.”
 

“There’s a video?”
 

“If you didn’t see it, you don’t want to. That’s some rough shit.”
 

“So I gather. Thanks for doing this for Keegan. I know your father wasn’t thrilled about it.”
 

Rory shrugged. “The law’s gonna change. Not in time for Keegan though. Dad’s made a study of his disease and he says that little body can’t take it much longer.”
 

“How often have you skirted the law?” I asked.
 

“Twice before. Like I said, it has to be desperate.”

“What were the outcomes in those cases?” I glanced back to make sure Pete wasn’t coming out of the bar.

“Eighty percent reduction in one and full remission in the other.”
 

“Impressive.”

Rory arched over me. “That’s not the only thing that’s impressive around here.”

I tried to stop smiling, but couldn’t. He was just so, I don’t know, charming and altogether different. I pictured the hot snowboarder body that had to be under those thick pants and coat.
 

Stop it.
 

“Aren’t you eighteen?” I asked.

“How old are you?” Rory asked.

“Twenty-five, nearly twenty-six.”

“Older works for me.” His hair flopped over his shoulder and brushed my cheek. It felt like it should be on a stuffed animal, but in a good way.
 

“Tempting,” I said.

Very tempting.

“But since I’m on vacation with Bill and his parents, I better not.”

“I guess I better find some other hottie to occupy my time.” He grinned and I liked him more and more.
 

“When can I get the oil?” I asked.

“Tomorrow before the lifts open. How about eight o’clock at the Belgian Bean? I know the owners. They won’t mess with our thing.”
 

“Done.” I looked back and saw Pete emerge from the bar. He took two steps and his gangly limbs went every which way, and he went down.
 

“OMG,” I said, starting for him.
 

Rory walked off and tossed, “Have fun, Mrs. Nye,” over his shoulder.
 

When I got to Pete, he was dragging himself up the railing, his legs all cattywampus, like a young giraffe just learning to walk. His feet hit another ice patch, they went out, and he landed with a thump.
 

“Are you okay?” I squatted next to him.
 

“Sure.” Pete looked at me like he didn’t know why I was asking such a question and sitting on the ice was what he intended to do. Men are so weird. I glanced up to see a very athletic Rory take a left into the village.
 

“Look what I got you.” He held out a Chocolove dark chocolate bar with almonds and sea salt.
 

I kissed him so hard and fast that his head bonked against the railing, but he didn’t complain.
 

“What was that for?” he asked.
 

“For being practically perfect in every way,” I said, hauling him to his feet.
 

“Funny. That’s what I always say about you.”
 

We started for the steps and Pete winced.
 

“Ankle?”
 

“I think I sprained it.”

I looped his arm around my shoulder and felt something heavy on my toe.
 

“Don’t look down,” said Pete. “Just walk.”
 

“That dog’s peeing on my suede boot, isn’t she?”
 

I didn’t look. I booted Wallace off my foot and half-dragged Pete back to the condo where I could unload that damn dog on her owner. If I’d known what was awaiting me, I wouldn’t have hurried.
 

Chapter Six

I smelled it the second we got off the elevator. I can only describe it as wrongness. My so-called partner, Aaron, was an incredible cook and he’d been improving my palate. That smell would’ve made Aaron gag. It also would’ve made him cook, which is a great thing as long as he isn’t making crab. I hate crab. We made it down the corridor with Wallace nipping at my boot fur and barking at me. I didn’t kick, not once. Mainly because I had a witness, but also because after she’s barked at you six thousand times you start to tune it out.
 

I was about to say, “What is that god-awful smell?” when the door flung open. Nancy stood there with a red-coated spoon and the ultimate smell of wrongness billowing out behind her.
 

“Where have you been?” she asked. “Dinner’s ready.”

Oh my god!

“I fell, Mom,” said Pete. “Don’t make a big—”

Nancy screeched, snatched Pete away from me, and literally carried him into the condo. I watched with my mouth hanging open. She carried him like it was nothing and Pete weighs 160 pounds. I could barely take him leaning on me. This must be that hysterical strength that you hear about on the news. Of course this was a sprained ankle, not a screaming child trapped under a Buick.
 

Nancy was in the condo, yelling about ice, and Wallace made a gagging sound next to my foot. I totally expected her to barf on top of the pee, but she didn’t. Nancy had dropped her spoon and the stink dog had taken a lick. Wallace regretted it, by the looks of it. She sneezed and made horking noises. I picked up the spoon and sniffed. As I feared, Nancy’s dinner was the source of the smell, but I still couldn’t quite figure out what it was on that spoon. Some sort of tomato sauce with a hint of fishiness and something else, kind of chemically.
 

“Mercy!” yelled Nancy.
 

“Coming.” I trotted in with Wallace, who was now in a full-fledged sneezing fit.
 

I found Pete on the sofa, wrapped in three blankets. He blushed when he saw me. “I’m okay, Mom, really.”
 

Wallace broke away from me and ran to her water bowl. Calvin came up beside me. “You’ll just have to put up with it, son. You’re still your mother’s baby.”
 

“Don’t be so glib, Calvin,” said Nancy. “Look at this.” She lifted a towel filled with ice off of Pete’s ankle, and I have to say, it looked completely normal. Red from the cold, but that was it.
 

I took off my coat and boots and went over to inspect Pete’s ankle. Even close up, it appeared to be fine.
 

“Do you think it’s broken?” asked Nancy, wringing her hands.
 

Hysterical mothers are a day-to-day occurrence in Pediatrics, but I’d never seen one like Nancy. You’d have thought Pete had been in a head-on collision.
 

“Well,” I said, “it looks good—”

Pete’s eyes got big and he shook his head.
 

“What?” said Nancy, sharply.
 

“Good and…sore,” I said. “He’ll have to keep it elevated and rest.”