Project Purple

20 - The Detective

Noontime, when Rigor could get away, was the social hour at the Food Court.

Doogan, with his bad liver, never stopped off for drinks with the other cops after work, and this was just one reason why Rigor got along so well with Doogan-He was always straight up sober.

Neither detective trusted the other cops: Someone always seemed to have a hand in a till somewhere, or they were pimping their own strip girls, or they were strutting into steak houses like royalty and expecting everything to be on the house. Power corrupted, and it didn't matter what section you worked, you could always find an easy angle.

"We're a couple of mastadons, we are," Doogan snorted, "I should be retiring, but I can't, wife won't let me, because she wanted four kids, that's why I can't retire."

Rigor grinned. "None of 'em look like you."

"That's my point."

A young staffer from one of the food counters at the end of the rectangular plaza, sauntered by, texting into her phone, and the two men watched her put extra swing into her hips as she sashayed by.

"Look, you still got your hair," Doogan mused, "no pot belly, you can land a good woman. You got your best times ahead of you. When you locate your girl, this Goatwench, you have to find out if she's single."

"She's not my girl."

"But you wish. You'd like to see her out of those-What do you call them? - Her sit-upons."

"She's in trouble."

"She's baiting you."

Riggor shrugged. "Think I'll stay on the line a bit longer."

"Glad you didn't say 'let's'".

With a plastic fork, Doogan went back to his enchilada, and Rigor looked pained. "Why do you eat the same food every day? Look around you, there's a whole global culinary experience waiting for you."

Doogan made a face and then coughed. "I'm a sucker for refried beans."

Rigor walked off, and Doogan watched him go, then called out, "Trouble is they don't like me!"

Rigor walked down to an empty area of the Food Court, which had a latticed roof, and the continguous food counters huddled in unappetizing shadows. Rigor never saw more than a handful of people eating from these places-the Falafels, or the Teppan-yaki, or the Curry.

He stepped up to the Falafel counter, which featured an attractive side of pork on a spit, thinking he'd go with the Middle-East for lunch. But there was no one to take his order.

He leaned across the counter. "Hello!"

No answer. Strange. He looked at the next counter, the Japanese Teppan-yaki, which also seemed eerily vacant.

Then he caught a trace of speech, a murmuring, coming through the Falafel call speaker that was clipped to the post.

"They're holding back ... It's like some of them know things, like they're all privy to something that we're not." - He knew the voice: his Goatwench. He leaned toward the little speaker, flummoxed.

"Why the mystery? Why the huggermugger?" - He knew that voice, too-the African-American they called theTallyman. The sound of rushing water restrained their voices but Rigor heard well enough.