Baltimore Noir - Laura Lippman [81]
But generally speaking, Slink enjoyed himself. He could never quite get a gal to hang on his arm for very long—which would have been nice—but he knew she was out there somewhere. Just a matter of time. Meanwhile he ran with a pretty fun crowd, had himself a nice collection of swizzle sticks. Holly’s Cocktail Lounge. The Chanticleer. The Blue Mirror. True, there were a few “debt sweat” episodes here and there—once he was mildly roughed up out back of the Belvedere, just as a friendly reminder—but on the whole, Slink was considered good people, looking to harm no one. If it’s true that he never met a mirror he didn’t like, well, there have been far more serious faults in far more flawed people.
Slink never had sex with a regular customer. Not even Ellen Matthews, despite the sometimes sloppy fall of her bathrobe. There had been one occasion. Sort of. Ginny Curry’s sister visiting from Morgantown. But that hadn’t been on the job. Just pure coincidence. The two had struck up a conversation at Sweeney’s Bar, sparring good-naturedly over the bitters-to-sugar ratio of old-fashioneds, and ended up on Slink’s red plaid blanket in the backseat of his Olds, parked up near Memorial Stadium. It was several mornings later that Slink spied the same woman sitting at the kitchen table with the Curry twins as he was dropping off milk and butter and eggs and cheese. Pure coincidence. Slink grinned and saluted the woman with his toothpick just as she’d turned in her chair and spotted him through the crack of the kitchen door, her red mouth forming a perfect O
And then Slink died.
Technically, it was the fault of the Brewster’s frisky Chesapeake Bay retriever, Sandy. And also a nameless squirrel. Sandy had been accompanying the children on their way to the school bus stop when she suddenly took off after the squirrel that was crossing directly in front of Slink Ridgely’s milk truck. Slink spun the wheel, but by mistake he slammed down on the accelerator pedal instead of the brake. The square truck broke through the picket fence of crabby Gus Fulton’s place, bounced across a corner of the yard (the perfect pile of raked yellow leaves going up like an explosion), and toppled over sideways at the roadside ditch just as the school bus was coming down that steep part of Caves Road way … too … damned … fast.
The milk truck was lying half on and half off the road. After the collision, it lay completely on the road, twice spun and partially crushed. Bottles of white milk and chocolate milk trundled along the pavement like errant bowling pins. As the crowd gathered, no one noticed the Brewster dog at the edge of Gus Fulton’s yard, happily lapping up milk and pebbles.
The kids in the bus were fine. Frightened out of their wits, but fine. The driver of the school bus suffered a bloody nose. But Slink Ridgely was dead. Crushed ribs. Broken neck. His arms were snaked so thoroughly through the spokes of the steering wheel that it was like solving a puzzle trying to get him freed up and out of the truck.
Seven-year-old Annie Brewster felt horrible. She’d been the one holding Sandy’s leash on the way to the bus stop, but she hadn’t held it tightly enough when the squirrel darted out from the trees. Now I’ve killed a man, she thought. I don’t deserve to live Children think this way. She stood saucereyed, staring at the dead milkman, while anguish planted itself deep, deep in her belly. He’d been at their house just fifteen minutes ago. He’d brought those sugar donuts. She remembered the toothpick the milkman was always chewing on. She remembered how he always tilted his cap back whenever