Family Bashings

Chapter 3-2

An old-fashioned place, this one was a gem especially as diners in downtown Philly were becoming more and more rare. Doyle felt at home and comfortable in this place, called simply The Corner Diner. As soon as they entered, the aromas of home cooking smothered them in goodness. The sizzle of burgers frying, the fragrance of chicken soup, and the clink of cutlery on plates all lulled customers into a sense of security. A dozen conversations filled the air as patrons ate and drank and enjoyed the convivial atmosphere.

“This place smells great,” Kord said.

Doyle caught the eye of a pert blonde with a spring in her step, who turned out to be the manager. He asked about the night shift since that would be when any possible witnesses might have been working.

She told him she’d only been at the diner about a year and didn’t know much about what went on at night since she was the day manager. But, she told them, if they returned after midnight, they could talk to Vera, the night manager, who’d most likely been on duty the nights of the bashings. Vera had been working at the diner for more than thirty years and knew everyone and everything they might want to know.

Kord thanked her and eyed the place as if he could see into the people sitting there. As if he could tell who was guilty and who was innocent even before he knew what crimes they’d committed. After a moment, he turned back to Doyle.

“I need coffee.”

Doyle glanced at a clock on the wall. “Not even close to lunch but coffee sounds good.”

“And maybe some of that pie.” Kord pointed to a big lemon meringue pie under a thick glass cover on the counter. “I never had breakfast. That bastard called me at five and told me to get to headquarters.”

“Wasn’t much better for me,” Doyle said. He pointed to a booth at the back of the diner. “That okay?”

“Sure, I can keep an eye on the whole place from there. You’ve got good sense for a—”

“Yeah, sure.” Doyle stopped him before he said anything else. “You don’t have to say it. I know exactly what’s on your mind.”

“You think so, do you?” Kord’s voice sounded more carefree—deep, like a sensuous wind chime, still able to curl its way around Doyle’s spine and make him shiver—but lighter somehow. Maybe it was because there wasn’t any anger in it.

The booth was smaller than Doyle had thought it would be but they squeezed in. Kord, against the wall, and Doyle facing him. They were virtually alone in that back corner of the diner. None of the nearby booths or tables were occupied. The breakfast crowd had come and gone. Only a few people lingered over their coffees and newspapers.

“I’ve actually been here a few times,” Doyle said. “Mostly after I’d had enough at the club for the night. This was like an oasis.”

“Full disclosure,” Kord said. “I’ve been here a time or two myself. You’d be surprised where undercover work takes you. And you’d be shocked at the drug deals that went down here.”

“Not sure I’d be shocked at most anything these days.” Doyle felt old. It wasn’t so much his twenty-eight years, or his seven years as a cop and detective. It was everything he’d seen: the people, the cruelty, the casual violence.

“That so?” Kord fidgeted in his seat, getting comfortable. As he did, his knee touched Doyle’s and didn’t move. Consciously or not, Kord kept his knee right where it was.

Doyle caught himself before he reacted and kept his eyes on his menu. The booth was small and both of them were taller than average. Kord, even taller, had long, muscular legs. There wasn’t anywhere else they could go under the table. Doyle looked up from his menu and caught Kord staring at him.

Kord’s cool green eyes mesmerized Doyle whose mind went into overdrive. Kord slipping into his bed. The two of them tangled beneath the sheets, their sweaty bodies sliding against one another. Labored breathing as each wrestled with the other to get closer, more intimate.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Kord asked, his voice gruff.

“What? Why?”

“You made this little sound. Like a moan—no—more like a whimper. Like you were hurt.”

“Hurt?” Doyle felt himself flush. He knew his pale Irish complexion was fire engine red now. “No. Not hurt. Just a little confused.”

“By…?”

Just then, a frowsy waitress stepped up.

“What’ll it be?”

“Just coffee,” Doyle said, still a little dazed by his fantasy. Kord’s knee continued to press against his and he dared not move away. Whatever test Kord was conducting, Doyle intended to pass. That knee, though. It was like fire against Doyle’s leg. It felt as if it would burn through his clothes and on into his flesh. At the same time, it felt good.

He’d wanted to touch Kord the first moment he saw the blond hunk. If this was as close as they’d ever get, he wanted to enjoy it.

“A big piece of that lemon meringue pie and some coffee.” Kord sounded like a little kid. Doyle tried looking at him surreptitiously but that was impossible.

“What? Something on my face? Lint? A bug?”

“Wha—no. Why?”

“You were staring.” Kord moved his napkin and silverware to the side for no good reason. “Oh, I get it.”

“Get what? What’re you talking about?”

“Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.”

“Worry about what? What happens?”

The waitress returned with their coffee and a piece of pie so large it could be used for a pillow.

“Here ya go, fellas. Anything else I can get’cha?”

Kord, fork poised over the mountain of lemon meringue, shook his head. His golden blond curls shivered with the movement.

Doyle said nothing, still wondering what Kord meant. He guessed that Kord understood Doyle was interested in him, had been staring at him. If that was the case, he certainly took it well.

And he hadn’t yet moved his knee. It still pressed firmly against Doyle’s. Solid and steady. If Kord was like that, this could turn out to be a good partnership.

“Where do we go next?” Kord asked then gulped some coffee. The pie was already half gone.

“Might as well hit the two other clubs, see if anybody’s home. Then we check in on the witnesses.”

“I think we ought’a talk to the two detectives who caught this case in the first place.”

“Can’t.”

“Another of the captain’s forbidden areas. Y’know, little man, you gotta put that guy in his place sometime.”

“Nah. It’s not the captain. One of those detectives, Keegan, killed himself about a year or so ago. The other was a guy named Kaine. He moved to Arizona.”

“Okay, then. We make our own way. At least we know where Kaine is if we need him.” Kord put another forkful of pie into his mouth and closed his eyes. Doyle wondered how he kept his shape eating things like that.

“So, next on the list is the Full Moon.”

“Soon as I finish my pie fix.” He drained his coffee cup then looked at Doyle. “You’re thinkin’ that what happened to Podesta is connected to this investigation. Right?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I’m thinking it,” Kord said.

“Could just as easily be one of his drug connections. You’d know that better than I would.” Doyle rolled his cup between his hands.

“No way. Podesta was involved with the drug business but not with the big boys. That’s why we never bothered with him. Nobody cared about him. Not even his crime buds.” Kord wiped his mouth with his napkin and crumpled it. “Gotta be this case. Gotta be.”

“How could it be? No one but us knows we’re reopening the case.” Doyle had briefly considered that someone had leaked this information but rejected it as impossible.

“Us and the captain.” Kord smirked.