Project Produce
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Synopsis
Release date: March 15, 2021
Publisher: Oliver Heber Books
Print pages: 253
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Project Produce
Kari Lee Harmon
CHAPTER ONE
“Who in the world cares how big a man’s Mr. Winkie is, anyway?” I charged through the front door of Simpson’s Sanctuary, the dive of a motel in Queens where I worked, setting off the rusty bells above my head. Halting, I thought, Oh, Lord, please tell me I didn’t say that out loud. I glanced around and blew out a sigh of relief. The lobby was deserted, except for the front desk attendant, Gloria Martinez. I bit my bottom lip. Maybe she hadn’t heard.
Gloria ceased twirling her long chestnut curls, her bangle bracelets falling silent, and gaped at me with a phone pressed to her ear. “A whaaaaa?”
Oh, yeah, she heard. “A winkie, Gloria. A big ole w-i-n-k-i-e.” I stood there like a blathering, six-foot idiot. No way would I be able to complete this psychology project if I couldn’t even talk about it, but growing up in a small town as an only child of older, Irish Catholic parents left little room for discussion about “that.”
“I heard you, honey, I just can’t believe you call it a ‘winkie.’” She stared at me as though I’d lost a few brain cells between the campus and the motel.
I’d lost something, all right. My nerve. I tucked my shoulder-length hair behind my ears and started to pace. “Actually, it’s a Mr. Winkie, but never mind that. The point is what does size have to do with personality? If you ask me, most men are not very nice.” Since high school, it had taken me twelve years, one heck of a scandal, and several pitchers of Bahama Mamas to figure out that most men couldn’t commit, couldn’t be faithful, couldn’t be trusted in general.
I stopped pacing and looked at her. “I only signed up for this class because people where I come from don’t see shrinks. I thought I’d find my answers about my disastrous love life in a book or a lecture, not through a ridiculous final project.”
Gloria opened her mouth, but no words came out, so she just shrugged. She hadn’t known me all that long, but she was all I had. Poor woman.
“God, I’m a big, old, fat chickenshit,” I said, making another loop around the lobby, thoroughly freaking out now.
“Calm down, Callie, you’re not old or fat, and you don’t look like a shitting chicken to me.” She waved her hand. “Hang on a sec and we’ll talk about this personality stuff, if they ever take me off hold. Though, why you want your pe--”
“Gloria.” I shot her a pleading look.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She sighed. “Why you want your winkie to have a personality is beyond me.”
“I don’t want ... oh, forget it.” As I circled the room again, clumps of January snow fell off my Snow Flurry boots and melted into the fading red carpet. I halted halfway around my third lap and faced Gloria. “Maybe I should check myself into a loony bin. Being crazy would be a blessing right now.”
“Holy cow, honey, you’ve got issues,” Gloria said.
So I’d been told by every commitment-phobic man I’d ever dated. Except for Bob, the one guy I’d thought had been different. He’d been different, all right. A six month, ruined my life, wish-to-God-I’d-never-met kind of different. In fact, he was the reason I’d had to leave my hometown in northern New York.
Note to self: Never trust a zucchini again.
What could I say? I had run the produce department in my parents’ general store back in Cutesville. Over time, it had become less embarrassing for me to refer to men’s anatomy as vegetables. Crazy, I know, but it had worked for me. Still did, I guess, even though you’d think I would’ve moved beyond that now that I was thirty.
“Issues? You don’t know the half of it,” I muttered. “I mean, at least if I were crazy, I wouldn’t look so silly doing what this teacher is making me do, right?”
“Right ... I guess,” Gloria answered, squinting at me.
“I can’t fail again, Gloria, I just can’t. You have to help me!” My voice went up an octave and cracked. I had no idea what I wanted to do in my new life. I just knew I wouldn’t be able to move forward until I resolved the issues of my past. And I was through running. It was time I found my backbone and faced my fears.
