Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [10]
“Seriously, Mercy,” Jake called out, “if you see that lioness again? Shoot her.”
“I guarantee it. But I’m still undecided on the squirrels.”
THREE
John-John was already hauling ice when I strolled into Clementine’s. “Hey, Mercy. Vivi’s got a sick kid, so you’re on mop duty.”
“Great.” For the next hour I scrubbed the floor and sang along to the tunes on the jukebox. I poked my head into the men’s bathroom. Nasty-ass place could stay dirty another night.
Cleanup duties complete, I poured a glass of Coke and studied my boss. It hadn’t been an easy transition, going from lifelong friends to an employee/employer relationship.
But some things didn’t change regardless if our roles did. John-John had always been more comfortable with himself—body size, skin color, spirituality, sexuality—than any person I’d ever known. We’d always joked he’d never outgrown that horny teen state, nor the husky/chubby stage boys do around age sixteen. So his weight loss concerned me. I knew he hadn’t been dieting. “Are you working tonight?”
“Why else would I be here?” he snapped.
I waited, biting back my bitchy retort.
“Sorry, doll. Just a little stressed and touchy about it.”
“Have I done something to piss you off, boss?”
“God, no, and stop calling me that.” He smoothed his hand over the top of his head and impatiently flicked his braids over his shoulder. “There’s some other stuff going on, stuff you wouldn’t be interested in.”
I lifted a brow. “If it has something to do with you, I’m interested. I remember when you used to tell me everything.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Some things might’ve changed, kola, but my ears still work the same as they did twenty years ago.” Would he recognize the words he’d thrown back at me when I’d retreated after Levi’s murder?
John-John hip-checked me. “Smart-ass.”
“So spill it.”
“I haven’t been sleeping well.”
The dark circles under his eyes supported that statement. “You having disturbing visions?”
He sighed. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. I dream, but I can’t make sense of it. I’ve always remembered the relevant points, allowing me to decipher Wakan Tanka symbols when I wake. Not lately. It’s frustrating. I’ve been stuck in that cycle for a couple months. Ever since . . .”
The vision he’d had about me. As far as I knew, it was one of the few times John-John’s visions hadn’t followed a path to becoming some form of reality. “What about Muskrat? Isn’t he your anchor? Can’t he help you figure it out?” My knowledge of Sioux rituals was sorely lacking, but I didn’t want to lose the conversational momentum since this was the first time he’d opened up to me for months. We’d been working opposite shifts, and I saw him less now than when I’d been on the stool side of the bar.
“Yes. But he’s part of the problem.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
“No, after fifteen years together we’re both too stubborn to teach a younger pup our old tricks, so he’s stuck with me. But I ain’t happy with him neither. His back problems aren’t getting better, and he refuses to go to the doctor for treatment. I’ve suggested alternatives: a sweat, a chiropractor, a spiritual massage. He’s stalling; he’s in pain, and he won’t talk to me about it. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Why is he dragging his feet?”
“Because he’s scared it’s something serious.”
I couldn’t fathom Muskrat, a solid six-foot-eight-inch ape of a man, with the disposition of a surly bear, fearing anything. But people thought the same thing about me. “You want me to talk to him? Knock some sense into his thick skull?”
John-John sent me a stern look. “Absolutely not, and don’t you dare breathe a word of this to him.”
“I’ll point out I’m awful good at keeping secrets.”
“Too good.” He chucked me under the chin. “Speaking of secrets, what’s up with you and our delectable sheriff ?”
I refilled my soda, considering my answer and his evasion. “Who knows?”
“He hasn’t been sniffing around lately?” he asked skeptically.
“I saw him last night.