Vigilante Blues

Chapter 1

We'd had a busy morning, which meant we'd had a profitable morning. Mindy and Vandy, my ace baristas, had worked up a serious sweat, pushing coffee, espresso drinks, and fresh-baked pastries to a horde of hungry and thirsty customers. I sat behind the the cash register and rang up sales.

Our espresso drink/brewed coffee/fruit-filled danish rush was regular as clockwork. It began when we opened the doors at 7:00 A.M. and continued until a few minutes before nine—at which point most working folks were at work or on their way to work. After that came the 10:00 A.M. morning break bunch, and that mini-rush usually lasted for half an hour to forty five minutes. It then ran out of steam quickly, and when it did, I usually headed up the stairs to my apartment to read the morning papers.

I had a huge, one-room apartment over my espresso shop because I owned the century-old two-story building that housed both. When I'd purchased the building, I'd concentrated on downstairs remodeling and spent about three months getting the ground floor operation ready for business. Then I concentrated on the second floor, ripping out walls, improving and strengthening the basic structure, and creating my ideal apartment home, a single, two-thousand square-foot room with walls used only to define a large bathroom and two equally spacious walk-in closets.

That morning, my recliner beckoned. Comfy and over-sized, I'd paired it with an end table that was just the right size for a reading lamp, a notepad, and a mug of coffee—which I'd poured downstairs and carried to my nexus of relaxation.

I'd enjoyed a third sip of coffee, read an article about yet another corrupt politician being found out while involved in heterosexual misdeeds, and thought about not answering when my land line phone rang. Still, I got up, walked into the kitchen area, grabbed the handset, looked for caller ID—nothing I recognized—and growled, Yeah.

Don' wanna bother, Mark Simmons said in a weak voice. Need...your hel...

Where are you?

Sain' Fran... cis. Roo... 717.

You're in the hospital, I said. Duh.

Yeah. Be here... for while...

I'm on my way.

I hung up, headed downstairs, and told Mindy, I'll be gone for a bit. Got a friend in the hospital.

We're good, she said. Then I was on my way across the alley and into my four-car garage. At the time, I was down to three vehicles; a metallic red '57 Ford, a black '91 Thunderbird, and a bright yellow 2012 Mustang. I decided to take the Mustang.

Saint Francis Hospital was three miles and several traffic lights distant. I didn't rush, obeyed the speed limit signs, and stopped for red every time. Ten minutes later, I was hunting a parking space in the hospital's multilevel parking deck, while trying not to get impatient with other drivers who were doing the same thing.

All but running to Mark's room, I wondered what had happened to him. He was asleep when I arrived. The only part of him that wasn't under the sheets was his head, and it was bruised purple and black, and in most places, lumpy and swollen.

I had no idea what he was doing in Topeka. He was supposed to be in Arizona. I took a seat, wished for a book or a magazine, and waited for him to wake up. When he did—after about twenty minutes—his eyes appeared vague and unfocused, where they weren't bright red.

What happened? I asked.

Gah jumped. Three of 'em, he slurred. Ne'er saw 'em comin'.

Do you know who they were?

"Nuhh. Too dark. Heard foo' step, and bam. On 'uh groun'."

Why did they beat you up?

Don' know. Kep' callin' me... George.

They thought you were someone else?

Thing' so.

What did they want? I asked.

Din't ask. Jus' kep' poun... din'. His eyes closed and he went back to sleep. After looking at his head and face, I didn't want to see any of the rest of him. It would just make me that much angrier.

A short, chubby nurse wearing green scrubs, white joggers, and a plastic name tag that read B. Insler, R. N. entered the room, pushing a tall cart with a laptop computer on it. She took a look at me and said, Oh!

I guess I wasn't smiling.

She took a breath before asking, Are you friend or family?

Family, I lied. I'd learned the lesson too well. Friends get booted, family can stay. I added, Half-brother.

You don't look a lot like him, she said.

That's because I don't look like a damaged eggplant, I replied. It's hard to tell who he looks like when he's that beat-up.

She nodded. Do you know if he has insurance?

I'm reasonably sure he does. If not, I'll cover his treatment.

Attending to the laptop, she said, And your name is...?

Sandeen.

First or last?

Only.

I see. She didn't.

Have you ever been in The Buzz espresso shop? I asked.

She looked up and smiled. Several times. I like their lattes.

I own it, I told her. So let's get all the facts so that I can be sure he gets the best of care.

I thought I recognized you, she said. I just couldn't remember from where.

I gave answers to her questions, which she promptly entered into her computer. When she was done, she said, You'll still need to go to registration and talk to them about the fine details. And I do hope, for your sake, he does have insurance.

Not a problem if he doesn't. I looked at Mark, who was sound asleep. How's he doing?

