Mr. Softee by Mike Faricy Page A

yet, I was just looking…”
    “Typical,” she smiled.
    Her wine and my next beer arrived a few minutes later.
    “C an you tell me, is Jennifer working tonight?” Jill asked the waitress.
    “What was her last name, again?”
    “McCauley, Jennifer McCauley,” I said.
    “Oh, didn’t you guys hear? She was in a car accident.”
    “A car accident ? No, we didn’t hear anything, least I didn’t, you?” Jill asked looking at me.
    I shook my head.
    “What happened? Is she okay?”
    “Well, she’s in the hospital . She’ll be okay, I guess, but she was pretty banged up. Some guy hit her from behind and just kept on pushing her. She was driving home last night. I think she was on the High Bridge at the time. She’s lucky he didn’t push her off or something, you know?”
    “Did they get the guy?” I asked . I was pretty sure I knew the answer.
    “No, it was after her shift, so sorta late at night, you know . Hit and run. I guess all she saw were these big headlights, you know those real bright kind. Her car was totaled. She’s lucky she wasn’t killed is all I can say. Anyway, you guys ready to order?”
    “Maybe give us a minute,” I said.
    “God, the poor girl,” Jill said after taking a big sip of wine. “Sometimes people are just crazy.” She grabbed a menu and opened it.
    “Jill, is it just me or does it seem a little strange that after your fire, the only potential witness is rear ended on the High Bridge by a big car with bright lights.”
    “What?”
    “Jennifer’s accident. Mister Softee gets broadsided in a hit-and-run. Your fire. Now this Jennifer in a hit-and-run. What does all that tell you?”
    “That you’re some kind of a paranoid freak?” she said not looking up from her menu.
    “What about the brakes on your sister’s car?”
    “Hey look . Annie doesn’t think to put oil into her car until the light comes on. As for her brakes, they’ve been making noise for five weeks. Her solution is to just turn up the radio. God knows she didn’t pay attention to me bitching about it. What are you going to have?”
    “Another beer.”
     
    Chapter Twenty-Nine
     
    The following morning, armed with the remnants of a hangover and the not-so-pleasant memory of Mr. Softee’s note scrawled across my invoice, I decided to pay him a call.
    He answered the phone at the gate and buzzed me in himself . The dogs were nowhere to be seen. Although I’d just spoken to him less than a minute before I had to ring the doorbell and wait. I rang it again.
    After I rang the third time the door opened almost immediately. Mr. Softee stood there with a chrome metal cane. Most of his weight rested on his right leg. His right hand held onto the large brass door knob and his left arm rested against the door frame, blocking my way. His injured leg was set inside a gray plastic walking cast and held in place with a series of black nylon straps. He wore pressed, loose-fitting navy blue trousers, an expensive looking polo shirt and a dark scowl.
    “What the hell is it?” he snapped.
    “Well, for starters it ’s my invoice. You sent it back to me.”
    I pulled the envelope out of my back pocket, took the invoice out and unfolded it. I hoped his note, foolishly scrawled in red across the bottom would be self-explanatory and he would just cut me a check.
    “So ?”
    I waited a beat then said,
    “But you signed a co ntract with me less than twenty-four hours beforehand.”
    “I did?”
    “Yeah, we were right in the kitchen, don’t you remember? You forced a can of Busch light on me.”
    “Perhaps, if you could show me the contract, I would be able to remember.”
    You pompous prick. You know damn well you signed it. You’re just trying to rip me off, I thought. Then said,
    “I’d be happy to , sir. I have it right here.” I pulled the contract out of my back pocket, unfolded it, handed it to him and stood there looking quite satisfied.
    “This isn’t my signature,” he said squinting at the pinkish