Baltimore Noir - Laura Lippman [77]
A steaming platter arrived in what seemed like only seconds, and by process of elimination he determined that the scrapple was the crispy brown wedge next to the home fries. It looked like a flattened croquette. He took a bite, and appalled. Inside was gray mush, liverish and creepy. He wanted to spit it out, but didn’t know who might be watching. Besides, if it was good enough for Detective Meldrick Lewis, then Branko could tough it out.
Later, mopping the last of the egg yolk with toast, he got up the nerve to ask the waitress the question that had been on his mind since he came through the door.
“Tell me, please,” he said, painfully conscious of his heavy accent. “The Homicide TV show. They come here still for the filming?”
The two men on the other side of the table smiled and shook their heads.
“Oh, hon, that’s dead and gone,” the waitress said.
“Dead?”
“Years ago. Packed up and left.”
Then she disappeared, off in a flash with her order pad, oblivious to the desolation in her wake.
“Got canceled,” said one of the men, perhaps sensing Branko’s disappointment. “Long time ago.”
Canceled. Dead Fatal words, leaving him as shattered as if a gunshot had just torn through his chest. He had never expected to hear such words associated with his favorite show, not even one called Homicide. No wonder the city had looked so wrong from the air. He should have taken it as a sign, an omen.
His feelings of utter defeat must have showed, even through the icy film of those eyes, because the guy next to him spoke up again, in a tone that suggested the man was trying to cheer him up.
“They did make a movie, though, a few years back.”
“Yeah,” his companion offered, finding the Samaritan spirit contagious. “A good one. And now they got this other show, The Wire.”
“The Wire?” Branko could barely speak. Worse, he still tasted scrapple on his breath.
“It’s another crime show.”
“Here?” A glimmer of hope. “Filmed in Baltimore?” In his accent it came out as “Balty-more.”
“Sure. Gotta have HBO, though. And shit, cable’s forty-five a month as it is.”
The two men began griping about cable service, and Branko quickly lost the thread, so he rose, still too stunned to even say goodbye. But by the time he was out the door he was trying to take hope in a new possibility. Somewhere in town, he supposed, men and women were yet huddled over cigarettes and beer, dreaming up plots for made-up cops and killers, even if it was a different show with a different name. With luck he would still be able to offer a winner for their consideration. It wasn’t what he had planned on, it wasn’t the dream, but it was a chance.
There was still a job to do, however, and now it was after dark, and after 7. Dusko Jevic awaited him at Flip’s.
It was only five blocks away, and he was there in a few minutes. A banner outside advertised something called “Natty Bohs in a can” for a dollar apiece. The way his budget was dwindling, that sounded like a smart choice, even if it involved one of those sweet drinks that came with a paper umbrella.
It turned out to be a beer—weak and watery lager, but beer nonetheless—and Branko downed his in a flash while wondering where Dusko might be. Maybe it was the fellow’s day off, or he had quit. If he didn’t show up in the next hour, Branko would ask for him, risky or not. In two days he’d be out of the country, so what would it matter?
Then he got lucky. Just after the barmaid took his order for a second Natty Boh, she turned and shouted into the back, “Hey, Douche, how ’bout bringin’ up a new case?”
And just like that, there he was in the doorway behind the bar, an apparition in black, grim and nodding, then grunting as he slammed not just one but two cases of beer into a big fridge.
“Thanks, Douche.”
Dusko said nothing. Just nodded again and set off for the back. To get to it you had to be behind the bar. Branko wondered how he was going to do that. He fingered the gun in his jacket, just