Day Shift

“There are more storefronts boarded up than open. How does anyone here live? How does Home Cookin stay open? How does the Rev survive on what he makes burying dogs and cats and performing weddings? How does the Antique Gallery and Nail Salon make a profit? You have to leave here to make your living. Why don’t the others?”

“You left out Fiji and Bobo,” Olivia said.

“Fiji inherited the house. She’s got almost no overhead. And she sells some spells online, as well as the crap she carries in the shop. Plus, the Thursday night classes are paying propositions.”

“She sells things online? Really?”

“Yeah, I helped her set something up about four months ago, and I got a friend of mine to design her website.”

“You’re a man of secrets.” Olivia did not seem to think that was a good thing. There was a long moment of silence before she said, “Sometimes I think about that, too. But I have no way of knowing how the others get along, and I’m not going to ask them. We don’t ask many questions here, and I like it that way. Call me if the police actually get into the house and find the damn jewelry in the globe. I need to go do stuff.”

And she left, too. Manfred said, “Dammit.” He’d finally said things out loud that he’d wondered about for months — and said them out loud to Olivia, of all people. And she’d blown him off and gotten out the door as fast as she could.

30

The town fell silent again at dusk. Everyone did the same things they’d done the night before, even though some of the tension had gone. Fiji called Manfred to ask him if he wanted some homemade bread, and when he said yes, they met in the middle of Witch Light Road. There was still plenty of light; they talked a little. Though the heat radiated off the road, it was still pleasant to be outside, to be confident that nothing was lurking… yet.

“Mr. Snuggly won’t come out of the corner of my bedroom,” she said. “He’s gone into scaredy-cat overload.”

“One more night of this, you think? After tonight?”

“I think so.”

“What, exactly, are we so afraid of?”

“Well,” Fiji said, “it is the full moon.” She looked at him significantly, obviously expecting Manfred to pick up her meaning.

“It’s been the full moon lots of times since I moved here, and I’ve never had to do this before.”

“Then you should ask yourself, ‘What’s different about this time?’” she said patiently. “Here’s the bread. There’s beer in it. Enjoy.” She cast a quick glance over at the pawnshop, perhaps hoping that Bobo would emerge. She turned to go back to her house, calling good-bye over her shoulder.

Manfred raised the bread to his nose. It had the most wonderful aroma. He wondered if baking might someday be included in his skill set, because he would do anything to make his house smell like this. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A police car was driving very slowly down the street. The driver was looking from side to side. There was someone else in the front seat. Manfred saw that the passenger was Shorty Horowitz.

“Shit!” Manfred said. He flagged down the car. It pulled into his driveway. He didn’t know the driver, but it was a sheriff’s department uniform.

“You know this man, sir?” asked the deputy.

“Yes, where was he?”

“I found him on the Davy highway just north of here. He says he has a grandson here? Someone named Barry Bellboy?” The deputy said this very carefully, as if he suspected he was the butt of a joke.

“His grandson is over at the hotel,” Manfred said. “I’ll bet he’s going nuts.”

He looked over at the hotel and saw Barry standing in the hotel doorway, looking from one direction to another, obviously terrified. Manfred waved his arms and pointed at the patrol car. Barry came running across the intersection like there was no such thing as traffic, and in a second was standing by the car, panting.

“Oh, you’ve found him! Thanks so much.”

“You Barry? He do this a lot?” asked the deputy.

At least it’s not Gomez, Manfred thought.

“I’m Barry Horowitz. He’s never done this before,” Barry said. “God, I couldn’t find him anywhere. I was really, really… scared.” He leaned down to look across the deputy at the errant Shorty. “Granddad, where’ve you been? Why did you leave?” His voice sound gentle, and he’d put the fear away somewhere.

“Barry?” Shorty turned to look at his grandson. He seemed puzzled.

“That was part of the problem,” the deputy explained. “He kept telling us your name was Bellboy, and I put out a call to search for someone of that name. Of course, there wasn’t anyone in this area called that.”

Barry didn’t seem to be able to speak. He looked stricken.

“You ready to take your grandpa back home?” the deputy said, looking a little worried.

Barry had recovered his vocal cords. “Okay, Grandpa, you ready to go back to the hotel?”

“All right. If they’ll give me cake for supper and let me take a nap.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Whitefield won’t mind giving you some cake, if she’s got one made, and you can sure take a nap in your room.”

“Barry took a nap,” Shorty said. “But it was time for me to go home.”