Mad Mouse

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I go home and try to fall asleep while thinking paranoid thoughts.

What if Mook is behind all this? What if this whole thing is just one of his stupid gags? Some big practical joke that, like all his pranks, isn't funny at all. Did he and his gang orchestrate the hit on the beach? Did they pull the stunt outside Morgan's? Did ARMY miss us with the real bullets on purpose?

Add in the jealousy angle, the fact that Mook believes he once had some romantic claim on Katie, and everything almost fits. He might've been trying to confess, telling me that I didn't need to be “skeered” anymore because he was all done punking me.

Add in the Mountain Dews from the Qwick Pick and Morgan's Mississippi Mud Pie, on top of the prime rib and the beer, plus the fact that it's nearly dawn, and I don't sleep very well.

Which isn't such a big deal since I have to get up less than four hours after crawling into bed.

Seven thirty A.M. Time to go see Katie.

I think of calling Ceepak, letting him know about Mook's ARMY friend, the sharpshooter with the white van.

I strap on my watch.

I'm meeting him in an hour. Ceepak can hear it then.

• • •

A little before eight, the public parking lot next to Schooner's Landing looks full even though the shops don't open for another hour or two. Since it's a long holiday weekend, most of the rental houses and bay-side condos are crammed with extra guests bunked down on floors, flopped on sofas. Unfortunately, cars can't sleep on couches, so the extra ones come here.

I see a lot of white minivans in the lot-at least ten. No surprise there. I see one last parking space. It's a good one. Near the sidewalk. You can see the front door of Salt Water Tammy's from that spot. I want that spot.

So does the woman in the silver Lexus. Her tires screech when she jams on the accelerator to get there a nanosecond before I do.

She smiles. You know, the “Oh, were you planning on parking here, too?” smile.

I wave. The old “No, go ahead, pull in-you beat me fair and square” wave.

I shift into reverse. The great spot was also the last one in the whole lot. Now I'll have to go park around back, near the loading docks, Dumpsters, and service entrances. Maybe I can park behind the candy shop in Salt Water Tammy's spot. After all, Tammy's not coming in to work today. That's why Katie and I are meeting so early in the first place.

I guess Katie came to the same realization. She's already taken her boss's spot.

I see her Toyota parked in the space that says “Reserved.” I admit defeat. I go park over at the condo construction site. I find a spot near a bulldozer and start walking the half mile back to where I just was.

Katie Landry is worth it. Every inch. Some people may wonder what I see in Katie-besides, of course, her flaming red hair and hot bod. Well, for one thing, she's sweeter than fifty packets of raw sugar, which is something I know because I did the sugar bit once when I was a busboy. Another guy and I had a contest. He won but we both bused our tables a whole lot faster that day.

Katie also has this playful little bounce in her step, like she can't wait to see what's up ahead, what's next. She's someone to ride the Mad Mouse with, that's for sure. I'll bet she'd just giggle every time that car jigged and jagged her around some scary new curve. I'll bet she'd smile and say let's ride it again.

She's also got that Irish Catholic sense of duty (or guilt) that turns a bunch of us into cops and firemen and teachers and nurses. Katie tells me her best days are when some kindergartner quits crying because she helped him figure out how to stack his blocks so they don't fall down. Her kids call her Miss Katie, and if she ever gets married I'm sure she'll invite her whole class to the wedding. She'll probably serve juice boxes and cookies with the champagne and cake, too.

I reach the parking lot where I wanted to park in the first place. The early morning breeze is flapping the sails on the schooner that gives the mall its name. Manicured shrubs and flower beds glisten in the sun. It's not dappled dew or anything poetic. It's just what's left after the sprinklers spritz the plants first thing every morning. To keep green things alive in our sandy soil you need to hose them down on a regular basis. That's why most of the homes down here have lawns made out of pebbles and rock chips.

Through windows, I see a shopkeeper folding T-shirts, another dusting off his wall of sand-dollar clocks. One lady comes out to hang a banner in front of her shop, those flags people in suburbia fly in front of their McMansions. You know, the leprechaun for St. Patrick's Day, the scarecrow for Halloween, the martini glass for any general-purpose party. The lady finishes unfurling a brown bear banner and sips coffee from a cardboard cup with one of those too-hot-to-handle wrapper things around it. The Sun Coast Coffee Company. Upstairs. Top floor. Coffee is my friend. And Sun Coast is obviously open.

I'll go up there, grab a couple of cups, maybe even a soy latte for Katie, then hustle down to Candyland.

I have a plan.

I must be waking up.

The hike has done me and my foggy brain good.

Now if I can only pull off telling Katie to get the hell out of town without letting her know why.