The Morgue and Me by John C. Ford Read Free Book Online Page B

“Anything else?”
    Tina ashed on the remains of her burger. “Nope.”
    The waitress slapped our bill down and left in a huff.
    “But instead of sending you, Art went himself?” I said.
    “Exactly.” Tina jumped up in her seat a little, all enthusiastic about my brilliant deduction. “See, you’re getting it.”
    I wasn’t actually getting it. I was glad the sheriff was the one who’d called the paper, but it didn’t sound like any big deal to me. If Tina wasn’t insanely hot, the whole lunch might have been a waste of time.
    “And then, when I told Art that Blaylock had just gotten out of jail, he didn’t blink.”
    I looked up from my shake. “What?”
    “He just said it’d be more respectful to keep it out of the story, him being dead and all. I knew something was up then. Art would never care about being respectful.”
    “Mitch Blaylock had been in jail?”
    “I know, right? You see what I’m saying.”
    She reached into her file and splayed out two clippings from the Courier . One story was three years old, about a robbery at the Pit Stop on Route 7. It said that an unidentified man had assaulted the attendant and gotten away with $155.52 from the gas station’s cash register. The other story—a week later—reported on the arrest of Mitch Blaylock for the crime. Apparently, police had traced it back to him through his license-plate number, which they got off a tape from the Pit Stop’s surveillance camera.
    Tina gave me approximately a second to digest the stories and said, “He spent sixteen months in Jackson on the robbery and assault charges—he had priors for drunk driving and possession. Got paroled, came up here a month ago. And now he’s dead. Now, if you were writing a story about that guy, don’t you think you would have mentioned that?”
    I started to agree, but Tina waved the question aside like it was unfair to ask of someone without professional credentials.
    “I know I would,” she said. “Screw the quote-unquote respect.”
    “You think the sheriff told him to keep that out of the story?”
    A smile broke across her face, and for a moment my heart was too enraptured to beat. “Yeah, smarty. I think the sheriff wanted something kept quiet. Which Art would do in a second. He’ll do anything to stay in their good graces. The prick.”
    She fished a dill pickle from her plate. “So, that’s what I know,” she said as the waitress collected our plates. She was still giving Tina the hairy eyeball.
    “No tip for her,” Tina said. “Anyway, your turn now—better be good.”
    As I considered my options, two things happened. First, I realized that she had never asked me how old I was. I liked her for that. Second, Tina stripped off her long-sleeved t-shirt. There was another, regular T-shirt underneath it, which read, KISS ME, I’M CHESTY.
    “What I tell you,” I said with a voice that may or may not have quivered, “you can’t print in the paper. At least until I tell you it’s okay.”
    She raised her hand. “I would go to jail before revealing a confidential source.”
    I had a feeling that I was her first, but I didn’t press it.
    Instead, I told her everything I knew.
     
     
    “Damn,” Tina said.
    I had told her about everything: the bullet holes in Mitch’s body, Dr. Mobley’s bogus death certificate, the money in his briefcase, and his secret rendezvous with Tim Spencer. When I finished, Tina crushed out the last cigarette in her pack—the foil tray had taken about all it could.
    She picked the check up off the table. “Guess I owe you lunch for not being an asshole.”
    She paid and we carried our shakes to the parking lot, where Tina perched on the Trans Am’s back bumper and watched the trucks whiz by on Route 14, stirring the weeds. The air smelled of grease, but it didn’t matter. I could have stayed there all day.
    “Did you write the story about that judge who took the bribes?”
    “Don’t I wish. Guess you heard on the way over, I’m