Gloria held up a finger and gave me a sympathetic, albeit curious, look then talked into the phone.
I took a calming breath, feeling better. I could do this. I stomped my boots as I hung up my Eskimo parka. My well-intentioned but too-controlling parents had bought me the coat as a Christmas present last year. I never had been able to stand up to them, tell them what I really wanted, so I’d accepted it. Just like I did everything else, even though I couldn’t stand it. After I’d emptied my savings to get here, I couldn’t afford to buy a new one, even if I did look goofy walking around dressed like a musher for an Alaskan sled dog team.
Giving the lobby a closer scrutiny, I grimaced, taking in the seventies shower curtain knockoff wallpaper. I hadn’t expected much after fleeing Cutesville, but this was, um, well ... the place looked like we took on clients by the hour. Bet there were a few bizarre winkie personalities behind these walls. I snorted, but I couldn’t help it. Nobody deserved to work in a place like this. My smile faded.
Hello, Nobody.
Gloria pulled her gum out, twirled it around her finger, and talked at the same time, making me smile for the first time today. God love her. But then I made the mistake of breathing. Stale cigar smoke. Wet dog. Musty curtains. Please, somebody, anybody, gag me with anything that would put me out of my misery. I blew my nose and my eyes watered, making me blink back tears. Gloria hung up the phone, so I walked over to join her as I wiped my eyes.
“Aw, don’t cry, sweetie. We’ll figure this out, I promise.” She patted my hand.
“Oh, I’m not crying. I’m dying. I have to find a way to pull this off.”
She crossed her arms over her silicone double D-cups and leaned back as though she were settling in for a juicy story. “Pull what off, exactly?”
“My final project. I have to research how the size of a man’s Mr. Winkie affects his personality.”
Gloria blinked. “You’re kidding. What kind of class are you taking, anyway?”
I hesitated, because I knew what Gloria would say, but there was no avoiding it. “Sex Therapy,” I said, feeling a surge of heat flood my ears.
“You can’t even say the word, yet you signed up for some sex class?” She laughed long and hard.
Wincing, I spoke through her chuckles. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Going to see a shrink would have been so much easier.
“Lucky you.”
“Yay, lucky me. Any ideas on how I do this?”
“Oh, I get it. Your winkie doesn’t have a personality. You wanna know about its owner’s personality. You had me worried for a while.”
I had her worried?
“Well,” she leaned forward, “you could start by sleeping around. Ya know, have a little fun in the name of science ... with no strings attached, of course, just a few colorful, ribbed, glow-in-the-dark condoms.”
The heat crept from my ears to the rest of my face. “Or not.”
“Just a thought. But if you don’t wanna add a little spice to your life--which you look like you could use, if you ask me--you could just check out his shoes.”
“His shoes?”
“Yeah, his shoes. You know what they say.”
“Apparently, I don’t.”
She huffed out a breath. “That the size of a man’s feet is a good indication about the size of his--”
I held up a hand. “I get it. Except that’s just a myth, and I don’t want to sleep with anyone.”
“Your choice, but turning the table on the opposite sex sounds like a good time to me, chica.”
She had a point. Using a man for a change instead of being the one used had its merits. But in my case, it never worked out that way. “Trust me, sex and I do not get along. Been there, done that, wound up a porn star.”
“Oh, honey, that’s a topic for another day. I can only deal with one problem at a time.” She took out a nail file, groomed her acrylic fingernails, and then brightened. “Can’t you just look it up, or something? There has to be a ton of information on the Internet.”
“I could. And I have. Not a pretty picture. Have you seen the kind of websites a search on ‘you-know-what’ size brings up?” I shuddered. “Besides, my professor insists we interview live subjects for our projects. For me, that means men of different sizes with different issues. Then I have to write a paper on it and present it to the class.”
“So if you don’t sleep with them, how are you gonna know who to interview? You got x-ray vision, or something?”
