Chapter Text
“Could you at least have a look into this? For me?”
Morrison sighs tiredly, rubbing his unshaven chin.
“I don’t know, Katherine,” he mutters, taking a glance at the menu and cursing inwardly at the prices, “I told you already, I’m quitting, and quitting for good this time…”
“Are you?” Katherine’s eyebrows disappear underneath her crookedly cut fringe, “Or is Bridget saying that you are?”
He huffs a raspy chuckle.
“You know just about as well as I do, that’s the same goddamn thing,” he mumbles, fighting with a lighter, “If my lady says I’m quitting, then I’m quitting, all right. Besides, she does have a point, I’ll give her that.” The lighter finally ignites a spark and Morrison lights up his cigar. “Not many folks live up to my age in this line of work, I ain’t gonna keep pushing my luck any longer. Last thing I want is to leave Bridget alone with the kids, the house, and the mortgage, nu-uh, miss, that’s not something a gentleman does.”
Katherine huffs, leaning back in her seat; the gray light of early morning is filtering through the dirty windows, giving her pale face a sickly shade and emphasizing shadows under her eyes. Morrison looks at her sympathetically.
“Tough night?”
“Oh, don’t even get me started,” she sighs, “These kids in the ER, I don’t even know…” She cuts herself off abruptly, giving Morrison a sharp glance. “Look, Jay, you’ve got your own problems to deal with, I get it, and Lord knows I don’t want to stand between you and Bridget…”
Morrison laughs, taking a sip of his coffee.
“And that sure ain’t something I’m going to hold against you.”
Katherine smiles weakly, but then her face scrunches up in worry yet again.
“My point is, though, I don’t know anyone else who could help me right now. I’m not saying you need to take the job, but if you could at least have a look at it, it’d mean the world to me.” She reaches for his hand across the table, her eyes pleading. “Please, just this once? For old time’s sake?”
Morrison flicks the ash off his cigar onto the dirty ashtray, cursing his own ridiculous tendencies to play a knight whenever he stumbles upon a damsel in distress.
“All right, for old time’s sake,” he says finally, shaking his head, “I’ll tell Bridget it’s my last job, but then no more!” He raises his finger in warning, but Katherine’s already grinning, ignoring his half-hearted attempts at intimidation.
“Thanks,” she says, squeezing his fingers lightly and jumping up from her seat, “Let me buy you the breakfast, it’s never good to discuss business on empty stomach.”
“Must’ve been some real wise man to teach you this.”
Katherine rolls her eyes before sauntering away towards the counter to make an order; Morrison sighs and leans back against the dirty, red cushions.
Roddy’s Diner is almost empty, though it’s not a surprising fact this early in the morning, when most of the place’s potential guests are either on their way home after a whole night of heavy partying or already nursing their hangovers in the quiet of their own bathrooms; aside from Morrison and Katherine, the only other people in the diner are a worn-out, middle-aged man, curled up in a booth right by the doors and staring numbly at the cup of steaming coffee in his hands, and some young, leather-clad punk, leaning against the counter and flirting shamelessly with the waitress; he whispers something into her ear and the girl blushes, her nervous giggle causing Morrison to wrinkle his nose in distaste.
A plate of steaming pancakes, dripping with maple syrup appears right under Morrison’s nose, instantly drawing his thoughts away from the waitress, her wooer, and literally anything not directly connected to breakfast.
Katherine slides back into their booth with her own portion of pancakes, looking at Morrison with a slightly indulgent smile, tugging at the corners of her lips.
“Does Bridget know she’s not the only queen of your heart?”
“That she does,” Morrison huffs a raspy chuckle, “Says it ain’t no shame, to lose to such a rival. What can I say? Roddy’s a card-cheating bastard, but he must have gotten the recipe for those pancakes from Holy Mary herself.” He takes a huge bite of the flapjack, savoring its buttery sweetness. “Now, that is what I call an excellent opportunity to discuss business, miss.”
Bridget’s smile falters a bit, a tired sigh escaping her lips.
“I’ll be honest with you: I don’t know what to think about it all myself. Might be that I’m just overreacting, trying to see a pattern where there is none, but…”
Morrison nods understandingly.
“But you’ve got a bad hunch.”
