Protector - Laurel Dewey [35]
Jane looked at the TV. An exterior shot of the Lawrence house surrounded in yellow police tape flashed on the screen, followed by Chris addressing the media’s questions. He looked even more bedraggled than earlier in the day. “We’re doing everything possible to find the perpetrators of this crime,” he said, stopping to clear his throat and then continued. “The child has been talking extensively to several detectives and has revealed certain information that could lead to arresting a suspect or suspects fairly soon. However, I can’t go into any more detail at this time,” Chris concluded, shifting his eyes from side to side and licking his lips.
“You lying son-of-a-bitch!” Jane said, her voice more audible.
The waitress turned to Jane with an uncertain look. “Just give me a holler when you need a refill,” the waitress said before she turned and left.
The bartender muted the sound on the TV. Jane kept her eyes focused on the screen as images of the crime scene with its yellow tape blowing in the breeze flashed across the television. “Talking to several detectives, my ass,” she said softly. “You wish!”
In the background, the voice of Nancy Sinatra singing “These Boots Are Made For Walkin’ ” played on the jukebox. Jane turned her attention away from the television and toward the sound of the music. “What the fuck—?” Jane glanced around the bar. She leaned her pool stick against the wall and walked down into the bar. Turning to the left, she saw the same boorish, flannel-shirted guy with the fake hundred in his pocket leaning against the machine, punching in different selections. “Hey, smart-ass!” Jane yelled out at the guy. The guy turned around and backed up a step when he saw Jane. “Did you punch this fucking song into that machine?”
The guy looked around helplessly. “Yeah. Is there a problem, officer?”
Jane moved closer to the guy in a threatening position. “Yeah, there’s a problem! This song sucks! Anyone with half a fucking brain knows that!”
“Look, officer, I don’t want any trouble, okay? I’m sorry.”
“Fuck you!” Jane was almost two inches from the fellow’s face when she looked over to the side. Mike was standing several feet away, obviously distraught. As quickly as Jane turned on the intimidation with the flannel-shirted guy, she turned it off and quickly walked toward her brother. “Mike! What’s wrong?”
“I figured I’d find you here,” Mike said, holding back tears. Jane threw thirty bucks on the tray of a passing waitress, grabbed Mike gently by the arm and left the bar. The second they walked outside, he turned to the wall and buried his head against the brick. “I fucked up bad, Janie!” Mike said, tears streaming down his face.
“For God’s sake,” Jane said, trying to turn Mike toward her, “what happened?!”
“I asked her, just like I told you I would . . .”
“Asked who? What are you talking about?”
“Lisa!” Mike said, turning to face Jane. “I asked her to move in with me!”
“Oh, shit. Mike, what did I tell you? I said you were going to get hurt!”
“No, it’s not what you think!” Mike whined as he slid down the wall and sat on the pavement.
“Mike,” Jane said, not sure what to make of her brother’s behavior, “what happened?” Jane knelt down, resting her hands on Mike’s shoulders.
“We went to dinner and I had a few beers to get a buzz on and get the nerve up. I told Lisa that I wanted her and I to move in together...”
“And she said ‘no’,” Jane said matter-of-factly.
“Actually, she said she was gonna ask me the same question.”
“I’m lost, Mike.”
“She has some reservations about . . . me . . . and certain things I do.”
“Everybody’s got reservations about everybody else. So what?”
“That’s not the biggest part, Janie,” Mike said, burying his face in his hands and crying. “Oh, God, I’m so fucked up!”
“Mike! What’s the biggest part?”
“We talked about stuff. About our future, you know? Her and me together and what she wanted in life . . . She wants kids, Janie!” Mike blurted out.