Chapter Nine
Ah, Pilazzo's! An abandoned gas station until two guys that I grew up with got the bright idea to open a combination bar-pizza parlor-pool hall, it's practically my home-away-from-home. You can still smell a faint odor of gasoline, and when it rains the outside patio turns into a rainbow colored oil slick. It's always chilly in the winter, hot in the summer, and the walls look like they're coated with axle grease.
I love it anyway. I don't know why. I mean, I'm not a barfly or anything like that -- I don't drink much, maybe an occasional beer or glass of wine. Okay, I guess I do know why. Food. We're talking the best pizza this side of Chicago. Overstuffed sub sandwiches. Half-pound ground sirloin burgers on Kaiser rolls. Awesome potato soup. It makes me hungry just thinking about it.
The bonus is that I can pretty much count on knowing ninety percent of the people there at any given time. Plus, the owners let me bartend whenever I need money. What more could I ask for?
Well, I guess it might be nice if everybody in the place didn't always know my business. I probably wouldn't complain if they all loved Ricky Ray a little less, either. I mean, it is a little irritating that they have giant posters of him stuck all over the walls and that the sign out front says 'Pilazzo's: Home of Ricky Ray Riley'. And really, you have to admit, twelve Ricky Ray songs on the jukebox is just plain overkill.
As usual, one was playing – “Hot-Blooded Mama, Gives Me the Chills” -- when Zach and I arrived. The front room was crowded for a Monday night. All ten stools that sit in front of the bar and all the chairs at the three round tables crammed into the tiny room were taken. People stood in little clusters, chattering and laughing. Despite the recent State law banning smoking in restaurants, the air was thick with smoke and noise. Instant headache.
I tapped Zach on the arm. He bent his head down so that he could hear me over the blare.
"I'm going to go see if I can find something for this headache," I said. He nodded and winked at me, causing me to forget what I was going to say next.
The song ended and it was like being caught talking in the middle of church. I looked around. Half the people in the place were staring at us. The rest of them had their heads together, furiously whispering and slyly eyeing us. I glanced at Zach and he shrugged. Someone stuck a quarter in the jukebox and George Teoria’s “I Thought I'd Found Heaven the Day that I Found You” blasted out.
Zach put his mouth close to my ear. Really close. "Ignore them. They've probably heard about you finding Wart's body. You wanna beer?" His lips brushed against my cheek.
I stammered out a yes and nodded. If he kept this stuff up, I was going to be in some serious trouble before the night was over.
"Meet you on the patio." I nodded again and we split up, Zach going for beer, me searching for aspirin. And a little self control.
He was right about everybody knowing about Wart. Bad news travels fast in a place like Glenvar; in a city of twenty thousand you don't really know everybody, but sometimes it sure seems like it. Especially when your name is Marty Sheffield and your Mom just happens to be Miss Popularity.
The word had also gotten out about Fred being taken in for questioning. Every two steps someone stopped me and asked if he was guilty. The rumors were also flying around pretty fast and furious. The one I heard most frequently – jokingly thrown out there by some guys who made a bet about whether or not they could get it to be taken seriously - was that Wart had killed by the CIA because he had found some secret documents proving that the proposed golf course was really going to be an alien landing site.
I finally managed to reach the swinging doors leading into the big kitchen that had been added to the back of the building. I went in there and snagged some otc pain medicine from the manager's desk. Next stop, the patio. Instead of fighting my way past the crowd, I used the door that exits from the kitchen. One of the perks of being a sometimes-employee.
It was a lot quieter out there and not nearly as crowded. Tim sat at a black wrought iron table with a bunch of cops, including Detective Luray. The table was piled up with dirty dishes and empty soda glasses.
"Hey, Marty," Tim said. "You remember Detective Luray? I think you know everybody else."
"Hi, y'all. How's it going?" I asked.
A chorus of 'just fines', 'how are yous', and 'hey theres' greeted me back. I pulled up a wrought iron chair and squeezed in between Tim and the detective.
