Still Going Epic - Chapter 7

“I’ll run down this King Pagursky,” Dad says when we step out of the motel room.

I shudder, feeling like I need a shower or something with the way that Simon-or-whatever-his-name-was was checking me out, licking his lips suggestively as he took our business card. Yuck.

“Sound like nothing, though. It could be Gabriel suffered from the wrong-place-wrong-time syndrome.”

I shake my head. “Imagine getting blown to pieces because the Wi-Fi was down.” I shrug, fully into black humor territory. “A service provider might want to pick up this practice. Don’t complain about your shitty Internet connection, or we’ll blow you up. Quite a good incentive to shut up and take it, don’t you think?”

Dad rolls his eyes and tucks his notebook in his shoulder bag. “Off to Comrade Quacks. I can’t wait for you to meet the owner. Ready to get our ducks wet?”

“Absolutely,” I exclaim with an enthusiasm I don’t really feel—I’d rather go home and cuddle on the couch with Pony and Logan (if he’s home from base, yet)—tugging his shoulder bag off as he goes to the driver’s side. “More billable hours, more people like Hu that we can help. Plus,” I continue with a cheeky smile and a wink, “I really want to ingest a 24-ounce cocktail in under two seconds.”

Dad makes a moue. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Apparently it is, if you’re using a funnel.” I close the door, buckle in, and jiggle my phone under his nose. “Maybe we’ll catch someone doing it. YouTube goes nuts for such videos. You can become an influencer.” I wiggle my eyebrows.

“Nah,” he scoffs, “I’m already one on Instagram, there’s no need for me to branch out.”

It’s only late afternoon, but Comrade Quacks is already full or reveling spring breakers in various stages of intoxication. I’m getting a headache just looking at them, listening to the beat of the music through the windows of Nicole Malloy’s office.

“Were we ever that young?”

Dad looks at me, his eyes sympathetic but mouth too smart for his own good. “Speak for yourself. I’m down here every weekend, raisin’ roofs, makin’ mirth, honky-tonkin’.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Heavy on the honky.” My phone chimes with a text from Logan, so he’s home. Thank God. Then I read the tweet he sent me. From a Penn Epner person who obviously needs a hard beating. “Listen to this tweet from some rando. Can Neptune law enforcement solve the pizza bombing case? Will Chief Langdon be another in a chain of clowns and scoundrels? Remember Mars 1? Fail. Lamb? Corrupt. Dumb. Mars 2? Evidence tampering. Lamb 2? Corrupt. Dumber. Hashtag Sea Sprite Bombing.”

Dad looks at the screen and scoffs. “A pizza guy said that? About me?”

“Pizza guy?”

He nods. “Yeah, Penn Epner is the guy from last night in front of the Sea Sprite. He got shrapnel from the bomb.”

“Not enough shrapnel,” I mutter. Then louder, “Let’s pay him a visit. See if he calls you a clown to your face.” No one has those kinds of balls. And if they do, I’ll break them.

Dad gives me a resigned look. “I’m an old guy with a cane, Veronica. He very well might.”

Not on my watch he won’t, but before I can say that aloud, a voice with a lilting British accent interrupts, “Hello, Mars family.”

“Hi,” we say in unison as I check out the new player in our case.

Nicole Malloy appears to be in her early thirties. She’s slightly taller than me and quite a looker with flawless skin, large, expressive brown eyes, dreadlocks, and a nose ring. Her smile is open and engaging as she shakes my hand in introduction. No need to do that with Dad, as he’d already met her at that nutjob-or-something meeting while I was busy accepting Logan’s proposal and screwing his brains out. She leans her butt on her desk and grins. “You two are legends in this town.”

Dad and I exchange glances, not really knowing what to say. First Maloof, now Nicole. Who are these people talking to?

“Thanks for talking to us,” I tell her.

She shrugs. “Yeah, sure. I mean, I was curious as to why you wanted to talk to me about the Sea Sprite bombing.”

