1 Who, What, Where, When, Die Page 3

  I entered the restaurant, said hi to Eva the waitress, and then made my way to the family booth -- which is always reserved for us. It's one of those long rectangular ones that really isn't big enough to hold the girth of our family, but since everyone gets up and mingles around a lot no one has a problem sitting down to eat.

  The first person I saw was my mother, who took one look at my outfit and rolled her eyes in absolute disapproval.

  "You go out in public like that?"

  I shrugged. "My power suit is at the dry cleaners," I lied. "Where's great-grandma?"

  "She isn't here yet," my mother chastised me. "I told you on the phone she wouldn't be here until around six."

  Well color me embarrassed -- or annoyed, either one will do.

  I decided that I was done talking to my mother for a while and instead slid in to the booth next to my cousin, Derrick. We'd been raised together since we were only a few months apart in age and he was the closest thing I had to a brother. He was also a cop, so while I was glad to see him I was also leery.

  "What's up?"

  He grunted as he greeted me. That's hello in cop talk. "I talked to Sheriff Farrell today. He told me you were a pain in the ass at that barricaded gunman yesterday." For a second, I flashed to the time when Derrick and I were ten years old and I blackened his eye with a stick while we were ostensibly playing. Then I exhaled slowly to calm my agitation.

  "Well, Sheriff Farrell should pull that stick out and get over it," I replied angrily. "I was doing my job."

  "Yeah, you're always doing your job and you're always an ass when you're doing it."

  Problem was, I really couldn't argue the point. Instead I chose to ignore it.

  "Well, someone else obviously didn't like my attitude at the scene either. I got a threat with my morning paper today. I'm assuming it had to do with that story since it's the only one I filed yesterday."

  For the first time, Derrick looked at me. "Did they threaten to kill you?"

  "Don't sound so hopeful," I said as he grimaced in response. "No, it was just a mind your own business or you'll regret it thing."

  Derrick was quiet for a second; he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "I'm probably going to regret this . . . but maybe you should think about getting a gun."

  My eyebrows practically shot off my head.

  "A gun? Me? Are you kidding me? I could never shoot someone."

  "You wouldn't necessarily have to shoot someone. You could just have it to scare someone. We used to play G.I. Joe all the time as a kid and you didn't have a problem shooting me with a paint gun," he reminded me.

  "A paint gun can't kill you," I said. "A paint gun just makes you look like an asshat."

  Derrick smirked. "You don't need a paint gun to do that. You do that every day you get dressed. The Goonies, really? How old are you?"

  "Nine months younger than you, and you used to love The Goonies, too."

  "Yeah, then I hit puberty."

  "You hit puberty?" Now this was hitting below the belt. My poor 5'4" cousin always took a ribbing about his height. I think that's why he became a cop. No one argues with a cop, even when he can double for an Oompa Loompa.

  Luckily, our petty argument didn't get a chance to escalate because my great-grandmother had chosen that moment to enter with her new husband.

  "What's this one's name?" I changed the subject.

  "Elroy, I think. She met him at the old folks home. She was painting when he knocked on the door to introduce himself. Let's just say she made an impression."

  I smiled to myself. It was well known that, even in her late eighties, my free spirit great-grandmother liked to paint in the nude.

  Derrick smiled at the visual too, and then shuddered.

  "Hello everyone," she trilled in dramatic fashion, as she twirled in her very bright green muumuu.

  Everyone greeted great-grandma Edith with a smile and a kiss on the cheek -- as was expected.

  "Oh, Avery, you're sunburned," she said like a typical concerned great-grandmother. "If you look like a tomato, you're never going to get any action. Men don't like outdoorsy girls. They'd rather have sex with girls who keep a clean house and cook a good meatloaf." Not so much like a typical grandmother.

  Actually, to be fair, my great-grandmother was probably a very good female role model back in the 1950s. She ran the roost, while her first husband just lived in it. She was famous for her demanding personality -- something I was familiar with.