You'll have to talk to his doctor about that. She looked around—I guess she was making sure we were alone—and then whispered, Expect good news. His doctor is one of our finest.

I smiled. Thanks.

She left. I sat with Mark for another two hours, and then a medium-sized guy in a weary brown suit entered the room. He wore brown wing-tips, a tired white shirt, a wide, maroon tie that was several years out of style, and a pissed-off expression. I didn't know him, but I knew what he was.

Who are you? he asked, and not nicely.

I got up, extended a hand. Smiled. I'm Sandeen. I'm Mark's friend. I figured it was best not to lie to the cops.

He shook my hand, but not in a friendly way. Detective James Hotchkiss, Topeka Police Department.

Mark's asleep, I said.

He glanced at the bed and then back at me. You say you're his friend. What do you know about this?

Not much. He was awake for a minute or two. He said that three men jumped him, beat him, and kept calling him George.

Who's George?

I shook my head. I have no idea.

We don't like it when one of our retirees gets beat up like this.

I'm not thrilled with it, either.

You say he's your friend? Hotchkiss asked.

For a long time. I thought he was in Arizona, taking care of his business. Last thing I expected was for him to be in Topeka.

What kind of business?

He has a flying service. Takes people for scenic hops around the Grand Canyon and places like that.

Interesting he'd have enough money to start that kind of business on a retiree's income.

It was a question that pissed me off, but I fielded it. He can tell you all about it when he wakes up.

Hotchkiss shrugged. How long did you say you've been friends?

About ten years. We got acquainted because we were both racing SOLO in SCCA events.

He blinked. I have no idea what you're talking about.

Sports cars on closed courses—like at airports or big parking lots. You get a trophy if you're the fastest car in your class around the course.

Okay. Whatever. He acted uninterested, but he didn't stop making notes.

I glanced at my watch. "I gotta go. Gotta get back to my business. Maybe Mark will be awake tomorrow."

What is your business? he asked.

I sell espresso drinks, pastries, and light lunches. The place is called 'The Buzz'.

I've been by it. He turned away as though I bored him.

I headed for the parking deck. As I drove away, I was in the foulest mood I'd endured in a long time. I was also a bit puzzled. Mark didn't belong in Topeka. The last time he and I had talked—some months earlier—he'd gotten almost to the point of boring me, telling me how great his business was and how much he loved it.

So why had he come back? I worried at the conundrum for a while, and then noticed I'd been driving on automatic and was headed north, toward the river, instead of Southwest, toward my store.

It was lunchtime. Seeing Mark in such a state had shut down my appetite—even though I'd missed breakfast—and I knew I needed to eat something or I'd wind up with a case of hypoglycemic shakes. I kept the Mustang pointed in the general direction of the Topeka Boulevard bridge, and decided to treat myself to a busman's holiday.

Chapter 2

Lulu's was an old-fashioned coffee shop that had managed to survive the espresso revolution. Tucked away on a side street a block and a half east of Topeka Boulevard and half a mile north of the Kansas River, it was homey, comfortable, and congenial. The management catered to regulars, treated them nicely, and featured good sandwiches, hot and cold tea, a soft-drink dispenser, and coffee. No espresso.

When I entered, I ordered a home-style club sandwich, a bag of chips, and an iced coffee, which almost threw the counter girl for a loop. After some problems with communication, I told her to fill a large glass with ice and pour hot coffee over it. The result would be cold and slightly diluted coffee. I'd spent time in the Lone Star State. If iced coffee was good enough for Texans, it was good enough for me.

As I left the counter and looked for a place to sit, I heard my name called. Sandeen, Eric Kenton said as he waved. Please join us.

I hadn't seen him because of the sun's glare and deep shadows in the room. I walked to the table and took the vacant seat across from Eric. Mary Hacker sat to his left. I didn't recognize the fellow on his right.

Hi, I said, extending a hand to the guy I didn't know. I'm Sandeen.

And every bit as large as your friends here at the table said you were, the mystery guest replied as he shook my hand. I'm Evan Palmer.

He looked to be somewhere in his mid seventies—but better preserved than Eric. Smooth-skinned, clear-eyed, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, he appeared to be a man who'd lived a lot of his life indoors, as opposed to Eric who'd spent a lot of his life in Arctic cold and Saharan heat. Mary Hacker was somewhere in the middle, not showing her status as a septuagenarian except in her hands, which were thin-skinned and veiny. All of them were dressed for church, but I knew neither Eric nor Mary were religious. Time would tell regarding Evan Palmer.

My lunch arrived. The coffee was still dark as very little of the ice had melted.

Eric tells me that you're a writer, Palmer said in a soft baritone. What do you write about?

People who've gone missing. I took a sip of the coffee. Perfect. Well, almost as good as what I served. When I find a case that interests me, I dig into it. Occasionally, I come up with enough to justify a book.