Violet rolled her eyes. “On a Sunday?”
“Case notes,” he said, a little more pointedly than he meant to, but deep down, he resented having to explain.
Violet looked down into her lap. “Well, okay,” she sniffed. Then she looked up at Owen. It was plain that she didn’t believe him. “I understand. I know you have some feelings for me you haven’t resolved, and this is uncomfortable for you. You know,” she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You could probably benefit from some therapy yourself.”
Owen scooted his chair back and tipped his head at her. He threw some money on the table for the lunch. “Talk to you later, Violet,” he said. You have absofreakinlutely no idea, you crazy broad, he thought.
Brian “Hubcap” Jankowicz hunkered down and peered through the peephole in his front door. There were two dudes on the porch. One was a big guy with curly black hair, graying at the temples. He had a gray soul patch, and what looked like a day’s worth of beard. His hands were jammed into the pockets of his black leather jacket, which he wore over a plain white T-shirt. He looked decidedly uncomfortable.
The other man was medium height, thin, and well dressed. His light brown hair was short and brushed back on the side, and he had a light scruff of beard on his face. He had a sport jacket over his blue button-down shirt. He looked out of place standing on the porch in the middle of nowhere in a way that seemed familiar to Hubcap. Both men looked a little worse for the wear. The thinner man was carrying a six-pack of Bud Light. They stood, squinting against the morning sun, which reflected off the double row of 1971 Ford LTD wheel covers nailed to the front door. Hubcap figured they were lost. He sure didn’t know who they were, and certainly, no one came here to visit him. Not anymore. Except his mom, and sometimes his sister, Charla. He opened the front door a crack.
“Yeah?” he said.
“You Brian Jankowicz?” The thinner man asked.
No one called him Brian anymore. Not even his mom. “Who wants to know?” he asked, positioning his foot against the door in case he needed extra leverage to close and lock it quick. They weren’t cops for sure; they had the sixer of Bud. Not that he’d done anything wrong, but who wanted to see cops on their porch?
“I’m Marsh. Marshall VanDahmm.” He pointed a thumb at the bigger man. “This is Costa.”
“So?” said Hubcap, wary, but he opened the door a little wider. The Bud was starting to look good. He hadn’t had a beer all day, and it was getting toward noon. He was thirsty.
“We’re here about Violet,” the thin one said.
A sound escaped Hubcap that sounded suspiciously like a dog barking, and the door slammed shut, the windows on either side of it rattling in their frames.
“Wow,” said Marshall, looking toward Costa, who was off the porch like a shot. “Hey, where you going?” he called after him.
“He’s fucking nuts, man,” said Costa. “And here we are, stupid láchanos from the city standing on his porch. He’s probably going to get a gun or a rabid dog in there or something. Let’s go.”
“Stupid what?” Marshall said.
“Láchanos.” Costa said, making his hands in a ball shape. “Cabbage heads.”
Marshall turned and banged his fist on the door again. “Come on, Brian!” He said. “Have a beer with us.”
“You fucking nuts, too?” Costa began walking through the leaf-covered yard to the truck. “I’m outta here.”
“Come on, man!” Marshall said, coming down the stairs. “Coming out here was your idea. Jeez!”
“Not to talk. Just to show you,” Costa turned to the other man, holding a finger out for emphasis. “You wanna end up like that nut? Come on. We’ll go back to town, eat, get on with our lives. Fuck Violet.”
“What did you say?” Hubcap was suddenly in the open doorway. He pointed at Costa with a grimy finger. “You shut up. I know about you. I know how you are. Violet told me all about you!” The young man jerked his arms around in the air, his worn flannel shirt billowing out around his skinny ribs like a sail.
Costa backed away, not taking his eyes off Hubcap. “See,” he said to Marshall. “You ready to go now?”
Marshall had already turned toward Hubcap. He held out his hand. “Hey, Brian,” he said. “Marshall VanDahmm. Violet’s sixth.”
“Huh?” Hubcap looked at Marshall warily. “What do you mean?”
“Sixth husband,” Marshall said. “And Costa, here, is her second.” He put his hand up conspiratorially. “After Dead Winston and him, seems she went after us younger guys.”
“Fuck you,” said Costa.
“Stop it,” Hubcap sputtered. “Stop . . . swearing!”
“Oh, what the fuck?” said Costa.
Hubcap put his hands over his ears. “I said . . . I said stop it!”
“Yeah, don’t rile him up, you crazy Greek,” said Marshall, grinning. Costa raised his middle finger at Marshall.
Hubcap came down the stairs. He was wearing socks that were less than pristine, and no shoes. He had on long thermal underwear that may have once been white under his red flannel shirt, and he sported holey jeans. His teeth looked like they hadn’t been brushed in a coon’s age. And he stank.
Marshall stepped back. “Whew, buddy, he said, waving his hand in front of his nose. “When’s the last time you had a shower?”
Hubcap kept his eyes on Marshall. “My hot water heater doesn’t work,” he said sullenly. He licked at his chapped lips. “So, where is she?” He swallowed hard, his throat making a dry, clicking sound.
“Who? Violet?” Marshall’s eyes were flinty. “Your guess is as good as mine, pal.” He sat the six-pack down on the bottom step, pulled a bottle out of its sleeve, and twisted off the top. He took a long drink of beer. “She left me.” His mood took a sudden downshift. “I don’t know where the hell she is.”
“You were married . . . to her?” Hubcap said, and Marshall nodded. “Can I . . . have one of those?” Brian looked hungrily at the bottles of beer sweating enticingly on the porch steps. Marshall pulled another beer out of the pack, handed it to Hubcap, then held another out to Costa, who came forward reluctantly and took it. The three men stood for a moment, drinking and eyeballing each other.
“She left you?” he said to Marshall, who nodded. He turned to Costa. “You too?”
“I’m over it,” said Costa, waving dismissively and taking a long drink of beer.
“Really?” said Marshall, then mimicking, “‘Oh, I miss the way she smells. She looks like an angel.’”
“Fuck you, you fucked-up son of a bitch,” Costa spat.
“Oh, calm down,” said Marshall.
“Yeah,” said Hubcap. “Calm is real good.”
Costa raised an eyebrow.
“You guys wanna come in?” Hubcap slid the empty back in the pack and grabbed another bottle.
“No,” said Costa. “Yes,” said Marshall, at the very same time.
Tim looked up from the computer he was working on and sighed. He ran a hand through his curly brown hair and pushed his glasses up on his nose. Mom was ringing