“Well.” I pull today’s paper out of my bag, conveniently folded at the right page showing the photos of the four victims of the bombing. “These people all died in the explosion. With the exception of this guy,” I point, and she leans closer, “the motel owner, everyone else was in your bar the night before the bombing.”

Nicole takes the newspaper, studies the photos.

“Remember any of them?”

She makes a sound of agreement, then points at the first photo in the lineup. Jimmy Hatfield, the law student. “This piss wizard. Yep. I had to 86 him.” She sounds rather pleased about that. Not that I blame her. No one likes piss wizards.

“Why is that?” Apparently Dad doesn’t share my and Nicole’s opinion on piss wizardry.

Nicole straightens a little. “He was forcing a passed-out female’s head down into his lap.”

Dad goggles slightly, rolling onto the balls of his feet with an uncomfortable smile. “And that’s why you punched him?”

Nicole chuckles softly, then deadpans, “No. I punched him because I couldn’t find my Uzi.” She looks at me and smirks.

My own smirk is slow to follow but true. A girl after my own heart.

“So, what do you think about Miss Malloy?” Dad asks me as we start compiling the file on the bombing. “I appreciated her directness, you know. She could’ve demurred about punching Hatfield, but she readily admitted to it. A tad too bloodthirsty for my taste, but appears a straight shooter.”

I stopped typing at his question about my thoughts on Nicole Malloy. Because this wasn’t the first time he asked it after we left the club. The first time was during the car ride back to the office. When he also told me about his thoughts and impressions on the club owner. I swallow heavily and slowly lift my head off the blinking cursor on my computer screen. Maybe I should’ve broached the subject sooner, but I somehow hoped that he’d get better. And if he didn’t, that he’d tell me the truth. But now, with this case, he needs to be in 100 percent in shape.

“Dad?”

He lifts his head with a, “Hmmm.”

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

He thinks a little. “No.”

I catch my lower lip between my teeth, debating whether I want to push him or not. “Okay, is there something you need to tell me?”

He frowns. “Veronica, what is this about?”

“I know you had a doctor’s appointment this morning.”

His frown darkens. “Since when do we snoop in our personal files?”

“Since forever,” I snap. “It’s not like you’re an angel. You had a tracker on me my entire two last years of high school. And—” I can’t believe he got me to lose my cool. I close my eyes, take a slow, deep breath, count to five, and slowly let it out. “Look,” I say more calmly, “it’s too late now, I know about the appointment. What did the doctor say?”

He leans back in his chair, fiddling with his cane. “That I just have to keep taking my meds and going to physio.”

And the other thing? What did the good, overworked doctor say about your memory problems? “That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

My Dad, the straight-up, honest man that has given me life, is lying to me. “Seems that meds and physio aren’t really helping.”

He shrugs. “It takes time.”

“Five years?” I scoff. “Maybe it’s time to switch doctors. Get a better one. One that actually cares.”

He sighs. “Veronica, my insurance won’t cover anything more. At least not a doctor who actually cares. Only money can guarantee that.”

“We have money,” I argue.

“And we need it to continue helping those in the community who aren’t as fortunate as us, Veronica. We’ve talked about this. We take our paychecks for what we need: your rent, monthly costs, the mortgage on my house. I can still use both my legs, I won’t increase my premium or switch doctors at the expense of someone who might need help and not be able to afford us.”

Fighting for the underdog and under-privileged. That is the Mars way.

He gets up with a wince; he’s overtaxed his leg today, and circles the desk to give me a peck on the cheek. “I’m heading home. Lock up, okay?”

I nod and softly bid him good night. It’s only when I hear the outer door close behind him that I lower my face into my hands. I don’t know what to do. Give me a con, an adulterer, a murder, or a dog-napping, and I’m in my element, but this one has me stumped. This is my Dad and I don’t know how to help him. Scratch that. I know how to help him, but he won’t let me. He won’t even tell me.

I need an objective observer, and I need objective advice.

I reach for my phone and then wince as I glance at the clock. It’s too late to call Jane, no matter what she said. But there’s the next best thing waiting for me at home.

I sigh heavily. Back to the communication business.