The Bone House - Brian Freeman [53]
'A detective?' he asked.
'That's right.'
'Well, Detective, if one of my cops came into work wearing an earring, he'd have a choice. He could either yank it out and go home until the hole closed up, or he could quit.'
Cab grinned, but Reich didn't smile back. He could see the old sheriff studying his smile and thinking: Look at how white those teeth are.
'I guess it's a good thing I don't work for you,' Cab told him.
'What did you say your name was?'
'Cab Bolton.'
'Cab? What kind of name is that?'
'I was named after my grandfather;' Cab replied, selecting a new explanation and a new name to go with it. 'Cornelius Abernathy Bolton.'
'Abernathy?'
Cab just smiled.
Reich grunted and reached for his coffee. 'You here because of Glory Fischer?'
'That's right.'
'You planning to arrest Mark Bradley?'
'For now I just want to find out more about him. About Glory, too.'
The bartender wandered closer and gave Cab an interested smile. She was about twenty-five, with no ring on her finger. She had big brown eyes and round cheeks. 'Can I get you a drink?' she asked Cab.
Reich gestured at the line-up of alcohol bottles behind the bar. 'Yeah, what is it you people drink down in Florida? Mojitos?' He pronounced it moh-jee-toes.
'No thanks,' Cab said.
The bartender winked. 'Maybe you want to join the club instead.'
'What club?'
Reich snuck a smile at the fat men playing pool. They drifted closer and the smoke in the bar thickened. 'Detective, you're not just in a pub,' the sheriff explained. 'This is the worldwide headquarters for the Bitters Club.'
'Oh?'
'That's right. It was started on the island by Tom Nelsen back in eighteen ninety-nine. Nelsen was convinced that Angostura bitters were an elixir of health. Sort of like you Florida folks and orange juice. He drank a pint or so a day.'
'A pint of bitters?' Cab asked.
'It's not exactly Guinness, but you get used to the taste. It's right up there with motor oil. You don't have to down a whole pint, though. If you can put back a shot glass of the stuff, you're in the club.'
Cab wasn't going to let this man win his macho game. 'Sure, set me up.'
The bartender smirked and reached under the bar. She placed a shot glass in front of Cab and filled it with a black liquid that did look suspiciously like motor oil. Cab brought the glass under his nose and smelled it. Reich eyed him carefully, and so did the others, watching for his face to screw up with distaste. He didn't react, despite the noxious aroma that would have awakened a coma patient. He figured it was all or nothing. This wasn't brandy you sipped and savored. He swirled the liquid in the glass, tipped it to his lips, and gulped down the bitters in a single swallow. His lips pinched together involuntarily. His throat contracted. The taste reminded him of chewing cigarette butts picked out of the gutter.
'Like it?' Reich asked.
'Great,' Cab croaked.
'Welcome to the club.'
'I'll call my mom,' Cab replied.
Reich relaxed and smiled, as if Cab had passed a Door County test of endurance. 'So give me the dirt, Detective. What exactly do you have on Mark Bradley?'
Cab played with the empty shot glass. His mouth still tasted like weedkiller. 'Honestly? Not much.'
'I'm sorry to hear it,' the sheriff replied. 'I couldn't nail Bradley for sexual assault last year, because Tresa Fischer was so moon-eyed in love with the bastard that she wouldn't say a word against him. You ask me, a teacher poles one of his kids, he ought to be hauled off to a pig farm for castration. We wouldn't have to worry about repeat offenders.'
'You're sure they were having sex?'
'I read the girl's diary. Her imagination's not that good.'
'Can you think of a reason why Bradley would kill Glory Fischer?' Cab asked.
'I can think of lots of reasons. Maybe he tried to rape her, and she fought back. Maybe he just popped his cork and went off on the girl. Take