Sixth Grave on the Edge(16)

“I thought you had to go to work.”

He bit down again before checking his watch. “I mean it. Nothing until we can come up with a better plan. Promise me.”

“I promise. Geez.” He was so untrusting.

* * *

First things first. I hunted down my phone and dialed Uncle Bob.

“Hey, pumpkin,” he said, clearly in a good mood.

I was about to change that. “I need you to come over tonight.”

“Sure thing. What’s up?”

“Dad.”

“He’s there?” he asked, seeming surprised.

“No, but Denise came to see me. She is under the impression Dad isn’t going on a trip into the wild blue yonder. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Not really.” He paused a long moment, then added, “But I’ve suspected.”

“You’ve suspected what?” I asked in alarm. “What’s going on?”

“I have a meeting in two. We’ll talk about it when I get there. What time do you want me over?”

While I wanted him over right then and there—this was my dad we were talking about—I had to consider the plan Cookie and I—mostly I—had dreamed up to get Ubie to ask her out. Honestly, it was like pulling teeth with this guy. “Around six?” That should give Cookie enough time to get ready and her date enough time to get over from the West Side. He had to work until five, so … “Yeah, six will work.”

“That’ll work for me, too. Do you want dinner? I can pick something up.”

Though I should have felt at least a twinge of guilt—I was setting him up, after all—I couldn’t quite manage it. The setup, or as I liked to call it, the Get Cookie Laid Plan, was a necessary evil. Uncle Bob was usually so confident, so straightforward, but throw Cookie into the mix, and he became a spineless wiener. Not that wieners had spines to begin with, but really. It was Cookie. Our Cookie! What was she going to do? Bite him?

Okay, that was a strong possibility, but that’d come after the fruits of our endeavor had been delivered. Cookie could be sassy like that.

“Sweet,” I said, astounded at my acting skills. I should’ve gone to Hollywood when I had the chance, but when that old man offered to take me that one time at an abandoned gas station in the middle of nowhere, I wasn’t sure I could trust him. Mostly because he had rope, duct tape, and lots of condoms in his backseat. Still, I’ll never know what could have come of it. How far I could have risen. C’est la vie. “I love it when you buy dinner. How about Italian from that really expensive place that I never go to because it’s too expensive?”

He chuckled. “Can do. Would you just like me to order the most expensive thing on the menu?”

“Duh. See ya then.” Right before I hung up, I said, “And don’t be late!”

“Please. It’s Robert Davidson you’re talking to.”

Who was Robert again? Oh, right. That always threw me. “Fine, Robert, just don’t be late.”

“I’ll try.”

I hung up and realized Mr. Coffee was ready for me. A sharp thrill ran up my spine with that knowledge. It was weird. I hurried over to him, gave him a saucy wink, then poured a cup of joe, dumping all kinds of artificial thises and thats in with him, wondering why he was called Joe in the first place.

Then I turned and stared at my walls, realizing I suddenly had nothing to do. Actually, I did. I could mull over ad nauseum the fact that there was a demon out there feeding on the souls of the living. Or I could ponder the fact that cancer was a stone-cold bitch who needed to die a slow and painful death, over and over for all eternity. Or I could think about the fact that Reyes had a human brother. A biological one. But none of those options appealed to me. Since Reyes had thwarted my plans to scope out the Dealer Mr. Joyce had described to me, I was at a standstill. In my apartment. With absolutely nothing to do! It was weird.

I supposed I could stare at Mr. Wong, my apartment mate. He’d actually lived there first, hovering with his nose in one corner of my living room when I’d first scoped out the place, but I’d loved the apartment. No, I’d loved the building. It seemed to lure me inside. To woo me with its old-world architecture and cultured lines. Either that or I’d had one too many margaritas that day.

And while I talked to Mr. Wong all the time, I’d never really tried to communicate with him. To get the lowdown on his story, his life. Maybe I didn’t want to. I often did my best to avoid the more painful aspects of life, even though it didn’t always help; witness my physical and emotional breakdown with Mr. Joyce in my office only an hour earlier.