Grave Secrets

Another tweak.

“Fuck!”

“I’m getting impatient.”

“Take a Prozac.”

Ryan tweaked harder.

“Leon Hochmeister. Get the fuck off me.”

Ryan released Hochmeister’s arm.

Hochmeister bent and spit his gum on the floor. Then he jerked backward, rolling his shoulder and rubbing his biceps.

“You need to learn some new adjectives, Leon. Maybe try one of those thesaurus software programs.”

Hochmeister placed upper incisors on lower lip, began the F word, changed his mind. His eyes simmered, Rasputin in a Mohawk.

Ryan turned to the statue.

“And you are?”

“Presley Iverson.” Iverson had a look of bemused curiosity on his face.

Peasant skirt.

“Antoinette Gaudreau.”

“Do I have the pleasure of addressing Dirtdoggy, Rambeau, Bedhead, Sexychaton, or Cripercant?”

“The Crier,” said Iverson, spiraling his palm in self-presentation.

“Cri percant. Piercing scream.”

“Very poetic.”

A pink bubble emerged from Iverson’s mouth. When it collapsed, he began working the Bazooka for another go. Ryan looked at Gaudreau.

“I don’t use e-mail that much.”

“And when you do?”

Gaudreau shrugged. “Sexychaton.”

“Thank you, kitten.”

Gaudreau looked as sexy as a baleen whale.

“You can’t just bust the fuck in and rough people up.” Hochmeister was regaining his self-assurance.

“Leon, that’s exactly what I can do. And another thing I can do is haul your skinny ass to the bag for aiding a minor in flight. Think your name might turn up some interesting reading material?”

Leon’s fingers stopped massaging his arm. He looked at Chantale, then up at the ceiling. When his chin came down, sweat glistened along the line between Mohawk and forehead.

“We know nothing about that shit.”

“What shit is that, Leon?”

“That shit he’s talking.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Nordstern freeze.

“Who’s ‘he,’ Leon?”

Hochmeister tilted his head in Nordstern’s direction.

“Neither does Chantale.” He jerked a thumb at Nordstern.

“This asshole’s as psycho as you are.”

“Why’s that?”

“He thinks Chantale’s cool to some chick got dropped in Guatemala City.”

“Leon!” Chantale hissed.

“A bit off the subject of your human rights story,” I said to Nordstern.

Nordstern’s eyes peeled off the napkin and lifted to mine.

“Maybe.”

“Where are you staying, sir?” Ryan asked.

“Please.” Nordstern crumbled the napkin. “Don’t waste your time or mine. My info and sources are strictly confidential.”

Nordstern tossed the napkin onto the bar and looked at me.

“Unless we can find some mutually beneficial arrangement.” His voice was oily as a drilling rig.