“I wish. See why I have a problem? Can you imagine the reaction I’ll get if I start asking every man I meet, ‘Gee, what size produce is your Mr. Winkie: a pickle, a cucumber, or a zucchini? And by the way, is Mr. Winkie giving you any problems these days?’” I was a regular furnace right about now, probably hot enough to heat the entire motel.
“A pickle’s produce?” Gloria scrunched up her face.
I fanned my face as I answered her, “Technically, no, but it starts out as a vegetable. And I couldn’t think of any other produce small enough, so a pickle it is.”
“Works for me.” She shrugged.
I blew out a breath and ran a hand through my pin-straight hair, but it fell right back into place. Darn genetics. I shook my head to focus. My hair was the least of my problems. “We all have different sex-related topics to cover, but I swear I got the worst one in the known universe.”
“Why?”
“Well, I sorta got off on the wrong foot with my professor when I told him I didn’t need to do the project, I just needed therapy. He accused me of not taking his course seriously, and then he assigned me a project he thought I wouldn’t be able to pull off. He’s setting me up to fail, so now I have to prove him wrong.”
“Ah, you’ll do fine. Just forget about Professor Butthead. He’s probably a teeny-weenie, anyway.” Propping her elbows on the desk, she looked up at me and asked, “So, whatcha gonna do?”
I wasn’t going to quit, even if it killed me. I sighed, knowing I’d probably gain ten more pounds, because it was going to take a whole lot of macaroni and cheese to get me through this one. “The only thing I can,” I answered. “Put Project Produce into motion and try not to make a fool of myself as I shop for a pickle, a cucumber, and a zucchini.”
“You need any help telling if one’s ripe, just ask.” She winked and then went to the coat closet. After glancing outside, she faced me with a frown. “I gotta go, but I hate to leave you here alone, honey. Simpson makes me so mad I could spit.” She stomped her red stiletto and conducted an imaginary orchestra while she ranted. “I mean, hasn’t he seen the news lately, or what? We don’t have any stinkin’ security. No video camera. No nothin’. He should at least have two of us working, but he’s too damn cheap for that.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. Not that I’d had time to watch the news. And not that I’d cared to, after seeing my own face plastered on the local channel back home more times than I could count. Then there was the newspaper. There had been so many inaccuracies I’d lost faith in all journalists, so what was the point?
Gloria looked me over. “Honey, your country-fresh face and blond hair are gonna land you in trouble. I’m leavin’ my pepper spray under the counter in case any pervy types come in.”
“Thanks, now stop worrying.” I tipped my lips up in a half-smile.
Gloria in her black leather micro-mini was more in danger of landing in ‘trouble’ than I would ever be. I had always been the simple “Average Jane” type, taller than most of the men I’d met. It wasn’t like I thought I was the ugly duckling, but I sure as heck hadn’t blossomed into a swan. Men didn’t flock to me the way they flocked to women like Gloria. Or at least they hadn’t before the scandal.
“They’ll love your song tonight,” I said, needing to get my mind off that. I secretly wished I had a good voice, but everyone had always told me I couldn’t sing to save my life.
“You really think so?” Gloria squealed, slipping on her black leather jacket and red silk scarf. At my nod, she snapped her spine straight and dived into another symphony. “You are so right. I’m good, dammit. Gonna be a big star someday.” She sailed out the door, a string of Spanish trailing in her wake as she swung her hips in a way that could make a man go cross-eyed.
I leaned against the window and watched through the dirty glass with a smile of amusement that faded fast. The neon sign of the Triple X video store across the street blinked against the harsh glare of the graffiti-laden streetlights, and I could hear the sound of an ambulance siren wailing in the distance. I felt so out of my element, but I needed a place like this: a place where nobody knew me, a place where gossip didn’t follow me every step I took.
A place where nobody had ever heard of “Callie Conquers Cutesville.”