"They're just grabbing a quick bite to eat before heading back to work," Tim said. He smiled at the detective. "No rest for the weary."
She smiled back and then looked at me. "Tim's the only lucky one in this bunch. He gets to go to bed tonight. The rest of us have a murder to solve. How are you holding up, Miss Sheffield?"
"Fine, thanks. And please, it's Marty."
She stuck out her hand. "Theresa."
I shook her hand and we made small talk for a few minutes. She was new to the area, had only been on the force for six months. I told her how impressed I'd been with her handling of Fred.
"He had me a little worried at first, but once his son calmed him down, he was a perfect gentleman. Very cooperative and helpful."
"Hey, that reminds me," Tim said, "what really happened at that remote? We only heard the official version."
I told them all about it. The laughter started as soon as I mentioned Giselle St. James.
"Marty's best buddy," someone said.
"Ain't that the truth," Tim said. "I think she follows her around, waiting for stuff to happen. How else could you explain how she just happened to be around for the fight Marty and Ricky Ray had? With Rockin’ Robbie, cameraman to the stars, of course."
"Tim, don't," I said. Very calmly, I might add.
Theresa Luray smiled sweetly. "What happened?"
Encouragement. Great. That was all Tim needed.
"Tim." I gave him my best steely-eyed glare. "Don't start on that. You know how I feel about it."
"You see, it's like this," Tim said. Damn him.
"The day that Ricky Ray and Marty were supposed to be getting married, three days after he fed-exed her a copy of “Bye- Bye, Baby” with a note telling her that the wedding was off, they had a huge fight in the parking lot of Pilazzo's."
"Tim, that's enough!"
He ignored me. As usual. "A bunch of us brought her here to try and keep her mind off the canceled wedding. Well, damned if Ricky Ray didn't show up, looking for her. Seems he wanted to get some stuff he'd left over at her apartment. He wanted her to give him Delbert -- that's her cat -- too. Well, Marty lost it. Funniest thing you ever saw.”
I slumped down in the chair and started thinking up ways to get even with him.
"She busted the window out of his Porsche with a rock. Then she saw his guitar. He had the thing buckled in the passenger seat. She grabbed it out, threw it on the ground, jumped in the Porsche -- that idiot had left the keys in the car -- and ran over the guitar. Back and forth she went. About eighteen times. All that was left were little bitty splinters.”
Theresa put her hand over her mouth in a vain attempt to hold the laughter in.
"This wasn't just any guitar, either. It was his special guitar." Tim made little quote marks in the air with his hands when he said 'special'. "Belonged to George Teoria. Ricky's daddy bought it at an auction for him. Paid a damned fortune, too. It was signed by Chet Atkins, George Jones, Waylon Jennings, Willie, and a whole bunch of other Nashville superstars. Ole' Ricky Ray just sat down on the curb and cried. And right smack dab in the middle of the whole thing? Giselle and Robbie, getting the whole thing on tape. Probably her biggest scoop. They aired it over and over again for about a month."
Everybody at the table was just about rolling on the floor they were laughing so hard. Personally, I didn't find it a bit funny. As soon as the cops left to go back to the station, I let Tim have it.
"Damn it, Tim, I hate when you do that to me. I told you not to tell that stupid story anymore. I begged you to stop. Why won't you listen to me?"
>
"Aww, Marty, come on, don't be mad at me. Please?"
I pretended like he was a rock. Mature, Marty. Act mature. I bit my lip and stared at the stone fountain that sits in the middle of the patio.
"Well, fine. Be that way then." He stood up and made like he was leaving.
"Me! You know, sometimes I really hate you. You always turn it around so it looks like I'm being unreasonable. You're so mean!"
"Good grief! I said I'm sorry. Listen, I promise not to tell that story ever again. Okay?" He gave me that look of his. The one that reminds me of a poor little puppy dog.
I could have punched him. "You have to pinkie swear."
He sat back down and stuck his hand out. We hooked pinkies. "I promise," he said, "no more stories, no more fights. Friends forever."
"Friends forever." Just like when we were eight.