The Good Detective by John McMahon

Author:John McMahon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2019-03-18T16:00:00+00:00

28

MOTORMOUTH was a biker bar set on a strip of gravel off State Route 914, just inside the Mason Falls jurisdiction. I didn’t see a squad car when I pulled up, so I parked beside a row of choppers and got out.

Inside, the place was flooded with greenish-blue light, and an old Harley Panhead was hung from the ceiling. Couples in leather crowded the place. My father-in-law, Marvin, was nowhere in sight.

“Machinehead” from Bush blared through speakers: Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in.

Old Marvin liked to drink. There was a time when he drank at home, back when his wife was still alive. And then there was a time he drank on the road. Like the night my wife and son were killed.

In the last few months, he did his drinking at the Landing Patch. That’s what had brought me to that strip bar in the first place. I was doing therapy, trying to resist beating the shit out of Marvin, sitting there in the parking lot. Watching him go in. Wondering if he came here because of the location, right beside the Tullumy. Right where his daughter and grandson had gone in the drink.

But tonight, he’d come to MotorMouth instead. To some random leather bar. Why?

I found a bartender. “MFPD.” I badged him. “Was there a uniform in here earlier. Settling some fight?”

He pointed out the back door. I moved out of the place and across a dirt overflow parking lot. Signs stuck on cars and bikes advertised a Harley-themed New Year’s Eve party.

A black and white was parked under a tree on the far side of the lot.

Patrolman McRae saw me and got out. He was short and stocky, with a bald head. He’d been on the force about six years, and for a little while we’d been in a poker game together.

“I’m sorry it took so long, Fin.” I put out my hand.

“No problem,” he said, shaking my hand. “I had some paperwork to finish. The snoring’s been what’s bothered me most.”

I peered into the back of his patrol car. My father-in-law was passed out across the seat. He wore jeans and a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His head rested against the side window. Little gray hairs sprouted from his dark brown ears.

“What happened?” I asked.

“If you believe what Marvin said, someone was talking trash about you.”

“Me?” I blinked.

McRae nodded. “Marvin asked them to step outside and promptly got his ass kicked.”

I didn’t believe a word of what my father-in-law said.

“Listen, P.T.,” he said. “I’m not one to tell you your business, but your father-in-law said you hadn’t talked to him in three months.”

I didn’t want to hear what McRae thought of me, but I also knew he was doing me a solid by not arresting Marvin. “It’s a long story, Fin,” I said.

“It’s also the holidays,” he said. “Why don’t you take the old guy home. Get him into bed.”

I got Marvin out of the squad car.

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