God Makes Them Mean

Chapter 1

There's nothing cheery about a corpse. Not even when it's dressed as Santa Claus. Especially when he's dressed as Santa. It's like the death of childhood a second time around.

'Who reported this?' I ask the uniform who got to the crime scene first. I got here second only because I didn't want to leave my breakfast untouched. Man can't work on an empty stomach.

'Kitchen busboy. Stepped outside to throw out the garbage and found this.'

'Call me when the geeks get here. Cordon the area. I'll talk to the boy.'

Uniform points me to a door. I tip my hat and walk away. Santa smells. Bullets punched his stomach and the stench of shit is as strong as walking into a public restroom. I don't think I'll be able to eat for the foreseeable future.

I talk to the cook. He's the first to walk into the place early in the morning but he gets in from the front door. Everybody does. He knows nothing. He has things to cook, breakfasts to make. He can't be bothered. He says not to make a ruckus. Don't disturb the clients. Yadda-yadda-yadda. He points me to the busboy. Name's Chico.

'Hey Chico, where's the rest of the brothers?'

He looks at me like we come from different planets. We probably do.

'Forget about it.' I show him with badge. 'I'm McCreedy. You can call me Sir. Or Detective. Got it?'

'Yes sir.'

I nod. 'Good.' He must be fifteen going for illegal alien. He's shaking like a a leaf which puts him off my list of suspects immediately. 'First time you see a corpse?'

He nods.

'Cat got your tongue?'

He nods.

I nod. 'I see this is going to be a nodding contest.' I smile congenially. He refuses to acknowledge my witticism. 'Chico. Look at me.' He ignores me. I put one of my sausage fingers under his chin and tip him upward. He's got big brown eyes, like a doe staring at the lights of a car before it's run over. He's got feminine features, like he still needs to grow into his manhood. I let go. He goes back to stare his own shoes. I can't help but notice they don't match up. So busboys nowadays don't make enough money for a pair of shoes. Sad economy we live in.

'He doesn't speak English,' a voice informs me.

I turn, slowly, like my ankles can't take sudden movements. Waitress is busy putting empty dishes down and getting new ones.

'And you are?' I inquire.

She disappears. A minute passes. She storms back in. 'Magdala,' she says.

'You must have friends in high places then.'

She snorts. The sound is like she doesn't care whether I live or die and then she disappears again carrying two dishes per arm like she has done nothing else her whole life. I turn to the cook. 'Place needs more than just one waitress.'

'Maria bailed out when the corpse was found,' he replies.

'You have Maria and Magdala? You should call yourself Lazarus and try to be hired by the Church.'

'I'm busy.'

'Can I help? I'm good with food.'

He looks at me. 'You sure give that impression, Mac.'

I tap my stomach like one would do with a good dog. 'I think he's talking about you,' I tell it.

Magdala rushes in again. She's got that caramel complexion that makes her Cuban, or Puerto Rican. Or whatever. I've never been good at geography, but she certainly doesn't come from Sweden. Her face is the shape of an Easter Egg put on its tip. She has huge dark eyes with a violet reflection. She doesn't smile. She has no time to smile just to drop more stuff and get clean glasses from a cupboard and a carafe full of iced water and a wedge of lemon. She finds the time to stream an unintelligible thunderstorm of words to Chico. Not a single one of those words sounds in any shape or form sympathetic. Boy gets on his feet and starts cleaning the huge mountain of dishes that has accumulated during his coping period.