“I do. Hell, I do.” She pushes her pancake apathetically from one side of the plate to the other, and had it not been for the fact that Katherine’s obviously disturbed, he’d find her lack of appreciation for the finest pancakes in all of Lawrence highly concerning. “Okay, so it goes like this: some three months ago, we had a baby admitted to the hospital. It was a little kid, not even half a year old; the parents said it was born perfectly healthy, a beautiful, happy, thriving child, up until a couple of weeks prior, when it started to lose its strength, somehow; stopped smiling, stopped cooing, lost weight. The kid didn’t look all too well, so we ran all the possible tests and found nothing, literally not a single thing that could be wrong with it – no infections, no genetic defects, the blood results were perfect – everything seemed to be just fine. We didn’t know what to tell the parents, so we kept the child on observation, and then… then it just died, two days after that. We haven’t even been able to identify the cause of death, it was like its heart just stopped for no apparent reason.” Katherine finally takes a bite of her breakfast, a small wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. “At first, I just thought it must have been some sort of bad luck. Children die, sometimes, more and more rarely, but there’s only so much medicine can do. We’d be foolish to think we know all the diseases in the world, maybe that poor little thing was sick with something we have no idea about?” She shakes her head, glancing out at the empty street outside of the diner.
Morrison pushes an empty plate away and lights a cigar, leaning back on his seat.
“But it happened again, didn’t it?” he inquires gently.
Katherine jerks, drawn out from her thoughts and gives him an apologetic look.
“It did,” she says quietly, “Ten more children in just three months.” Katherine rubs her temple tiredly. “Most times it looked just like SIDS, but… I can’t help but feel like there’s something off here, Jay. This happens too frequently. I was visiting a mother of one of those kids; I was assisting the birth, it was a beautiful, perfectly healthy girl, and… This child wasn’t sick,” she says firmly, “But it died anyway, almost without a warning. I hate to say it, but please, tell me you’ve heard of anything like that before.”
Morrison hums thoughtfully, reaching for his coffee.
“And I hate to disappoint you, Kat, but I don’t think I have.” She curses silently and Morrison clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Oh, don’t you lose your hope in me that easily, miss, there’s always gotta be a first time. I’m not saying it’s not something from my field of work, I’m just saying I’ll need to think about it.”
Katherine sighs again.
“You do that,” she says, rising from her seat, “And I’ll powder my nose in the meantime. You better have some ideas when I’m back.”
Morrison just grunts noncommittally, watching Katherine disappear in the bathroom and puffing circles of smoke.
Another silly giggle coming from the counter catches his attention and he looks at the pair of kids with disapproval.
Perhaps it is a sign of old age that every single time he sees a lad trying to hit on a miss, he pictures his own daughter in her place, but right now, that picture does not seem appealing in the slightest. The boy looks way too much like trouble, with all that leather, spikes, and hair dyed white, of all the possible colors, and the girl is positively awestruck, staring at him with doe eyes and nervously scrunching a paper towel she’s holding in her hands.
Morrison frowns, taking a better look at the boy.
If there’s one thing he’s learned throughout his long years of work, it’s to always trust his guts; sometimes it causes him to come out as a little paranoid, but other times, it saves lives, including his own. And right now, his guts are most certainly uncertain about that white-haired kid.
There’s something wrong about him, something off, that Morrison can’t quite put his finger on, but he sure as Hell doesn’t like it. Something that goes beyond being an irresponsible, surely untrustworthy, overly self-assured brat, trying to pick up an innocent girl, undoubtedly only to break her heart afterward.
Something predatory, for the lack of a better word.
Morrison’s still observing the back of the kid’s head when Katherine comes back from the bathroom and takes her seat.
“I’ll look into it,” Morrison says before she has a chance to open her mouth, finally tearing his gaze away from the teenagers at the counter, “It won’t hurt to poke around a little, for your own peace of mind, if not for anything else. I’ll need everything you have on this case, the medical records, autopsy reports, the addresses of the late children, every single detail even remotely connected to it, no matter how unimportant it might seem.” He puffs a perfect circle of smoke. “Must warn you, though, it doesn’t sound much like anything from my field of work.”
Katherine sighs tiredly; the first golden rays of the rising sun fall into the diner through the blinds, shining over the deep shadows of early wrinkles on her face.
“I know,” she says, “And still… I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but I do hope you’ll find something. That it really is a rogue demon’s fault, and not…”
Morrison nods.
“It always makes things a lot easier, doesn’t it?”
“What can I say? We sure do love having someone to blame.” Katherine smiles weakly. “Do you want me to drop all those paper at your house?”
“By Lord, no,” Morrison chuckles, shaking his head, “Bridget can’t know you talked me into taking one more job, or you’ll be banned from entering our house until the trumpets sound. No, just drop them at my office, or leave ‘em with James if I’m not around. I’ll get to it as soon as I can, though it might take me some time since I’m on my own now.” He drums his fingers against the dirty table. “Shame you didn’t come to me a week ago, would have told Alan to stick around for this one.”