  When my mother was a small child, Great-Grandma Edith would take her and her siblings to the cemetery to steal flower arrangements. One child was to act like a lookout to spot the police while the others gathered enough blooms for the summer. Edith always said the victims of her overt crime were dead, so they wouldn't miss their flowers anyway.

  As far as cooking meatloaf, my great-grandmother was a notoriously bad cook, so I didn't know whom she was trying to appease with that comment. I knew it wasn't herself -- or me. Her first husband was the maestro who launched the restaurant with his wonderful cooking. Her contribution to the restaurant was decorating. My personal favorite was a pair of ceramic frogs that she applied makeup and false eyelashes to which still lived in the women's bathroom today. I guess you could say she was eclectic.

  Everyone was eating at this point. The sun from the day had pretty much sapped my appetite, so I opted for the restaurant's trademark vegetable soup and a salad -- which I mostly just pushed around my plate.

  Chatter was going on around me, so I was lost in my own thoughts when I realized that everyone was not only quiet, but also looking at me. "What?"

  "Grandma was asking you a question," my mother didn't look pleased.

  "Oh, sorry, what was it?"

  "I said, I have a good story for you," she said.

  "Oh, yeah, what is that?" Everyone thinks they have a good story. They usually don't.

  "Well, on the cruise we went on, they had private unisex saunas."

  "Uh, huh." And the "Who Cares?" award goes to?

  "Well, Elroy and I decided to try one out and when we went in we were sliding all over the place. When you're naked, and old, you don't want to slide into things because everything is just flopping around and it gets caught on stuff."

  Derrick looked horrified. The bacon cheeseburger he was eating actually fell out of his mouth. I wasn't far behind with my own terror. She was painting quite a picture -- one that no one wanted to see. "So what's the story?"

  Great-grandma harrumphed. "Well, discrimination against old people, of course. They should have special railings and non-slip flooring. Do you know that people complained about seeing me naked? That's just not right."

  There were so many things about this conversation that just weren't right.

  I turned to Derrick, whose face was about as red as it could get, as he studiously studied his plate and refused to make eye contact with anyone else at the table for fear of laughing. "I'm thinking that gun might be a good idea after all."

  Four

  After two hours of dinner, where my Aunt Sally informed everyone in the restaurant that her husband couldn't be present because she'd fractured his penis the previous evening while having sex, I couldn't get out of the restaurant fast enough.

  I love my Aunt Sally, I find her hilariously fascinating, but hearing about her redneck husband's penis ailments was giving me the willies. Ironically, this wasn't the first time I'd heard about the sexploits of one of my aunt's husbands. Years ago, she came home to find her first husband in bed with another man. That, too, was an often-told family secret. Too often, if you ask me.

  As I made my way back to the city, I let my mind wander back to what Derrick had suggested. A gun. While I really wasn't worried about my safety, the idea of a gun wasn't totally unappealing. Quite frankly, I knew this wouldn't be the final threat I would receive.

  I continued to debate the merits of getting a gun for the hour drive back to Macomb County and ultimately decided that at least looking for one wou
ldn't be such a bad idea. The problem is, I'm an impulse shopper.

  I opted to go to a pawnshop in downtown Mount Clemens, which just happened to be right next door to my favorite coffee shop. I decided to get the coffee first and then made my way into the pawnshop, which I'd seen a hundred times but never actually entered.

  I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't what I saw. I think my ideas of what a pawnshop was supposed to be had been inexplicably shaped by old Miami Vice episodes and that Pawn Stars show on the History Channel.

  This store was bright, clean and much bigger than it looked from the outside. It also housed some weird ass crap in it. There was a giant wooden Indian – Native American, for the politically correct -- statue right inside the door.

  "What the . . . ?"

  "Those actually used to be very popular," a voice said from behind me. "They were housed outside tobacco stores during Prohibition times. They're considered antiques now."

