Chasing a Blond Moon(97)

This didn’t sound like much of a plan, but Service was too tired and sore to argue or come up with something else.

“You want to see a doctor?” Ficorelli asked.

Service shook his head.

“Breakfast for you boys?” Frosty asked.

“Eggs over easy and hash,” Wayno said.

“OJ, coffee, and dry rye toast,” Service said.

Frosty left, shouting orders to his cook.

“Sleeping with witnesses isn’t too swift,” Service said.

“You’re not my priest, and besides, we didn’t sleep that much.”

“Your priest would tell you the same thing.”

Ficorelli laughed. “Yeah, sure, right after he gets out of the joint for buggering altar boys.”

Service picked up his coffee and eyed his toast while the Wisconsin warden mashed his eggs into his hash. They ate in silence.

Fahrenheit’s house was a large, fairly new ranch with an expanse of green lawn out front and a lumpy pasture stretching behind the house to a line of birch and cedars. A large garage sat beside the house, unattached.

“Charley-boy done okay with the chopper company,” Ficorelli said.

They were in Service’s Yukon. He pulled up to the house and Wayno trotted up to the door, talked to somebody, and came back. “There’s a two-track behind the garage. You can park back behind the trees.” Wayno pointed.

Service watched him go into the house, then drove around the garage, found the track through the field, and drove a quarter-mile back into the trees. He parked and walked into the field, didn’t like the truck’s positioning, went back and moved it again. He smoked a cigarette as he hurried across the field toward the house. He knocked on the front door but got no response. He tried the doorknob. Locked. He rang the bell, checked his watch: 11:30 a.m. No problem with time.

Wayno finally came to the door and opened it, grinning. “Sorry, didn’t mean to lock you out.”

Ficorelli’s belt was undone, as was his fly. “Better shut your gate,” Service said.

Wayno looked down, laughed, and zipped up as they walked into the kitchen where a woman in her mid-forties was standing at a counter, measuring scoops of coffee and dumping them into a brown paper filter. She was pear-shaped with an appealing, wholesome face, wearing a pale yellow short-sleeved sweater over a pale yellow skirt. Her hair looked mussed and she was barefoot. Some of her toenails were painted red.

“Mary Ellen Fahrenheit, Grady Service.”

“Hi,” she said, her cheeks flushed with color. “Sorry the coffee’s not ready. I sort of lost track of time. Why don’t the two of you sit in the dining room. The kitchen’s a mess.”

Service looked around. The kitchen looked anything but a mess.

Ficorelli remained in the kitchen.

Service went into the dining room. There was a red couch in the adjoining living room, its pillows gollywhompered. Pantyhose and a pair of women’s flats were on the floor beside the couch.

There were prints of mermaids all over the walls, vases filled with plastic flowers, a crucifix.

Ficorelli and the woman came into the dining room with a tray of coffee cups, an urn, and a plate of cheese Danish.

“They’re a day old,” Mary Ellen Fahrenheit said.

“Are you sure about this?” Service asked her.

“To tell the truth, I’m a tad nervous, eh?” She glanced at Ficorelli and smiled. “Charley is basically a good man and we’ve had a pretty good life, but he follows that jerk Colliver. They go all the way back to high school. Colliver gets an idea and Charley does the heavy lifting, know what I mean?”

Service nodded. “You filed for divorce.”

“I can’t go on living like this. If Charley gives up Colliver, I’ll try again. If not, I’m outta here. Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do. He’s been a good provider, but. . . .”

“Did you tell Charley why you wanted to see him today?”

“No,” she said. “Should I have?”

“It’s okay,” Ficorelli said, coming to her assistance.

The woman got up and rubbed her hands together. “I’d better pick up a little.”

Service watched her go into the living room, scoop up the pantyhose and shoes, try to tuck them in front of her to hide them, and disappear down a hallway.

Ficorelli looked at Service. “I know what you’re thinking. She was ready to lose it. I just helped her calm down.”

“A man of high motives,” Service said.

“That cuts, man. I’m tellin’ ya, we got this guy for sure. Him and Colliver.”

“We’ll see,” Service said. When Mary Ellen came back, she was wearing shoes and stockings and a light jacket.