“Would you stop worrying about a stroke? That was a fluke. She was twice your age.”
“I should order a salad. I say that every time, don’t I?” He did say it every time. “And then I get a burger. I have the willpower of a sausage.”
Tracy ignored him. Kins used “sausage” to describe just about everything and everyone that bothered him. Lousy driver on the freeway—sausage. A slow cashier at the grocery store—sausage. A lying witness—sausage. He’d told Tracy he’d gotten in the habit as a kid when he’d slipped and said the F-bomb in front of his mother. After a good whacking, she told him to come up with something else. He’d come up with “sausage.”
She looked over the menu again. Kins’s mention of a burger was tempting, but she’d order a salad. At five foot ten, she wasn’t petite. Working out was good for the cardio, but it was getting tougher and tougher each year to keep the weight off. What went in the mouth migrated to the hips and thighs.
Kins slapped his menu down on the tabletop. “Salad. I’m getting a salad.” His cell vibrated. He checked it and set it aside. “Faz and Del are coming down.”
Vic Fazzio and Delmo Castigliano constituted the other half of the Violent Crimes Section’s A Team. The letter was just a designation, but that didn’t keep the four of them from professing to the other three teams that it was a designation of quality.
“Del’s back at work?” Tracy asked.
“Started back tonight. He and Faz were out running down that witness in White Center. Faz wants me to be sure to ask whether they still have the corned beef on rye.” Kins shook his head. “It’s an Irish pub. He’s just being Faz.”
“Did he say how Del is doing?”
Kins played with a pack of sugar, folding the corners. “I talked to him yesterday about it. He said he’s still pretty down. Can’t blame him.”
The previous Saturday, Tracy and Kins had joined Faz at the funeral for Del’s niece. Just seventeen, she’d overdosed on heroin. She’d started on marijuana at fifteen, progressed to prescription drugs, and eventually became hooked on heroin. Del got her into a detox program in Yakima, and when she’d returned home, he’d said she’d turned a corner. Then she’d overdosed and died.
“Faz said she’d overdosed four times. Did you know that?”
“Del told me,” Tracy said.
Kins shook his head. He had three teenage boys. “Four times? It would kill me if one of my kids was taking that shit.”
Liam, the owner, approached their table. He worked tables and behind the bar when it got busy. “You guys must be working the night shift again.”
“It’s just us and prostitutes, Liam,” Kins said. “Only they make a whole lot more money than we do, and they don’t have to report it on their income taxes.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” Liam said. “The city is telling me I have to pay my employees fifteen dollars an hour. One of the busboys asked me to cut his time so he wouldn’t lose government aid. Sometimes I wonder if the city council actually thinks this crap through.” He groaned. “You want something to drink?”
“I’d take the soup special if I wasn’t on duty,” Kins said. A billboard at the entrance advertised the soup special to be whiskey on the rocks.
“I hear you.” Liam looked to the window. “Full moon tonight. The crazies will be coming out. Ordinarily we’re dead on a Monday night.”
Violent Crimes got the crazies every night, like the woman who called claiming she knew who’d killed the singer Kurt Cobain, or the man who said his dead wife was threatening to cut him up and deposit his body around town in suitcases. When Tracy had been single, she’d liked working the night shift, which was from 3:00 p.m. to midnight. At least the crazies were entertaining, and the solitude allowed her to get caught up on paperwork. Since her marriage to Dan, however, Tracy wanted to be home nights.
“Iced tea,” Kins said.
“Put some lemon in mine,” Tracy said.
“I assume you’re waiting for the two gumbas?”
“They’re on their way,” Kins said. “Faz asked me to find out if you had the corned beef.”
“What self-respecting Irish pub wouldn’t have corned beef this close to Saint Patrick’s Day?” Liam crossed himself, kissed his thumb, and departed the table.
Kins glanced past Tracy’s shoulder in the direction of the front door. “Here they come now.”
Tracy turned. Del and Faz entering a restaurant were like two moons eclipsing the sun. Each stood at least six foot four and weighed better than 250 pounds. Each wore a suit, though without the tie. Seattle might be changing, but Faz and Del were not. No tie was dress casual for them.
Del removed his raincoat and hung it on the hook. Tracy thought he looked tired. Bags under his eyes indicated a lack of sleep, and he moved as if doing so was a chore. Faz said Del had been spending nights on his sister’s couch while caring for his twin nine-year-old nephews.
Del slid into the booth beside Kins. Faz slid next to Tracy. He was on Kins like a Labrador on a shot duck. “Did you ask about the corned beef?”
Kins grimaced. “Damn, I forgot, Faz.”
“How could you forget? I just texted you.” He pulled up the text and held up the phone.
Kins shrugged. “I got distracted.”
As Faz swiveled in his seat, searching for Liam, Tracy turned to Del. “How are you doing, Del?”
“Hanging in there,” he said, voice soft.
“Where the hell is Liam?” Faz said, head on a swivel.
Del motioned to Liam, who’d been behind the bar and came over quickly. “Coffee,” Del said. “Black.”
“You got the corn beef?” Faz asked.
Liam grimaced. “Kins ordered the last one, Faz, but we got a Polish sausage with sauerkraut.”
Faz looked wounded. “Polish . . . You’re shitting me.” He looked to Kins. “Is he shitting me?”
Kins and Liam laughed. “What do you take me for, an Italian?” Liam said. “An Irish pub without corned beef this close to Saint Patrick’s Day—that’s a felony.”
“What, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Faz said to Kins. “Don’t do that to me.”
“Anything to drink?” Liam said.
“Coffee,” Faz said. “I’m trying to warm up—cold as my Nets the last ten games.” A New Jersey native, Faz still rooted for his hometown teams.
Tracy ordered a salmon Caesar salad.
“Irish whiskey mac and cheese,” Kins said. He looked at Tracy as he handed back the menu. “Told you I have the willpower of a sausage.”
Liam waited for Del. “Just the coffee,” Del said, which was unlike him. Del loved food as much as Faz.
After Liam departed, Tracy said to Del, “How’s your sister?”
“Not too good. It’s gonna take some time.”
“Just so you know,” Faz said to Tracy, “we’re going after the dealer.”
“We who?” Tracy asked.
“We ‘us,’” Faz said, catching Tracy’s look of concern. “But Del’s not officially involved.”
There was no way Del should be working a homicide involving his niece. “You ran this by Nolasco?” she asked, referring to the Violent Crimes Section captain.