Page 9 of Bourbon and Secrets

I opened an email with the subject line: Ways to be a cop without being a cop

Faye, here are a couple of names down in Louisiana who are always looking for private investigators. Their departments are too small for some of the shit they’re dealing with.Might as well put what you’ve learned to some use. Your mom mentioned you were working in a coffee shop. You serve a mean cup of coffee and a slice of pie. Marla would be proud. But for what it’s worth, I know you pay attention. More than most. We both know that the devil was always in the details :) Talk soon, kid.

-Del

I release a heavy breath and scan the sidewalks on both sides of the road. It takes me a couple of minutes to find her down the block in front of a sidewalk sale.

“Maggie,” I shout as I hustle closer.

She grabs a trucker hat from the turntable and keeps walking.Seriously?

“I never asked anyone to call you,” she calls out. “I don’t want you here.”

I speed walk in her wake. “That’s nice. But I don’t need an invite to be here.”

She stops short, which has me stumbling into her back. When she turns, she looks at me with pure annoyance. “Go home, Faye.”

I didn’t come back here to word spar with her. “This is home. For a little while, at least.”

She blinks at me, almost like, out of all the things she thought I was going to say, that was the absolute last one. As she tips her hat back, I see it again, the bruise that takes up the whole right side of her face, not just around the eye. That’s more than just a punch or a slap. That’s a beating.

Quietly, I ask, “Who hurt you?” I’ve seen plenty of beat-up faces over the years. Hell, I’ve contributed to making some of them myself, when necessary, but it’s different when it’s your family.

“Don’t you mean, ‘what did you do, Maggie?’” she says, hardening the words.

“No. I don’t think a woman could do anything that warrants this.”

The outer edges of her eyes are more blue than green. Same as Mom’s. Everyone used to tell her how beautiful her eyes were. I shake off the memory.

I have no business asking for details, but I do anyway. “What are you involved in?”

Maggie shoves her hands into the pockets of her puffy jacket and looks at me for just a second. I can’t help but search her face for some kind of tell or softening that’ll remind me of my sister.

More quietly she asks, “Why do you care all of a sudden?”

If I had blinked, I would have missed the way her eyes glass over. Or how her shoulders slouch as she exhales. It’s not lost on me that she doesn’t have anyone to ask her. It’s the only thing we still have in common. We both have no one.

But a car horn from a minivan knocks us both back into the reality of our situation and it has her widening her eyes and swiping at her watch. “Wait, what’s today?” she rushes out.

The shift in conversation feels abrupt, but I answer. “Monday.”

“Peaches and cream stuffed French toast,” she says, looking over my shoulder one second, and then brushing past me the next.

I know exactly where she’s heading.

At the end of the block and after passing two gas kiosks, the bell on the door chimes as it opens. A bell that sounds like it had been rusted and is pissed it is still being rung. Looking around, the wood paneling makes Hooch’s feel vintage. It has me feeling nostalgic, the same way Christmas music does every year. It’s welcoming, familiar, and my lips twitch into an easy smile. The vinyl of the booths has been updated from the russet orange I remember to a deep cranberry. Awards and newspaper write-ups from decades of sponsored baseball teams and local festivals still decorate the walls. The tables have been upgraded and the layout changed, but the long counter is exactly the same. Oak barrel wood rims the mustard-colored Corian, running the length of Fiasco’s gas station restaurant.

Heads turn as we make our way to the woman standing with a coffee carafe in one hand and the other on her hip. Marla Hooch doesn’t like very many people. Tourists, out of towners, even seasonal visitors aren’t greeted with open arms at Hooch’s. You have to be a townie for that. Walking in here isn’t about to be any type of welcome wagon.

“What’ll it be, honey?” Marla asks Maggie.

Without lifting the brim of her stolen hat, she says, “Coffee and the special.”

“Hi Marla,” I smile. “I’ll have the same.” I had to shoot my shot.

Marla’s resting bitch face is top-notch. It always had been. She gives me a side-eye, barely acknowledging me—it stings a little. I spent a lot of time at this counter growing up, and if anyone was going to hold a grudge for me not visiting, it wasgoing to be Marla Hooch. She held grudges over shitty tips and people who forgot to turn off their phones at supper.

Maggie laughs to herself. “You really think she’s going to bring you breakfast?”

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