Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3)

Pretty Girl Gone (Mac McKenzie #3) Page 51

I flashed on Tapia, but said nothing.

Axelrod was laughing loudly again, or at least he increased the volume on the laugh that seemed never to end. I glanced about. No one was looking at us. I guessed that Axelrod’s patrons were used to his outbursts.

“Jack left the party,” I said.

“Yep.

“Then you and the others left.”

“Yep.”

“Sometime after that, Beth left.”

“I guess.”

“That’s all you know?”

“That’s it.”

“Were you ever questioned by the Chief?”

“Chief Bohlig? No, why would I be?”

Before I could answer, a man appeared just inside Nick’s heavy wooden door. His hair was parted crookedly and in need of shampoo. His complexion looked blotchy under a two-day growth of beard, and while he was clearly underweight, he was as doughy as unbaked bread.

“Nick,” he brayed, suddenly the loudest man in the restaurant. “You no-good sonuvabitch.”

“Hey, Josie, how are ya, man?” Axelrod called out. His voice was still loud and cheerful, but something had changed. There was an edge to it that hadn’t been there before.

“I need a drink,” Bloom announced, scratching first his hands and then his cheeks.

“You look like you’ve already had plenty, partner,” Axelrod said. I agreed. Bloom seemed like a man who had been to hell and back and remembered every step of the journey.

“What’re you, my mother?” Bloom said. “A drink. Rye.”

“How ’bout something to eat first. We’ve got a great special tonight. Jace,” Axelrod called.

A moment later the young woman was standing there with her pencil and pad.

“Good evening, Mr. Bloom,” she said. “What can I get you? The special?”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Bloom chanted. He stopping scratching long enough to wrap an arm around Jace and hug her shoulder. I don’t know why I was annoyed by the gesture, but I was.

“Judith Catherine,” Bloom said. “How’s my sweetheart?”

“Just great,” Jace replied.

“Atta girl.”

“How ’bout that special?” Jace asked.

“If’n that’s the only way I’m gonna get a drink in this dump, yeah, why not?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Bloom. Good to see you again.”

She patted Bloom’s arm and smiled before turning toward the kitchen.

“Hi, Mr. Bloom.” I extended my hand. “I’m McKenzie.”

He looked at my hand as though I had offered him the dirty end of the stick.

“Who the hell is he?” he wanted Axelrod to tell him.

“McKenzie’s been asking about the Seven,” Axelrod explained.

Bloom grinned, but there was nothing friendly about it. Maybe it was the teeth, I told myself. They were a ghastly shade of gray and his gums were bright red.

“Fuck the Seven,” he said. “Where’s the restroom? Hell, I know where the restroom is.”

Bloom spun in the direction of the kitchen and staggered away.

“Charming,” I said.

“Ah, that’s just Josie,” Axelrod said. “He’s all right. It’s just—I told you about Coach and the tournament? Same with Josie. Winning the championship was the highlight of his life. Ever since God’s dealt him nothing but slop.”

“Why would God do that?”

“Who knows why God does half the things He does? I’ll tell ya, He’s sure been good to Jack though, huh?”

I remembered something my Dad used to tell me—“God helps those who help themselves”—but didn’t mention it.

“It’s this place, this town,” Axelrod said. “Josie should live in the Cities, Mankato; live where people don’t know or care that he stole the ball with eight seconds left on the clock and passed it to Jack so Jack could win the game at the buzzer. Only he can’t seem to get away.

“I’ve been told he suffers from what psychologists call dual diagnosis depression, meaning he’s not only clinically depressed, he self-medicates himself with alcohol, which makes it worse. Another guy, he told me Josie suffers from biological unhappiness, whatever that means. I think it’s just that he’s been unable to deal with the terrible fact that his life, his entire existence has been defined by something he did when he was only seventeen years old.”

“What’s he do for a living?” I asked.