Mad Mouse

CHAPTER FIVE

The Pig's Commitment is probably the most popular restaurant on Ocean Avenue.

It's open twenty-four hours a day so it's great for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, especially if you like bacon and barbecue. Pork, as you might guess, is the common denominator all day long.

The owner, Grace Porter, an elderly and elegant black lady who swears she improvises her secret rib sauce recipe every time she whips up a batch, named the place after her favorite joke. You know-the one about the chicken and the pig and a plate of scrambled eggs with bacon. The chicken is involved. The pig is totally committed.

I'm a little early because I need coffee. Jess had swung back by the beach with my van around two A.M. He told me Becca was doing fine. Great news. The emergency room doctor didn't think there would be any permanent damage and sent her home with some drugs and a higher-quality eye patch. Then Jess and I had to pack up our beach chairs and coolers and stuff. My head didn't hit the pillow until sometime close to three thirty. Maybe four.

Like I said, I need coffee.

Grace brings it over in one of those plastic thermal pots that hold about a half gallon and you can pour yourself.

“Here you go, Danny. You look like you need it.”

“Thanks, Grace.”

Even though she spends most of her day in a kitchen with fattening food, Grace Porter at age sixtysomething is as thin as one of the mint toothpicks they keep near the cash register up front. She's wearing one of those cool Kofi hats with tribal squiggles all over it and this blousy mudcloth dress. She looks like a jazz musician or, as she likes to call herself, the Queen of Cuisine.

“Will you be eating alone this morning?”

“No. Ceepak's joining me.”

“Mr. Ceepak? How wonderful. I'm looking forward to finally meeting our local hero.” She studies the silverware next to the empty place setting. I see water spots and dried egg yolk on fork tines. So does she. “Excuse me.” She scoops up the offending cutlery and hustles off to find a clean fork and maybe have a word or two with her busboy

I check my watch. Eight fifty-three. Ceepak will march through the front door at eight fifty-nine at the latest. My man is always on time. I sip some coffee and look around at all the porker paraphernalia. The walls are covered, the shelves crammed. Ceramic pigs, plastic pigs, piggy banks of all kinds, pig-shaped cutting boards, pigs on tin signs for overalls, a weathervane with a winged flying pig.

“Danny?”

The voice interrupting my pig appreciation comes from a man in the booth underneath the weathervane. He has oiled-down silver hair, glasses, bright-green shorts and a rugby-striped polo shirt that sort of matches the shorts. I think he used to go to church with my parents. Weese. Right. Mr. Weese.

“Hello, Danny.”

His wife. Mrs. Weese. He's tall and lanky; she's short and stout. A classic case of Jack Sprat-itis. There's a younger couple in the booth with them. The guy is kind of tall, and even though I figure he's only my age or maybe a little older, he has this receding hairline coupled with wavy, swept-back hair that makes him look like he might sing country music, only he's wearing clunky glasses with a paper clip pinned through one hinge, and country stars seldom do that. He's sitting next to a short girl with dark hair and a sour face. She looks like somebody just poured last month's milk into her coffee.

“You remember our son?” Mrs. Weese says with a big, proud smile. “You remember George?”

“Of course.” I'm glad Ceepak isn't here. I'm lying through my teeth. I don't remember George Weese at all.

“He's visiting. With his wife.”

I guess the wife doesn't rate her own name.

“We're grandparents,” says Mr. Weese.

“Boy and a girl!”

“Twins?” I ask.

“No. Nine and twenty-three months.”

Wow. Georgie Boy and Sourpuss have been busy. If we were playing that Milton Bradley board game Life, their little car would have four pegs in it. Two blue. Two pink. Me? One peg. And I'm nowhere near that Getting Married space.

“How about you?” asks Mrs. Weese.

“Me?”

“Any children?”

“No.” I almost add, “None that I know of.” But then I remember these were my parents’ friends, not mine.

“What’s stopping you?” Mrs. Weese gives me a country club smile-the kind some queen flashes to her peasants. Now I remember. He runs a bank. She sells real estate. The Weeses play golf, live in a huge house, and love to remind everybody how rich they are.

“Danny doesn't have time to settle down,” says Mr. Weese. “He's a hero. That awful murder and everything. Read all about it. Sent George the clippings.”

George, whom I'm supposed to know, sort of grunts in my general direction. I get the feeling he's not so crazy about his parents. I'll bet he's glad he has to visit Sea Haven only once or twice a year.

“Way to go, Danny.” Mr. Weese gives me a stubby thumbs-up.

“Just, you know, doing my job.” I've heard a lot of cops say that in the movies. TV too. Figure it might work for me.

“Still just a part-time job?” Mr. Weese asks.

“Yeah.”

“Well, we need to skeedaddle.” Mr. Weese stands up so everybody can fry their eyes on his green shorts. “Anybody need to use the facilities? George?”

“No. Thanks.”

“You sure, son? It's a ten-minute drive back to the house.”

“I'm fine.”

“How about you, Natalie?” he says to his daughter-in-law. “Need to powder your nose?”

She shakes her head no.

“You kids sure?”

“Yes, Dad.”

Mr. Weese leads the way to the cash register. George and his wife slouch out behind Mrs. Weese. They so don't want to be here.

I return to my coffee. It's good. Strong. Loaded with Colombian caffeine.

Someone taps me on my shoulder. Mr. Weese. I guess he circled back.

“Give me a call after Labor Day.” He flicks a business card on the table. He's not a banker but a mortgage broker, whatever that is. “If interest rates hold steady, I might have some telemarketing slots opening up.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

He tugs on his belt. It's white. He's wearing monogrammed tan knee socks that blend in with his skin.

I want him to go away, but he just stands there, sucking on a toothpick.

“Good morning, Danny.”

Thank God. Behind Weese I see Ceepak.

“Enjoy your breakfast.” Mr. Weese gives his belt a final hike and walks away. He jingles change in his pocket and studies the bill from breakfast. “Grace?” he calls up to the register. “I think you overcharged us on George's milk. He ordered a small. I know the girl brought him a large, but we ordered a small.”

Ceepak sits down. “You okay, Danny?”

“Yeah. Now. Thanks.”