Reardon by Robert L. Fish

Author:Robert L. Fish
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504012690
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road

CHAPTER 11

Wednesday—6:20 P.M.

Whoever named the restaurant the Mess Hall did an accurate job, Reardon thought critically, drawing the Charger to the curb before the joint and switching off the ignition. A cutey-cute name, but more accurate than the namer meant. Even before he descended from the car, the sight of the place brought back memories of days in his youth when he had been reduced to eating in places like that, and he repressed an involuntary shudder. Without going in he could imagine the unwiped formica counter-top, the vinyl tile floor with tiles broken and missing and littered with unswept cigarette butts, the coffee urn misty with grime, the doughnuts soggy in their cardboard box on the shelf, the faintly sour odor of the place. He sighed, climbed down, joined Dondero on the sidewalk, and opened the door.

A cursory inspection proved his forecast eminently correct. He looked around. Other than the counterman the place was empty. Reardon’s eyebrows rose. While it certainly was not the Top of the Mark or Freddy’s, still people must eat here, he thought, and the people in this type neighborhood didn’t normally dine at ten in the evening. He shrugged the thought away, staring down the counter. The counterman was a thin, pimply-faced character in his late forties or early fifties, with a filthy apron over equally stained ex-white trousers and T-shirt, and tennis shoes without socks. He sat at the last stool before the counter reading a newspaper, a toothpick locked in his mouth. He didn’t look up when they opened the door; it wasn’t until Dondero closed it with significant force that he bothered to note their presence. He came to his feet resignedly, shuffled back of the counter and stared at them.

“Yeah? What’ll you have?”

No need for subterfuge with this one, Reardon decided at once. He pulled his wallet from his back trouser pocket, flipped it open to display his badge on one side and his I.D. on the other, and extended it before the other’s eyes.

“Police.”

“Surprise, surprise,” the counterman said, impressed not at all. “Cops pay for coffee in this joint same as everybody else.” His voice had the aplomb of a man who was in the clear and knew it.

Reardon looked him in the eye for a moment, but the thin pimply-faced man met his look with confidence. The lieutenant nodded and sat down on a stool.

“Fair enough. Make mine black, plenty of sugar.”

“Better put some milk in mine,” Dondero said and straddled the adjoining stool.

“And join us, if you don’t mind,” Reardon added.

The counterman considered him a moment from beneath hooded lids, turned and drew three coffees in chipped and not-too-clean mugs. He set them on the counter, added spoons from a shelf beneath, and pushed over a pitcher of milk and a shaker of sugar. The two detectives dragged the mugs closer; Reardon added sugar, stirred and tasted, but Dondero, considering the scum on the surface of the milk, decided he hadn’t wanted any coffee in the first place.

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