The Troubleshooters

by Tabaré Alvarez

conclusion

It was 11 pm, and the night held a slight chill. When a breeze blew in, it had enough of a bite that Dutch resolved to make the switch to long-sleeved shirts starting tomorrow.

Dutch went inside and the college girl, Maura, promptly fulfilled her gatekeeper duties and pointed in the direction of the kitchen. She had a thick book open in front of her and had been tapping a pen against the side of her face.

He pantomimed a tip of the hat, crossed his eyes at her until he got a smile, and wove his way through the nearly-empty restaurant — there was one couple left, regulars, and they were already on their coffees — until he reached the kitchen doors. He poked his head inside and called out “Chef” rather loudly. He had considered, and then discarded, first a fly-in-my-soup joke and then an allusion to Ratatouille, but while the couple might be regulars, this was still mixed company.

Mrs. Medina came out, her skin pale, a slight darkness under her eyes. By Dutch’s reckoning, she had been working in the kitchen for twelve hours straight. She squinted her eyes at him. “What kind of day was today?”

He led her to the nearest table and helped her into a chair. “He’s planning a hot-air balloon festival,” Dutch said.

“Oh, good Lord.” She crossed her arms on the table and rested her forehead on them, theatrically. But then she kept her head down there; she was tired.

“He sent you a cappuccino machine.” He waited.

There it was: she lifted up her head. “Really,” he said. “I brought it in the truck. It’s right outside.”

“He does know I don’t own this restaurant,” she said, but she was happy now, her eyes bright and warm, her hands restless.

Dutch emptied his pockets onto the table so she could play with his keys. “Belated payment, he said, for the Ignacio thing.” He found himself whispering; the dining couple was still there.

One of her hands stalked stealthily across the tablecloth toward his key ring. “What about you?”

“Significantly more portable.” He took out some bills from his wallet and waved them a little in the air between them.

Thanks to the Mayor’s intervention, knowledge of Dutch and Mrs. Medina’s participation in the case of Ignacio Smith had been limited to the police. Other information not revealed to the public at large involved the bags of his own hair and fingernail clippings that Ignacio had kept in his apartment.

The scratches were never fully explained, though it did come to light that, six years before, Miss Potter had adopted, for all of one day, a stray cat from the street, whom in a caustic diary entry she referred to as the Tasmanian Devil. With surprising self-awareness, the same entry went on to say that there would be no further feline experiments; a career as a cat lady was not for her, and she would have to look into being the neighborhood witch or the snoop.

Mrs. Medina looked up from her close inspection of his keys. “A quick steak-and-fries?”

“How about I cook you something for a change?” he said.

She waved the notion away. “Please. I don’t know how gynecologists do it. The last thing I want is food right now.”

He felt his eyes bug out a little, but she was focused on the keys. “I actually understood that,” he said. “Well, I also have beer in the truck. That counts as a compromise, right?”

She sniffed. “No one gets to eat? Sure sounds like a compromise. Courtesy of the Mayor as well?”

“Of the Mayor’s staff.” He hurried out and retrieved the longnecks before there could be time to raise objections. On the way back in he left one by Maura’s book; she didn’t look up this time.

He gave Mrs. Medina both their bottles, and she uncapped them with the bottle opener on his key ring.

She took a sip. “If they would shove off already, eh?” She jutted her chin at the regulars, who were lingering over their empty coffee cups. “Dying to smoke here.” Out of nowhere, she smiled at him. “Tell me about the plans with the fishing and the beer and the Gulf.”

Dutch rested his forearms on the table and leaned toward her. “There’s a second job,” he said.

There was his beer bottle and then hers and then her face; she was leaning forward, too. “Another job?”

Dutch nodded, pursing his lips. It was important that he not smile.

to Challenge 354...