Cat In An Alphabet Endgame

7

Being Frank

“Wedding plans? Congratulations, Matt.”

Frank Bucek’s voice boomed out over the phone as much as it had commanded a class of seminarians seventeen years ago.

A lot of ex-priests ended up working in counseling, as Matt had, or law enforcement. It figured. Seminarians and priests knew about keeping vows and rules and contending with good and evil on a daily basis.

“May I assume I know the spirited young lady in question?”

“Yes, it’s Temple, Frank. I know it’s early in the day, but I’m wondering if you could join me for brunch at a little place near the Circle Ritz. The Magic Muffin.”

Frank’s laugh boomed out. “Magic Muffin, huh? Sounds like a clever concept. Sure.”

Matt watched his cell phone whisk Frank’s contact off the screen. As usual, Matt had two missions in seeing Frank.

Number one was finding out if he had indeed glimpsed Frank Bucek outside the Lucky Stars nudie bar when Matt has first been taken into the ugly world of retired cop Woodrow Wetherly. The other was, what could Frank Bucek do for him now, besides playing Best Man.

Matt had never patronized the Magic Muffin restaurant. It occupied a free-standing building near Electra Lark’s cluster of commercial properties. The gone-under chain there before it used A-frame buildings as an instant recognition factor, but the trick had failed, and the entire exposed roof and exterior had been painted over like a classic hippie van with psychedelic lettering and images, the Franchise That Time Forgot.

Inside, Matt found a blackboard with neon-colored chalk descriptions of super-sized muffin meals from Meatballs to Vegan and sweet to sweet-and-sour. The muffins were as big as a pot pie and did come in that variety.

Matt got there first. He was the favor-asker. He was surprised to see that Frank had gained a paunch since they last met a couple months ago. He hadn’t lost energy, though.

He strode over to greet Matt with a crushing handshake and a back slap.

“Marriage is a great institution, as long as you’re not locked up in it,” he said while seating himself, laughing. “I can’t read that darn blackboard writing.”

“Here’s the printed menu, on the table. I think they have a steady clientele that doesn’t need to read.”

Frank laughed. His luxuriously haired graying eyebrows lifted as he scanned the menu.

“Two Meatloaf, Cheese, and Pepperoni-Olive muffins. I’m set.”

Matt went with one Whole Wheat Breakfast Scramble, feeling like a wimp. But that disadvantage had always been Frank Bucek’s personal magic.

Over the two-fisted-size muffins and huge mugs of potent coffee, Matt made his first pitch.

“I’d like to ask you to be my best man. We don’t have a date yet, but it’ll be soon. Probably not much notice.”

“Matt, I would swim a piranha-infested Lake Mead, what’s left of it, to stand up for you. Anytime. Anywhere.”

“Thanks for the ringing endorsement. I’m also wondering… Why do I think I saw you someplace off-Strip that was…well, way more sleazy than anywhere two ex-priests should ever be?”

“My job takes me into situations beyond sleaze to human trafficking tragedy.” Frank set down his coffee mug, empty, and stuffed his second muffin and napkin in his suit coat pocket.

“If you did think you saw me in someplace sleazy, maybe you shouldn’t have been there. Guy about to get married. I gotta run. These muffins are sure portable. Thanks.”

“Frank—”

“Just saying. Think about it. We’ll be here.”

“We’ll?”

“Hey, this place as has every variety of Magic Muffin you can dream of. So does Life. Always order wisely.”

Matt, his mind churning with unease after Frank had been so brusque and tight-lipped, was driving the Jaguar toward the entry into the Circle Ritz parking lot.

Then he recognized the ugly rear of the huge seventies junker he’d last seen parked in front of Electra’s inherited building. It was idling by the curb just a short stroll away.

Why was Woody Wetherly’s mysterious henchman parked on the street outside the Circle Ritz?

Besides lounging low in the driver’s seat, gimme cap bill pulled down over his eyes, staring fixedly at the building’s rear…where both Matt and Temple, and Electra on the penthouse level, had visible balconies overlooking the pool and parking lot.

Where an intruder had breached Temple’s French doors recently, and more recently, another intruder had fallen to his death from the penthouse level he’d broken into. That left Matt’s unit in-between untouched. So far. Good thing he had the treasure hunt maps in a hidden safe.

Matt understood the phrase “cold sweat” for the first time. Not that he hadn’t sweated out some dangerous situations since following his no-good stepfather to Las Vegas, but now he actually saw someone watching and probably wishing Temple nothing good.

After the sweat came the defensive adrenaline rush, almost blinding him with icy-hot murderous intent.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Not swearing, a brief prayer from his Catholic grade-school youth, calling on their protection. The interruption of his speculations and worries instantly calmed him.

He drove slowly past the car, the same one he had followed from Woody’s place into the desert on a quickie digging expedition days ago. He willed himself not to be seen by the driver. That car gave him the creeps. It had returned from the desert with a bloody jackhammer in its trunk.

His own junker, a 2001 gray Chevy Impala, freshly purchased, sat parked around the block.

He’d have to park the Jag on the other side of the building, on the street. It was expendable. He locked it after pulling to the curb behind the Impala, and slipped the second set of keys out of his pants pocket, his hands shaking with excitement.

He realized Temple had mentioned seeing this guy around when she was out, scraggly looks and loping gait. Woody knew about and had clearly threatened Temple during his call-in to WCOO. Since then Matt had steered clear of the supposedly “retired” cop, who either wanted to discourage or goad him into some action. Over eighty or not, Wetherly was involved in current criminal schemes. Evil and greed had no expiration date.

Now, Matt needed to follow this unappetizing lurker and figure out what he was up to. Or choke it out of him. That was why his hands were shaking. Not fear, fury. The man was several years older than he. Closer to forty than to thirty. Prematurely stooped and lazy-looking, but that kind could be wire-strong.

And he had that frequent offender look. Beat-up billed cap, stingy soul-patch under his lower lip, straggly ponytail disappearing into the collar his lightweight Eisenhower jacket.

Matt struggled into a worn jean jacket while getting behind the Impala’s wheel, picked up the greasy billed cap from a used clothing store from the passenger seat, mussed his choir-boy blond hair and donned it at a laid-back angle. He lowered the driver’s window all the way, the air-conditioning off as if broken, and rested his crooked left arm on the window opening.

A lit cigarette in his fingers would be a crowning touch, but smoking was too foreign to mess with. He started the car and drove around the block as fast as he dared, then slowed to make the right turn onto the street where the jackhammer-toter had parked.

The car was gone.