I told Ryan about my conversation with Terry Woolsey, and about the meeting scheduled for the fol owing morning.
“She’s a detective, so I’m sure she’s legit.”
“We’re al sages and saints.”
“I have no idea what she wants.”
“An idea can be a dangerous thing.”
“It’s odd, Ryan.”
“It’s odd.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I know what I’d rather do to you.”
A stomach cartwheel.
“Have you received any more threatening e-mails?”
“No.”
“They stil got stepped-up patrols past your place?”
“Yes. And past Lija’s town house.”
“Good.”
“I’m starting to think Dorton was behind the whole thing.”
“Why?”
“Ricky Don turns up dead, the e-mails stop.”
“Maybe. Maybe someone took Dorton out.”
“Thanks for the reassurance.”
“I want you to be careful.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“You can be a real pain in the ass, Brennan.”
“I work at it.”
“Hooch getting enough attention?”
“We had a nice, long run this afternoon.”
“It was fifty-two degrees in Halifax today.”
“It was ninety-four degrees in Charlotte today.”
“Miss me, Miz Temperance?”
Here we go.
“Some.”
“Admit it, darlin’. This hombre is your dream come true.”
“You’ve stumbled upon my fantasy, Ryan. Men in chaps.”
“Happy trails.”
After disconnecting, I cal ed Katy.
No answer.
I left a message.
Boyd, Birdie, and I watched the last few innings of a Braves-Cubs game. I finished the carrots, Boyd gnawed a rawhide bone, and Birdie lapped at the yogurt. At some point the two of them switched. Atlanta kicked ass.
Dog, cat, and Miz Temperance were down and out by eleven.
27
CHARLOTTE HAS MANY INSTITUTIONS DEVOTED TO THE PRESERVATIONand veneration of beauty. The Mint Museum of Art. Spirit Square. The McGil Rose Garden. Hooters.
The intersection of Morehead and Clarkson does not make that list. Though just a few blocks from the trendy, yuppie ghetto, this sliver of Third Ward has yet to experience a similar rebirth, and highway over-passes, aging warehouses, cracked pavements, and peeling bil boards remain the overriding architectural theme.
No matter. Business booms at the Coffee Cup.
Every morning and noon black and white professionals, government workers, blue-col ar laborers, lawyers, judges, bankers, and realtors are packed shoulder to elbow. It ain’t the ambience. It’s the cookin’—down-home food that wil warm, then eventual y stop your heart.
The Coffee Cup has been owned by a loosely affiliated group of black cooks for decades. Breakfast never changes: eggs, grits, fatback, deep-fried salmon patties, liver mush, and the usual bacon, ham, hot-cakes, and biscuits. At lunch the cooks are a bit more flexible. The day’s menu is posted on two or three blackboards: stew meat, pig’s feet, country steak, ribs, chicken that’s fried, baked, or served with dumplings. Vegetables include col ard greens, pinto beans, cabbage, broccoli casserole, squash and onions, creamed potatoes, and black-eyed peas. At lunch there’s corn bread in addition to biscuits.