Working in this dump wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind, but I’d spent my first night in town here, and that’s where I’d met Gloria. She’d gotten me a job and given me a place to stay. It was a start, so how could I complain?
My temples began to throb from the poor lighting. I wandered behind the front desk, propped my chin on the palm of my hand, and then glanced at the clock on the wall. Midnight, and not a soul in sight. Good. I could use a nice, quiet evening. And maybe I would even come up with a plan to find my subjects for this absurd project.
I pulled out a piece of water-stained hotel paper and started to jot down ideas when the broken bell over the front door clanged out a half-hearted welcome. A man in a Trench coat burst into the lobby, and my pulse kicked into overdrive. So much for a quiet evening.
A scruffy brown beard and weathered hat hid the man’s features, but judging from the look of him, he had to be here to see Simpson. Unsavory characters had been coming and going all week, and this guy had ‘unsavory’ written all over him.
I sat up straight and tried to quiet my pounding heart by taking a deep breath and asking, “How may I help you, sir?” I felt around beneath the desk for the pepper spray. If this guy didn’t qualify as a “pervy type,” then no one did.
The man spoke in a hushed voice. “Let me show you.”
Whipping the can of pepper spray out in front of me, I said, “Back off.”
The guy looked at the can and hitched a shoulder as he took a step toward me.
What on earth? I glanced at my shaking hand and ... and nearly dropped Gloria’s flipping deodorant. “Really, I would back off. Way off. I smell bad. Horrible, in fact.”
He just stared at me, his brows narrowing. Okay, if I couldn’t use the deodorant as a weapon, I had to stall him until I could think of something else. I gritted my teeth and proceeded to spray my non-smelly pits, then I slipped the useless can beneath the counter and tried not to freak out.
“So, would you like a double bed or a queen?” I perused the ledger to see what was available, hoping the guy would just take a room and leave me alone.
“I’m more the king-size kind of guy. Can’t you tell?”
I gawked at the little man. King-size? Maybe in his dreams. “Sorry, sir. We’re fresh out.” Men. I wanted to believe there were some good ones left, but time and again they proved me wrong. I had a feeling they were all the same.
“I don’t need a room.”
“Okay.” I watched his stubby tongue moisten his dry, cracked lips and tried not to vomit. This was so not what I needed right now. “Well, then, how else can I help you, sir?”
His eyes were glazed, and the excitement emanating from them sent shivers up my spine. I stood and racked my brain for the best way to handle the situation. Just because I was a fresh-faced blonde from a small town, people tended to think I was an airhead. That usually made me angry, but maybe it could work in my favor right now.
He didn’t answer but panted like a dog.
Eew!
Our eyes met and he tugged his gloves on tighter then slid his hands in his pockets. I didn’t want to, in fact, I tried like heck not to, but the devil in me made me look. My whole body jerked, and I gasped at the tent poking out the front of his Trench coat, his hands fiddling beneath the fabric. Either he had a bad case of jock itch, or there was some serious pocket pool being played. Judging by the sick smile on his face, I was betting on the latter.
My skin crawled and fear shot through me, followed by a layer of anger. I’d gone through enough to escape my past and make a new life for myself, thank you very much. No way would I let some “flasher wannabe” ruin things for me.
Flasher Freak took a step toward the desk, so I put the small-town, dumb-blonde plan into action. “Listen, mister, we have very little cash in the till after dark. You aren’t going to get much for your trouble.” I emptied the cash register into a trash bag, stalling. I knew he wasn’t a robber, but I had to do something to take his mind off any other notions he might be entertaining.
“Money?” he sputtered, then took another step toward me. “Let me show you what I really want.”
Oh, I had a pretty good idea what he really wanted, but I had no desire to check out his cue stick. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and told myself I could handle this. “Ahhh, you’re more into jewelry. I should’ve known with the king-size bed and all. Gotta go for the big guns, right? Sorry to tell you, but you hit up the wrong hotel if you wanted jewels.”
