Chapter 7
Suds
Where the fuck is Sam?
From DC to New York, I dart in an out of traffic, channeling my inner Mario Andretti. Now, as I pace our apartment, a hundred different or-else scenarios play in my mind’s eye. A cat who’s used up her first nine lives, my wife still believes she has plenty more.
To pass the time, I call my stand-in. “How’s the client behaving?”
Wheels chuckles. “She wasn’t happy you left without fucking her goodbye. Is Sam with you?”
“No, and she hasn’t picked up her phone. Thanks for covering.” Leaning over, I scratch Catrina’s head as she entwines around my ankles.
“No problem. Paid time off is vastly over-rated. Besides, I appreciate your trust. It means a lot.”
For once, I got it right and Slate was wrong. He thought Wheels preferred running ops from behind a desk. Once a soldier, always a soldier.
“You may need a new handle, now the chair is gone.”
“Nah, I’m thinking of starting a career as a get-away driver. It’d be a shame to waste a good nickname.”
“True, true. Let me know how it goes. I might need to join you.”
“No way, dude. With a name like Suds, you’ll end up as a laundromat attendant or, at best, a bartender. Got to go. Talk soon.”
“Bye. Call me if there’s any sign of trouble.”
About an hour later, female footsteps climb the back steps and I rush to the door. A few seconds more and my sweet wife wraps her arms around me. My lips search her face until they connect with hers and I kiss the crap out of her. Thank God she’s home. I shouldn’t’ve been so damn worried, but this case has my innards tied in knots.
She cups my cheeks with her gloved hands. “Not that I’m complaining, but why’re you here?”
“Dunno. I needed to come home. Where the hell were you?” I hold her close, not knowing whether to shout at her or fuck her until she can’t move.
She squeezes out of my grasp. “Give me a moment. I need to pee. And get me a beer, would you? Wait, strike that. A fizzy water.”
Wondering if she’s pregnant again, I pour her a glass of water, and open the last can for myself. “Are you on the wagon?”
When she exits the bathroom, she sighs heavily, and plops on the couch. “Did you know that phrase was coined at the turn of the last century during prohibition? Basically, you’re asking, am I going to drink from the water cart, rather than imbibe. While the result is the same, the reasoning is completely different. I have no ideological problem drinking. It’s the caloric intake stopping me.”
Ah, so no bun in the oven.I’m both relieved and surprisingly disappointed. “That was a mighty fine ramble.”
“Thanks. I’ve been practicing.” Her sneakers fall to the floor, and she stares up at our tin ceiling. “Shit, I was so close to finding the girl.”
“What happened?”
“She set up a meet with her mom but must’ve gotten spooked. By the time I drove into the city, she was gone. I left our card and her picture with all the businesses nearby. Hopefully, someone will spot her but I’m not holding my breath. A lot of people wanted to knowwhyshe ran away, insinuating maybe she has a good reason to hide. Who knows? Maybe she does?”
She takes a sip of water, walks to the kitchen, and opens the fridge. Staring for almost a minute, she holds up a plastic bag containing a ready-made salad. “Sorry, I would’ve gotten more if I knew you were going to be here.”
No longer worried, my stomach growls, but for steak and potatoes. “Do I look like I grew a fuzzy tail and bunny ears?”
“Turn around.” She grins as I rotate, then gropes my ass. “Nope. All good. You can nuke a burger, if you like.”
I open the fridge and search the mostly empty shelves. “Babe, there’s no bread or buns.”
“D. I. E. T. It’s short for: Didn’t intend to eat tonight.”
I pull her into my arms, not liking her skipping meals. “Honey, I love you no matter what you weigh.”
