Known for its Bloody Marys and chili, the cafe was on the corner. and over the years had been a favorite hangout for cops. So I had been here many times, usually with Marino. It was a true neighborhood bar, and at this hour, tables were still full, smoke thick in the air, the television loudly playing old Howie Long clips on ESPN. Daigo was drying glasses behind the bar when she saw Marino and gave him a toothy grin.
“Now what you doing in here so late?” she said as if it had never happened before. “Where were you earlier when things were popping?”
“So tell me,” Marino said to her, “in the joint that makes the best steak sandwich in town, how’s business been tonight?” He moved closer so others could not hear what he had to say.
Daigo was a wiry black woman, and she was eyeing me as if she had seen me somewhere before. “They were crawling in from everywhere earlier,” she said. “I thought I was going to drop. Can I get something for you and your friend, Captain?”
“Maybe,” he said. “You know the doc here, don’t ya?”
She frowned and then recognition gleamed in her eyes.
“I knew I seen you in here before. With him. You two married yet?” She laughed as if this were the funniest thing she had ever said.
“Listen, Daigo,” Marino went on, .1 we’re wondering if a kid might have come in here today. White male, slender, long dark hair, real nice looking. Would have been wearing a leather jacket, jeans, a sweater, tennis shoes, and a bright red knee brace. About twenty-five years old and driving a new black Mercedes-Benz with a lot of antennas on it.”
Her eyes narrowed and her face got grim as Marino continued to talk, the dish towel limp in her hand. I suspected the police had asked her questions in the past about other unpleasant matters, and I could tell by the set of her mouth that she had no use for lazy, bad people who felt nothing when they ruined decent lives.
“Oh, I know exactly who you mean,” she said.
Her words had the effect of a fired gun. She had our complete attention, both of us startled.
“He came in, I guess it was around five, cause it was still early,” she said. “You know, there were some in here drinking beer just like always. But not too many in for dinner yet. He sat right over there.”
She pointed at an empty table beneath a hanging spider plant all the way in back, where there was a painting of a rooster on the white brick wall. As I stared at the table where Danny had eaten last while in this city because of me, I saw him in my mind. He was alive and helpful with his clean features and shiny long hair, then bloody and muddy on a dark hillside strewn with garbage. My chest hurt, and for a moment, I had to look away. I had to do something else with my eyes.
When I was more composed, I turned to Daigo and said, “He worked for me at the medical examiner’s office. His name was Danny Webster.”
She looked at me a long time, my meaning very clear.
“Uh-oh,” she said in a low voice. “That’s him. Oh sweet Jesus, I can’t believe it. It’s been all over the news, people in here talking about it all night ’cause it’s just down the street.”
“Yes,” I said.
She looked at Marino as if pleading with him. “He was just a boy. Come in here not minding no one, and all he did was eat his sailor sandwich and then someone kills him!
I tell you”-she angrily wiped down the counter–there’s too much meanness. Too damn much! I’m sick of it. You understand me? People just kill like it’s nothing.”
Several diners nearby overheard our conversation, but they continued their own without stares or asides. Marino was in uniform. He clearly was the brass, and that tended to inspire people to mind their own affairs. We waited until Daigo had sufficiently vented her spleen, and we found a table in the quietest corner of the bar. Then she nodded for a waitress to stop by.