The Devil's Pet

Chapter 1

Wednesday June 11, 2008

Bill Campbell leaned his head against the window, mindlessly watching raindrops run down the long sheet of glass in ever-changing rivulets. Instantly, the gray city street outside came into bleach white clarity as lightning struck nearby. Seconds later its rumbling thunder shook the old building hard enough to wobble the table separating him from Reuben Delgado.

Images of umbrella clad people outside shimmered through the glass as they hurried past. He turned from the window and looked through the dining room to the bustle of employees and intermittent bursts of flames in the kitchen. In between, he noticed a thin line of greasy smoke position itself over the noisy lunch crowd as a line of patrons shook off the rain and waited for an open table.

Like most of the other cops in his precinct, Bill came to the Triangle Diner because it was close to the station and a retired captain owned it. As far as he could tell, most other Chicago precincts had a nearby diner owned by a retired cop. He considered maybe he would try it when he retired, but quickly dismissed the thought, he didn’t like people enough to serve them all day long.

Built in the fifties and rarely updated, the Triangle was surrounded with floor to ceiling plate glass windows on all three sides of the dining room. Brightly laminated tables with centers worn brown from use were bolted to the checkered tile floor and surrounded by chrome chairs. Antique mini juke boxes sat at the end of each booth. The jukes were broken but left in place for ambiance instead of spending money to remove them.

Modern cleaning agents could only make a dent in the decades of grease and entombed dust accumulated on all the interior surfaces. Bill thought the place was a dump, a classic choke and puke, but surprisingly the food was good. Since most of the tables were usually filled, he assumed the Captain was doing well in his retirement.

Bill felt Reuben watching him from across the booth, waiting for the conversation to begin. He thought, since Reuben was the one who asked for this lunch meeting, he can wait until after I have some food in my mouth.

Focusing on the dish in front of him, he poked the lunch special with his fork as if having to make sure it wouldn’t move before taking a bite. Once he was satisfied the meatloaf wasn’t going anywhere he decided to get started.

Without looking up, Bill said “OK Reuben, so what’s the problem?”

Reuben had asked Bill to lunch for a private conversation. Bill had already heard the story so he wasn’t sure why they needed to talk away from the office but he came anyway. Apparently his indifference showed and wasn’t appreciated. Reuben flashed back a look of irritation Bill had seen before.

He ignored it.

“I don’t get it Bill, don’t you care about people being murdered?” asked Reuben.

Bill stabbed a piece of meatloaf and replied “By people, you mean regular folks?--Yes, but gang thugs?--No.”

“You’re a homicide detective; how can you not care?” Reuben shot back as he leaned on the faded green table between them, wobbling the top and nearly spilling their drinks. Obviously annoyed, he moved back from the table and said, “This place should be condemned.”

Bill knew Reuben didn’t like the Triangle. That’s why he picked it for their meeting today. He didn’t like the topic of their conversation, so now they could both be unhappy. From the look on Reuben’s face, his plan was working.

Bill finally took a bite and shook his head, as usual, the meatloaf had better flavor than it smelled, or looked. He wondered how it was they could get it to taste so good when his other senses told him to reject it. He chewed slowly, then wagged his fork and said,