Hero Stalker

Part Twenty-Three

If there was one thing in life I had realistic expectations for, it was relationships. I'd dated Jake Mulberg on-and-off since my junior year of high school knowing it'd never go anywhere, unless you counted the week we'd spent in North Carolina after graduation, with ten friends and two bottles of vodka. So if Dan didn't throw up on my dress or leave me stranded at a gas station, I'd say yes to a second date. It wasn't like men were waiting in line to get with me.

"You look very pretty today." Dan opened the door of his beat-up red Toyota pick-up for me. I'd stolen one of Vicky's nice sundresses, since all my date-appropriate clothes were in my hamper. It was yellow with a print of green vines. More importantly, it had a conservative-enough neckline and hem to completely cover the black leotard underneath. I'd left behind the matching hat and paired the dress with my brown sandals and my new purse.

Dan wore khaki shorts and a tee-shirt from the Police Week 5k.

"It's great to see you again!" I said, and climbed up into his truck before Valerie could come outside and look. Far as she knew, I needed a root canal.

"Want to get something to eat before heading out?" he asked. "Long drive to the Speedway."

"Can we stop at Marsha's?" They squeezed their lemonade fresh every hour and didn't skimp on the sugar. Also, Annabelle's shift started at two and some petty part of me wanted to show him off.

"Sure. Where's that?"

 "I'll show you. Trust me, it's worth it."

He didn't even blink as he pulled off I.13 onto Circle Street, as more than one of my college friends did when they entered Routaille. That was a good sign. I guided him into the hidden parking lot concealed by the café's sunflower garden. Two teenage boys in Marsha's tee-shirts dropped their cigarettes and ran back through the employees-only door as we pulled in.

"You sure we won't get towed?" Dan asked me.

"Don't worry. They can't fit tow trucks back here."

As we climbed out of the truck, I noticed what might have sent the boys running: the Bayton Police Department bumper stickers and the gun locker bolted in the truck bed. NRA stickers covered the locker. Four different padlocks held it shut.

"What's that for?" I asked, trying to keep an accusatory note from my voice.

"It's not all guns. Some work gear." He shrugged. "I got a dangerous job."

That much was true; PCD officers stood on the front line of psi-crime just as often as Centurions did. Gun nut. I'd put that down in the minus column for now. The PCD did an important, often violent, job, and someone who sprouted lethal weapons from her fingertips probably shouldn't judge.

I lead him in the front door and we joined the ever-present line. Marsha's smelled like mint and lemons. I'd always thought heaven would smell just like that. Sunlight streamed through the handmade yellow curtains with the red floral patterns, illuminating the warm orange wood furnishings. A bell rang every time Annabelle pushed a cup across the counter.

"Where do you live, Dan?"

"Carr Street. Up in The Vineyard. Born and raised there."

"You have your own place?"

"Got one last year, after I made detective. I'd been living with some friends from the police academy before that, but the place kept getting flies. So I said fuck it and moved."

He values cleanliness. Another good sign.

"Where do you live?" he asked me.

"Down at the south end of Routaille. Near the beach." It was more of a brackish mess where industrial debris washed up. Mom had never let us swim there. "With my family." Admitting the last bit was more than a little embarrassing.

Dan didn't seem to care. "Did you go to Shipwright High?"

"Class of '10." I stepped up to the counter and ordered my lemonade. "Were you at Carson?"

"Class of '06. Best damn defensive lineman they've ever had. I still hold the record for most sacks in a season." He winked at me and turned to the guy behind the counter. "One small lemonade, please."

"Sure, the best that Carson ever had," I said. The Carson-Shipwright rivalry dated back to the forties. More people attended their football games than their graduation ceremonies.

"A Carson boy?" Annabelle muttered as she rang us up on the register. She'd cared a great deal about sports. "Branching out, are we?"

I swallowed. "Dan, this is Annabelle Truman, my best friend. Annabelle, this is Dan Silver. He's a detective with the PCD."

Her eyes widened. "Oh. That's . . . interesting."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Truman." Dan fished a crumpled five-dollar-bill from his threadbare red wallet and paid for both lemonades without pause. As a proud feminist, I couldn't think of anything nicer anyone had done for me in a long time.

As we left, I glanced back and mouthed to Annabelle, "See?" This was what she got for not listening to my phone calls.  

"So how do you like working for Valerie Lavoie?" Dan asked when we got back in the car.

I took a sip of lemonade. The cold made my back teeth hurt, but the rush of sugar  made up for it. "It's complicated."

Dan pulled us back on the interstate and we headed out to the Bayton Speedway. I had more than enough Valerie stories to pass the time.