The answer takes longer than usual.
Mickey:Seeing Tex this morning made me homesick. I know this is a lot to ask but would you be willing to swing by the bar on your way and grab me a plate of brisket? Tex does it low and slow on the smoker and there’s nothing like it. Tell Sheila it’s for me. She’ll hook you up.
I frown at the screen.Big Tex’s Roadhouse. The building I haven’t set foot in since the night I walked out of it covered in blood. I’m not sure I can go back in there.
This is... a lot to ask. Mickey knows that.
He’s a cop who sees things, and there is no way he doesn’t know that sending me to that bar is asking me to walk back into the place where everything happened. He’s not just asking for the food. But I’m not going to call him on it because maybe he’s right. Maybe the avoidance is eating me the same way the guilt was and the only cure is going. And if he wants something, I’ll go get it for him.
Benji:Preference on side dishes?
Mickey:Whatever Sheila wants to put on there.
I blow out a long breath. Guess it’s settled now that I’ve taken his food order. After I finish up at the house, I drive that way. The lot is full of trucks and a couple of motorcycles. It looks exactly the same as it did that night except the sun is out and there are no classic cars.
I park and turn the engine off. I’m shaky. Not a lot, just a tremor in my fingers that wasn’t there a minute ago. I definitely don’t like this but I might as well get it over with. I step out of the car. The air smells like salt and hickory from the smoker and the sun is warm on my arms. I walk toward the building before I can talk myself out of it.
Inside, the bar is half full with the late afternoon crowd. Classic rock from the speakers, the crack of pool balls in the back. I keep my eyes forward. The hallway to the restrooms is to my right and I can feel it pulling at the edge of my vision but I don’t turn my head.
Tex appears from the kitchen doorway wiping his palms on an apron that has more stains than fabric at this point. He’s taking up the entire doorway.
“Benji,” he says. “I bet you’re here for the brisket.”
“Mickey asked for it by name,” I tell him.
“I know he did. He texted me after I got back from there. He said ‘Benji’s coming by, make sure the brisket is the good stuff.’ The good stuff. As if I have a bad batch somewhere. As if I’m running a two-tier brisket operation where some people get premium brisket and other people get the brisket I keep in an old bucket for my enemies. It’s all the good stuff. That’s the only stuff I make. I’m incapable of making bad brisket. It’s a genetic impossibility. My daddy made good brisket and his daddy made good brisket and the brisket gene has been passed down through the family like a divine mandate. Mickey knows this. He’s eaten my brisket a thousand times. And yet he texts me ‘make sure it’s the good stuff’ like I need the reminder.”
“He’s starving for home cooked meals,” I say.
“Yeah, he’s homesick. He misses this place.” Tex pauses. “You’re keeping him going, taking him food every day. Four hours round trip. That means something, Benji. That means a lot. To all of us. We see what you’re doing and it’s appreciated.”
He says it fast, like he’s trying to get the serious part over with so he can go back to being Tex.
“Now go on and get out of my kitchen before Sheila sees you standing here without food in your mouth. She’ll put you to work. She’ll have you drying glasses and folding napkins and you’ll be here until midnight. Sheila’s got the cooler ready.”
Sheila is behind the bar, towel over her shoulder, pouring a draft with one hand and wiping the bar top with the other. She looks up when I approach and the recognition moves across her face. She doesn’t smile at me. She finishes the draft, delivers it three stools down, throws a towel back over her shoulder and walks to where I’m standing.
The last time this woman looked at me was in the ER waiting room. She looked across those beige chairs at me while I waited for her accusation that didn’t come. She didn’t say a word to me that night.
“Hi, Sheila,” I say.
“Benji.”
“Mickey asked me to pick up some food for him. Tex told me you’ve already got a cooler ready.”
She doesn’t respond right away. “You go there to visit him every day?” she asks.
“Yes. So far.”
Her eyes hold mine. Then she nods, slow and certain. “I guess you really don’t leave, do you?”
“No,” I say. “Guess I don’t.”
“Let me go get the food for you. Sit down. I’ll be a minute.”
She disappears into the kitchen. I sit on a barstool, then quickly stand back up. The crinkle of the vinyl under my legs sent up a flare of recognition that made my pulse jump. I want to get out of here as fast as I can.
Someone appears behind my shoulder. Blonde, slim, quiet.Stormy. He’s carrying a bin of clean glasses. He sets it behind the bar and turns to me with a shy, quick smile that changes his whole face for half a second before it settles back to his focused seriousness.