  I turned to find the source of the history lesson and was surprised to see one of the best looking men I'd ever seen in person. He was about six feet tall, with shoulder length brown hair, clear blue eyes and some of the biggest muscles I’d witnessed outside of a gay gym. He was wearing a white tank top and a red flannel shirt over top of it. The flannel was rolled up high enough to show off a set of Native American tattoos on his forearms. Can you say yum?

  I, of course, answered with my hormones. "Thanks for the history lesson." Did I mention when I flirt it comes out snarky?

  "I'm Eliot Kane." Mr. Hunk of Burning Love smiled and extended his hand in greeting. Guess he liked snarky.

  "Avery Shaw."

  "Well, what can I do for you Ms. Shaw?"

  Now here was a conundrum. Most men don't like strong women. And a woman who carries a gun? They really don't like that. The problem is, I'm a crappy liar unless it really benefits me. I can lie to a source, no problem, but lying just to lie doesn't usually benefit me. I opted for the truth.

  "I'm looking for a gun."

  Eliot seemed surprised. "What for?"

  "What do you mean what for? Do you ask everyone that comes in what they want a gun for? I bet if I was a man you wouldn't ask me what I wanted a gun for?"

  "Actually, I would. I don't tend to just hand over a gun to whoever asks for one. My conscience wouldn't allow it."

  "You have a conscience? You own a pawnshop. You take things from people who are desperate and then sell them for a hundred percent markup, and you're worried about what I'm going to do?"

  So much for charming his pants off.

  Surprisingly, he didn't seem that put off. "Are you always like this?"

  "Like what?"

  "So aggressive."

  My eyebrows practically melded with my hairline. "Me? Aggressive? Let me guess, any woman who doesn't just roll over and bat her eyelashes at you and swoon into your big arms is considered aggressive?"

  "No, any woman who comes in with your attitude is aggressive."

  Funnily enough, I couldn't really argue with his statement. That didn't stop me from doing it, though.

  "Listen, you don't know me so don't pretend that you do," I snapped. "I came in here to do business. You obviously don't need my business, so I'll do it elsewhere." I was all prepared to flounce out in all my glory when Eliot started laughing.

  "You just pull shit out of your ass, don't you?"

  "What?"

  "All you have to do is tell me why you want a gun? Is that so hard?"

  "Well, Mr. Nosy, if you must know, I need a gun because I got a threat in my morning paper. I don't plan on shooting anyone, but if people know I have a gun they just might stay away." All right, the truth is, he's too hot to shop somewhere else.

  "Why would someone threaten you?"

  What is this, Twenty Questions? "I happen to be a reporter for The Monitor. You'd be surprised how many people I piss off on a given week."

  "Honey, I think you'd piss just as many people off if you were a cashier," he responded with a throaty laugh. Was he flirting with me? "What kind of gun are you looking for?" He moved down the case and pointed towards the myriad of weapons on display.

  I moved down across from him and blew out a sigh. "I don't know. Nothing too big. Something that can fit in my purse. Something that's safe."

  "First of all, you can't carry it in your purse without a permit," Eliot said. "And, given your temper, I don't suggest you get that permit. You're road rage waiting to happen if I ever saw it."

  "What, you're worried I'll get my period, snap and kill someone?" I think I'd just been insulted.

  "I don't think you can help yourself. That's just the way you are." Now Eliot smiled, a warm smile that lit up his entire face, like he was Han Solo or something. "I didn't say it was a bad thing, or that it wasn't a turn-on, I just don't think you want murder on your record. It may infringe on your job performance."

  What can I say? When you're right, you're right.

  I took in a deep, calming breath. "What do you suggest?"

  "Well, I'm thinking a simple revolver will handle your needs," he said. "And maybe a late dinner will handle mine?"

  "A revolver huh?" Wait, did he just ask me out? Don't acknowledge it, I warned myself.

  "Did you just hit on me?" I don't listen to anyone's advice, even my own.

  Eliot laughed. "Is that okay?"

  Here's the thing. I like to play the game, but I'm not really good at the dating thing. I think it has to do with my freedom level. I don't like to be told what to do – or when to do it. I made a split second decision.

  "How about we compromise?"