His forehead wrinkled and he paused, then he started to round the desk. I blocked his path, my heart in my throat. His eyebrows shot up, but he recovered and reached for me. Using the element of surprise, I functioned solely on adrenaline as I tossed the bag at his chest. He snatched it out of reflex, stumbling back a step. While his hands were occupied, I commandeered his elbow, towering over him.
He looked dazed as I maneuvered him around while I talked, laying on a thick Ellie-May-takes-on-New-York accent, and striving to keep my voice calm. “Whoa there, Mister. I can be kind of unsettling, I know. But don’t you worry none, you’ll get your bearings in a jiffy.” I reached for the door, and he snapped out of it like he’d just now caught on to my game plan. I had to hurry. “Have a nice day, but don’t ya come back now, ya hear?”
He narrowed his eyes and lunged for me, but I ducked then kicked him hard. He stumbled out the door and I turned the lock, my heart hammering through my chest. When I realized I was safe, I wilted in relief, and a sense of accomplishment settled in. I had faced my fear and stood up for myself for the first time since I could remember, and it felt fantastic.
Dumb blonde, my behind.
“Hey, wait a minute ... I was supposed to ... but you wouldn’t let me. What the hell just happened here?”
I smiled through the window. Couldn’t help it. “I’m confident you’ll figure it out soon enough. You really should cover your legs this time of year, ya know. And wear some socks. You’re liable to catch pneumonia.”
His mouth dropped open, and he looked down at his bare, hairy legs then back up at me like I was from outer space. He wasn’t too far off. My hometown wasn’t even on the map.
“Go on, now, shoo. I’ve got work to do.” I strode over to the desk, picked up the phone, and dialed the police.
He stood still, staring dumbstruck through the glass, so I raised my voice. “Better yet, stay there. I’m sure the police will appreciate you making their job easier.”
Flasher Freak blasted me with an evil little smile then opened his coat and did a little dance, giving me a full view of his wiggling package. I watched him bolt down the street. His combat boots smacking the pavement and Trench coat flapping in the frigid winter breeze left me with one insane thought hammering through my tired, overworked brain.
“Darn it, there goes my pickle!”
***
Note to self: Pickles are a strange breed.
Back on my perch, listening to the hum of the fluorescent lights above, I tried to put Flasher Freak’s little peep show out of my mind. Glancing up, I looked out the window. For a moment, I thought I was imagining things, but then I saw something move again from the edge of my vision. A shadow peeked around the corner through the window and swayed from side to side. A streak of silver flashed. The outside light reflected off the barrel of a gun, then the gunman crouched down and crept toward the front door of the motel. I watched in fascination, until it hit me.
Flasher Freak had come back, and he had a gun.
This couldn’t happen twice, could it? My mind raced, contemplating how to handle this latest development. After I’d hung up with the police, I’d unlocked the door in case any other psychos wanted to rent a room at this high-rise version of the Bates Motel. And I honestly hadn’t thought the flasher would be stupid enough to return when I had a positive I.D. on him.
Okay, so I made a mistake. Huge surprise there. I surged to my feet and grabbed the phone then tried to reach the door first. Too late. The door creaked open, and a gun barrel appeared. I froze. Trapped.
A man poked his head in the door and looked side-to-side as he scanned the room. Ho, baby. My stomach hit my throat and then plummeted to the floor. I exhaled a huge puff of air.
He sure as heck wasn’t Flasher Freak.
Flasher Freak didn’t have thick dark hair. Although I couldn’t be sure how thick, since this guy had pulled it back in a sleek, black ponytail. But the slight curls flowing down his neck said soft and full, and a silky-looking goatee circled the sexiest set of lips I’d ever seen. I didn’t even want to think about the muscled neck sporting a gold chain, which could only mean firm biceps to match. And the small gold hoop that shone in the light at his ear? In a word, yummy.
