"Just a minute," she said. Big Daddy Bruce had brought her drinks and Kurtz's mug of black coffee. Rigby tossed back the gold tequila, drank some beer, and gestured for another shot.
Daddy sighed and went back behind the bar, returning in a minute to refill her tequila, fill an extra shot glass for her, and top off her glass of beer. He also set a plate brimming over with eggs over easy, patty sausages, toast, and hash browns in front of Kurtz. The old man laid down a napkin and silverware next to it. "Don't expect this service every Saturday," said Daddy. "I'm only doing this 'cause you always tip Ruby and drink the cheapest Scotch."
"Thanks," said Kurtz and laid into the food with a will. Suddenly, even with the continuing throb of the headache, he was starving.
Rigby tossed back the second shot glass of tequila, drank some beer, and said, "What the hell happened to you, Joe?"
"What do you
mean?" he said around a mouthful of eggs. "I'm hungry is all."
"No, you dipshit I mean, what happened to you?"
Kurtz ate some hash browns and waited for her to go on. He had no doubt she would.
"I mean," continued Rigby, playing with her tequila glass, "you used to give a shit."
"I still give a shit," said Kurtz, chewing on his toast.
She ignored him. "You were always rough, inside and out, but you used to care about something other than saving your own ass. Even when you were a punk at Father Baker's, you used to get worked up when you thought something wasn't fair or when you saw someone treated like shit."
"Everyone was treated like shit at Father Baker's," said Kurtz. The eggs were good, done just the way he liked them.
She didn't even look at him as she tossed back the third tequila and called to Daddy for another one.
"No more, Rigby," called Daddy from the back room. "You're shitfaced already."
"The fuck I am," said the police detective. "One more or I'll bring the state license people down on your ass. Come on, DaddyI've had a hard night."
"You look it and smell it," said Daddy Bruce, but he poured the final shot glass of tequila, policing up the empty beer mug and extra shot glass as he left.
"She's going to get you killed," said Rigby, enunciating every word with the care taken by someone who's drunk too much booze in too short a time.
"Who?" said Kurtz, although he knew who she meant.
"Little Angeleyes Fuckarino Ferwhoosis is who," said Rigby. "That Mafia bitch."
"You don't know what you're talking about," said Kurtz.
Rigby King snorted. It wasn't a feminine sound, but she didn't smell all that feminine at the moment. "You fucking her, Joe?"
Kurtz felt his jaw set with anger. Normally he'd say nothing to a question like thator say something with his fistsbut this was Rigby King and she was drunk and tired. "I've never touched her," he said, realizing as he spoke that he had touched Angelina, but only to frisk her a couple of times last winter.
Rigby snorted again, but not so explosively this time. She drank the last of the tequila. "Her sister Sophia was a cunt and so is this one," she said. "Word around the precinct house is that you've had both of them."
"Fuck word around the precinct house," said Kurtz. He finished his eggs and went at the last piece of toast.
"Yeah," said Rigby and the syllable sounded tired. "Word around the house this week is that Interpol says a certain Danish guy might be crossing into the States through Canada. Or maybe he already has."
Kurtz looked up. Had he missed something? Were there billboards up with this news? Had it been on the Channel 7 Action News or something? This assassin must have an advance team doing publicity for him.
"Got your attention, huh, Joe? Yeah, why do you think your pal Angelina would call for the Dane?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Kurtz. He sipped the last of his coffee. Big Daddy came by, refilled the coffee mug, set down another mug in front of Rigby, filled it with coffee, and went into the back room again.
"Why do you think, Joe?" repeated Rigby. She sounded suddenly sober.
He looked at her. His eyes gave up nothing.
"What if it isn't your female pal or her new friend Gonzaga who called for this particular European, Joe? Ever think of that?"
He was tempted to ask her what she was talking about, but didn't. Not yet.
"You have any enemies out there who want your scalp, Joe Kurtz? I mean, other than Big Bore Redhawk, of course." She sipped coffee, made a face, and put the mug down. "Funny about Big Bore, isn't it?"
"What do you mean?"
She looked surprised. "Oh, that's right, we haven't told you yet. The Pennsylvania Highway Patrol called us last night with the news that your Indian friend had been found in the woods behind a Howard Johnson's just off I-90 at the Erie exit. One bulletnine millimeterthrough his left temple. The Erie M.E. says that the shooting took place around ten A.M. yesterday. Ten A.M., Joe."
"What about it?"
"By great good coincidence, that's exactly when you had me meet you for that bullshit meeting at Broadway Market," said Rigby, her face flushing. Her brown eyes were angry.