  He waited for me to continue.

  "Yes to the gun and maybe to dinner -- another night. I actually have something going on tonight."

  "Oh yeah, what's that? A date with someone else?"

  This was a sticky situation. If I lied and said I had a date with someone else he might lose interest. If I told the truth, and owned up to what I was really doing he would definitely lose interest. Like I said, though, I'm a crappy liar.

  "Well, if you must know, I'm going to see the Star Wars symphony at Independence Hill." How much of a geek am I?

  Eliot actually snorted with laughter. "I'm sorry, the Star Wars symphony? Is that actually a real thing?"

  "Yes, it's a thing!" Now I knew I'd been insulted. "I'll have you know, this show has been sold out for weeks."

  "I'm sure it has," Eliot said with a smirk. "Well, how about this? There's a three-day waiting period for the gun. Why don't we revisit dinner when you come back in for it?"

  That sounded reasonable, and his smile was practically orgasm inducing. I felt myself melting -- a rare feeling for me.

  "I'll take you to Tattooine or something," he just didn't know when to quit. "Maybe you can wear that Princess Leia bikini?"

  They always go for the bikini don't they? Every fan boy’s wet dream. What an asshole.

  Five

  After leaving the hot pawnshop owner and his very unattractive attitude I was in quite a snit. Who did this guy think he was? He obviously thought he was God's gift to women. Problem was, he probably was right.

  I discarded thoughts of Eliot Kane from my head and perked myself up by jamming to the Star Wars soundtrack in the CD player of my car. There is no problem too big to be alleviated by the medal ceremony music from the first Star Wars.

  Independence Hill is a relatively small concert venue in Sterling Heights. It seats a couple thousand, but it has a nice and cozy feel to it. I found myself quickly putting my encounter with Eliot Kane out of my head in anticipation of some good music.

  I pulled into the amphitheater's parking lot, flashed my press credentials -- hey, I'm not paying for parking when I don't have to -- and found a spot with relatively easy access to the exits.

  I checked myself out in the mirror and, if possible, I think I'd gotten even redder. Great. I mentally smacked myself for wearing a Goonies T-shirt to a Star Wars event -- I didn't like to mix my genres. Well, ther
e was nothing I could do about that now.

  I got out of the car and took in the environment with a smile. Star Wars fans are a relatively unique breed. They're generally men, from the ages of 13 to 35. Any women present -- and there were precious few -- looked like they had been dragged there against their wishes.

  "Hey, watch it lady!"

  I stumbled into a big black sheet of clothing. Upon pulling back, I realized it was Darth Vader -- or some sexually repressed teenager dressed up like Darth Vader.

  "Sorry," I mumbled. "I didn't see you." I don't know how I missed him.

  Vader ignored my apology and caught up to his friends, who were dressed up like stormtroopers, and went on his way.

  "What is it, asshole day?"

  No one answered, of course.

  I made my way into the amphitheater and found my optical senses assailed by a flurry of Tattooine inhabitants and whirling light sabers. Great, it was going to be a long night. There's nothing worse than a fan that actually thinks he's a Jedi.

  As I moved to the left I ran in to Barry Whitfield, one of the executives of Independence Hill.

  "Hey Barry," I said congenially. He was a good source.

  "Avery, I guess I shouldn't be surprised," Barry responded. "If anyone loves Star Wars, it's you."

  "Yeah, I'm nothing if not predictable."

  Barry and I made small talk for a few minutes, including a tip that I should go to the Roseville City Council meeting later in the week -- apparently there was going to be a big to-do about a crematorium -- and we said our goodbyes.

  "Sorry I couldn't chat longer," he apologized. "I have a feeling it's going to be war between the good guys and bad guys before it's all said and done tonight."

  I couldn't help but agree with him. Letting loose thousands of guys in a closed off space with alcohol and plastic light sabers was begging for a couple of head injuries. No matter what age the men were.

  I decided to get something to drink to take the edge off. I walked up to the concession stand and ordered a light beer. You know, less calories.