God, why did I have to be such a sucker for bad boys? Bad boys equaled trouble. Men, in general, equaled trouble. Something I didn’t need any more of. Then I blinked at the pair of mirrored sunglasses shielding his eyes. Sunglasses? At night? I shook my head. “Dangerous” came to mind. Dangerous and ... delicious. I swallowed, terrified, but all I could think about was playing “pocket pool” with Hot Britches.
Gloria was right. I had serious issues.
He seemed to hesitate when he looked at me, then he reached in his pocket. I held my breath, but he came up empty-handed and cursed. “Detective Cabrizzi, ma’am,” he whispered. “Is the suspect still here?”
Detective? He didn’t look anything like the Detectives I’d met back home. Not that you could compare small-town USA to Queens. Still, where was his badge? I needed proof.
“Not anymore,” I whispered back, “he went that way.” I pointed down the road, hoping he’d look and then leave. “Cops are on their way,” I added. Bad guys didn’t usually like hanging around good guys. At least in the movies I’d seen, they didn’t. I clenched the phone in my hands, fumbling for the numbers. This guy, hot or not, had a gun pointed in my general direction.
He frowned at me. “I’m gonna check the place out.”
He still had that darn gun raised as he scouted around the room. “Uh, okay. I’ll just stand here, I guess.”
He looked at me, but I couldn’t tell what was going on beneath those darn sunglasses. “You do that,” he said, then continued to move around the room, opening doors and checking closets.
“The suspect appears to be long gone,” Hot Britches mused, his six-foot-two inch frame stopping right in front of me. Two whole inches taller than me. That thought shot straight to my libido. He looked like he’d poured his muscular body into a pair of faded Levi jeans with holes in the knees. Fine black hairs curled enticingly in the deep V of his light blue T-shirt, and a black leather jacket set off the sexy ensemble.
Eight ball, corner pocket.
Stop that, you wacko.
I yanked my eyes back up, my mouth going dry. I had never seen a man that gorgeous in my life. “Long gone. Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Good Lord, I really had gone crazy. Time to figure out a plan to get rid of the bad boy, fast.
I risked another peek at the impressive bulge cradled by his revealing jeans, and my eyes nearly crossed. Hot Britches was no pickle, I’d bet the last of my savings on it. My gaze dropped lower, and my mouth fell open. I stood there like an imbecile, gawking at what had to be size twelve or thirteen boots. Holy Mother of God, I had no idea they made them that big. And by ‘them,’ I meant his feet, not his...
“I’ll need to ask you a few questions, ma’am.” Hot Britches slid his gun into the shoulder holster under his jacket. He set a trash bag on the floor by his boots and pulled off his gloves.
My brain said he had to be a cop. He acted like a cop, but I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t trust my judgment when it came to men, and that was the same trash bag I’d thrown at Flasher Freak. He must’ve dropped it outside, making easy pickings for this guy, so why come inside? Unless he wanted a little something more. I moaned.
The man snapped his head in my direction. “Something wrong, ma’am?”
“Wrong? What could possibly be wrong?” A shiver raced down my spine. I was stunned and a little disturbed to realize it wasn’t entirely generated from fear. That settled it. I’d lost my mind completely. I’d left scandal behind with my old life, only to invite craziness into my new one. I snorted in disgust at myself and started choking.
“What is it? Do you see something?” He spun around on the balls of his massive snakeskin boots and drew his weapon at a lightning-quick speed.
This was my chance to act. Trust me, I didn’t hesitate. “Y-Yes. I saw a man outside the window.”
“You’re sure?”
I nodded so fast my head hurt.
He shoved me behind him. “Get down while I check it out.”
I flopped onto the floor, until Hot Britches stepped out on the sidewalk and searched the street. Springing to my feet, I sped to the door like my life depended on it--my sanity sure as heck did--then I turned the lock.
Click!
He whirled around. “What are you doing?”
“I called the cops,” I said with a shaky breath.
