Jack Daniels and Associates: Snake Wine by Bernard Schaffer Page A
Authors: Bernard Schaffer
Ads: Link
and I finally got to the door and got it open, telling Bernice one last time, "I will call you as soon as I find anything out, and I promise everything will be okay."
Frank looked sheepishly at me as I pulled the door shut and he said, "Listen, I'm sorry I had to step in. It wasn't my place, but it had to be done. You know that, right?"
I headed down the steps to the car. The night air had turned cold, and it felt good to breathe it in. "It's fine," I said. "She needed someone to snap her out of it. I wasn't getting through. Too emotionally involved myself."
"The guy's your partner, Jack. Of course you're too close to the situation," Frank said. "It's tough to think right when you're involved on a personal level."
"Give me my keys," I said. Frank handed them to me and moved around to the passenger side of the car. I got in and readjusted my seat and mirror, reclaiming my position as the driver. "You saying I'm incapable of handling this investigation?"
"No, I'm saying it's difficult. Especially when the witness sees you more as a shoulder to cry on than an investigator."
"You sure know a lot about this stuff for an unemployed civilian, Frank."
He laughed and said, "I read a lot."
We drove in silence through the neighborhoods to make our way back to a main road that would take us to the courthouse. Frank spent most of his time staring through the window, taking in the tall buildings and blinking lights of the skyline. I pointed to my left at the vast black waters of the harbor and said, "Here, look at that."
Frank leaned across me and I slowed the car down just as the rotating lights of the Chicago Lighthouse came into view. He smiled and said, "Very cool."
"I'm sure you have plenty of things to see back in Philly."
"Sure. But it's like anything else, you don't appreciate it if it's around you all the time. We have this place in Center City called the Reading Terminal Market, right near City Hall. It's this massive landmark, filled with every kind of ethnic food you can imagine. The Amish have a stand there where they sell what they grow. You can buy a live octopus. Homemade ice cream. Cajun food. You name it. One time, I walked in, and this butcher was skinning a sheep right at his counter. Right in front of everybody, and then he started to cut it up and wrap up the meat and put it out for sale. I mean, it's…well, it was kind of disgusting to see this skinned animal laying there with its eyes bulging out, but in a way, it was kind of refreshing to. A reminder of how things used to be before we started genetically modifying food, you know?"
"Are you one of those, Frank? You going to tell me about an agricultural conspiracy now?"
"No," he laughed. "I'm just saying, the place is like a throwback to a different time."
"I understand," I said.
"So, I'm talking to my dad one day and I tell him I was in the city at Reading Terminal Market, and he looks at me and says, 'I always wanted to go there.' Now, bear in mind, the guy has lived twenty-five minutes away from Center City his entire life. He's had sixty some odd years to get off his ass and go, but he never has." Frank shrugged and said, "I guess when you start drinking gin and soda at nine o'clock in the morning, things like that don't matter so much."
"Nine thirty in the morning?" I said.
"Ever since he retired. He's one of those guys who loved being a cop. Worked his whole life in patrol, but the job was his whole identity. He couldn't go out to cut the grass without being armed. When he retired, when people didn't automatically shut up and listen to what he told them to do anymore, that's when he started drinking."
I laughed slightly and shook my head, "My mom was a cop too. I grew up listening to all her stories about chasing bad guys and rescuing people; she made it sound like the greatest job in the world. She left out the years of my life I've spent staring at buildings waiting for someone to come out, or sitting in a van watching a street corner for
Frank looked sheepishly at me as I pulled the door shut and he said, "Listen, I'm sorry I had to step in. It wasn't my place, but it had to be done. You know that, right?"
I headed down the steps to the car. The night air had turned cold, and it felt good to breathe it in. "It's fine," I said. "She needed someone to snap her out of it. I wasn't getting through. Too emotionally involved myself."
"The guy's your partner, Jack. Of course you're too close to the situation," Frank said. "It's tough to think right when you're involved on a personal level."
"Give me my keys," I said. Frank handed them to me and moved around to the passenger side of the car. I got in and readjusted my seat and mirror, reclaiming my position as the driver. "You saying I'm incapable of handling this investigation?"
"No, I'm saying it's difficult. Especially when the witness sees you more as a shoulder to cry on than an investigator."
"You sure know a lot about this stuff for an unemployed civilian, Frank."
He laughed and said, "I read a lot."
We drove in silence through the neighborhoods to make our way back to a main road that would take us to the courthouse. Frank spent most of his time staring through the window, taking in the tall buildings and blinking lights of the skyline. I pointed to my left at the vast black waters of the harbor and said, "Here, look at that."
Frank leaned across me and I slowed the car down just as the rotating lights of the Chicago Lighthouse came into view. He smiled and said, "Very cool."
"I'm sure you have plenty of things to see back in Philly."
"Sure. But it's like anything else, you don't appreciate it if it's around you all the time. We have this place in Center City called the Reading Terminal Market, right near City Hall. It's this massive landmark, filled with every kind of ethnic food you can imagine. The Amish have a stand there where they sell what they grow. You can buy a live octopus. Homemade ice cream. Cajun food. You name it. One time, I walked in, and this butcher was skinning a sheep right at his counter. Right in front of everybody, and then he started to cut it up and wrap up the meat and put it out for sale. I mean, it's…well, it was kind of disgusting to see this skinned animal laying there with its eyes bulging out, but in a way, it was kind of refreshing to. A reminder of how things used to be before we started genetically modifying food, you know?"
"Are you one of those, Frank? You going to tell me about an agricultural conspiracy now?"
"No," he laughed. "I'm just saying, the place is like a throwback to a different time."
"I understand," I said.
"So, I'm talking to my dad one day and I tell him I was in the city at Reading Terminal Market, and he looks at me and says, 'I always wanted to go there.' Now, bear in mind, the guy has lived twenty-five minutes away from Center City his entire life. He's had sixty some odd years to get off his ass and go, but he never has." Frank shrugged and said, "I guess when you start drinking gin and soda at nine o'clock in the morning, things like that don't matter so much."
"Nine thirty in the morning?" I said.
"Ever since he retired. He's one of those guys who loved being a cop. Worked his whole life in patrol, but the job was his whole identity. He couldn't go out to cut the grass without being armed. When he retired, when people didn't automatically shut up and listen to what he told them to do anymore, that's when he started drinking."
I laughed slightly and shook my head, "My mom was a cop too. I grew up listening to all her stories about chasing bad guys and rescuing people; she made it sound like the greatest job in the world. She left out the years of my life I've spent staring at buildings waiting for someone to come out, or sitting in a van watching a street corner for
Similar Books