“I know.” He just stared at me.
“They’re on their way. Any second now, they’ll be barreling through this door.” I looked out, hoping to see a patrol car, a person, anything. Nothing but a vintage car. What crazy person left that there? It was a wonder no-one had stolen it yet. My knees knocked and I prayed the glass was bulletproof, but I had to stay calm. Losing my head would probably get me killed.
His mouth fell open, and he hesitated a beat before he responded, “Look-it, lady, I am the police.”
I folded my arms and arched a brow. Maybe. But I still couldn’t be sure. “Yeah, then where’s your badge?”
“These are my street clothes. I’ve been undercover and came straight here when I heard the call. Forgot my badge at the office. Now, do us both a favor and open up.”
I could hear police sirens off in the distance, and obviously, so could he. His mouth formed a hard line, making it clear he did not want to be caught in this predicament. My gut told me he wouldn’t hurt me, but then again, my gut stunk when it came to men. No way would I let this guy in.
“You really expect me to believe you’re the police without proof?” I surveyed every inch of him and sighed in regret. “Of course you are. You can be anything you want to be, but please, be it somewhere else. Hurry up and shoo, now.” I swept my hand at him, then repeated, “Shoo, shoo. I’d hate to see you get into trouble.” The funny thing was I meant it. I’d just narrowly escaped being assaulted, yet here I was trying to help him get away. I frowned.
His shoulders shook as though he were trying to hold back a laugh, probably at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. Then his smile faded and he stared at me, probably trying to figure me out.
Good luck, pal. I’ve been trying to figure me out for thirty years, and I’m still not there yet.
His sunglasses made it impossible to know what he was looking at. I squirmed. I’d always hated being the center of attention. The only reason I’d worked in my parents’ general store instead of going to college was because I’d thought they needed me. Twelve years wasted for being wrong. It still hurt to admit it, but they only needed me when everything went according to “their” plan.
I cleared my throat and pulled my shirt away from my neck, suddenly warm. “Well, you can’t say I didn’t give you a chance to escape. Why don’t I call the police again? I’m sure they can clear this up.”
He seemed to shake himself back into consciousness. “No. Don’t do that. C’mon, let me in, and I’ll explain.”
I ignored him and dialed the police as I watched him pinch the bridge of his nose and blow out a breath. He walked to the street and kicked a big whitewall tire, then leaned against the hood of the classic red Mustang. So he was the crazy person with the vintage car. Kind of a noticeable car for a crook. Maybe he moonlighted as a car thief.
The patrol officer arrived on the scene and joined Hot Britches while I verified with the man on the phone that Detective Dylan Cabrizzi was the real deal. After I hung up, I poked my head out the door. “Come on in. When I described you,” I jerked my chin in the Detective’s direction, “your captain assured me you’re not a criminal.”
The patrol officer coughed into his fist.
“Oh, and he said he wanted to speak with you first thing in the morning. Something about standard procedure.”
“Great. Can we get on with this? I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure. I have some questions, too.” I led the way into the lobby.
“Peterson, stand watch.”
“Okay. But, um,” when Peterson paused, I glanced over my shoulder and watched him grin wide, “maybe you should get your badge, Cabrizzi. We wouldn’t want the poor victim forgetting you’re not a hoodlum.” He slapped Dylan on the shoulder.
“And maybe you should can it, Peterson. We wouldn’t want you forgetting I outrank you.” Dylan returned the slap to Peterson’s back, and Peterson’s smile slipped a little.
“No problem.”
“Good.” Dylan entered the lobby and closed the door.
Yes, indeed, it had been one very long day, but it wasn’t over yet. In fact, things were starting to look up. Detective Hot Britches wasn’t a loser after all, not that I had any intention of getting involved with him. He was a man, and in my experience, that was just as bad. Nope, he wasn’t the perfect guy for me. No man was.
But he just might be my perfect zucchini.
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