“It’s fine, Jay, take as much time as you want. I’m grateful you agreed to investigate it at all.” Katherine downs the rest of her coffee and raises from her seat, looking expectantly at Morrison. “Are you coming?”
He glances briefly at the white-haired kid, still leaning against the counter, and shakes his head.
“Run along, miss, don’t let an old man slow you down.” He shrugs at Katherine’s raised eyebrow. “I like to enjoy my morning coffee, you see.”
Considering that Roddy’s Diner takes pride in serving the worst coffee in the entire state, Katherine’s doubtful stare is somewhat justified; still, she’s kind enough not to question it.
“Let me know if you find anything. And… thank you. Really.”
“Don’t thank me yet, missy. Didn’t do no useful thing, if I get thanked for nothing too much, I might grow lazy in my old years.”
Katherine just hums in amusement and leaves, the bell above the doors sounding in the relative quiet of the diner; the gray man in the booth right by the entrance jerks, almost spilling out his coffee. Morrison reaches for the newspaper he bought before meeting with Katherine and begins scanning the pages, all the while glancing at the sweethearts at the bar and smoking the remains of his cigar.
Bridget is going to raise Hell once she hears about ‘one, last job’, of that he’s certain. And he can’t even blame her, to be fair – demon-hunting might be good for the young, wild and a tad bit crazy, not for middle-aged men with families to feed. Ever since Jessica was born, he’s been growing more and more tired of the poorly paid jobs, the constant travels, of his children growing up without him more than with him.
And still, he just couldn’t say no to Katherine. Even if he didn’t owe her enough favors from the good old times, the poor thing’s got a heart of gold. If there’s any way to keep her from worrying herself to death, then Hell, if Morrison’s not going to take it.
“Not that I’m complainin’, but that coffee y’got here’s kinda shit, ain’t it?”
Morrison strains his ears, all the while pretending to be entirely captivated by the story of one Mrs. Crowley’s enormous cauliflower. How the reporters of ‘Lawrence Today’ manage to find the most unimportant, ridiculous, and utterly dull stories in this godforsaken city will never cease to amaze him.
The waitress (Minnie, Morrison remembers) giggles yet again; out of the corner of his eye, he can see the flush on her freckled cheeks, as she leans in towards her admirer.
“I know,” she says in a lowered voice (though not nearly quiet enough for Morrison not to be able to hear her), “Roddy’s just such a tightwad, you know, this stuff probably expired like, ten years ago. But…” she glances at the doors to the kitchen, biting her lip in uncertainty, “Well, I could get ya something better, if you’d like. Since you’re… new here, and all.”
“Oh, I’d love that, babe.”
Morrison almost rolls his eyes at how giddy that seemingly simple statement makes Minnie; she disappears at the back of the diner, her eyes never entirely leaving the boy at the counter.
As soon as the doors close behind the waitress, the kid stretches out lazily, taking an unassuming look at the whole restaurant; Morrison makes a point of turning the page of his newspaper, studying the crossword with utter concentration.
His little act must be convincing enough, because the boy doesn’t spare him a second glance, instead gracefully reaching behind the counter; a very, very soft click of a cash register being opened reaches Morrison’s ears.
The kid’s one Hell of a cheeky brat, he’s gotta give him that.
By the time Minnie’s back with a fresh cup of coffee, the boy’s back to his previous, fully relaxed position.
“Thanks, doll. You’re savin’ my life here, honest.”
Minnie burns an even brighter shade of red, which doesn’t sit well with her carrot-orange hair at all, but Morrison’s had just about enough of listening to her acting like a babe in the woods; he puts the rolled newspaper under his arm and pushes himself off the seat.
The guy by the doors must be asleep for good this time because he doesn’t even jerk at the sound of the bell above the doors.
The rising sun does the empty, dingy alley some favor; it doesn’t look half as bad, as it usually does, but then again, that is just a thing about sunrises in general – the gold-etched promise of a new, fresh day, the illusion of endless possibilities, making everything seem less grim, even in a place like Lawrence.
Morrison strolls towards the end of the alley and leans against the brick wall, now warmed by the sun, returning to his lecture and puffing at the cigar every now and then.
The morning is unusually pleasant for the beginning of autumn, almost as if the summer’s forgotten it was supposed to pass, though Morrison sure as Hell isn’t going to complain. Knowing Lawrence, he’ll have plenty of cold drizzle in no time, and considering that cold drizzle is what usually makes every single one of his old injuries pipe up, he’s planning on enjoying the warmth while it lasts.
He doesn’t even make it half the way through the crossword when the bell sounds again, but he doesn’t take his eyes away from the newspaper until the kid’s almost passed him by.
“So you think you’re so smart, huh?”
The footsteps stop.
“Gotta say, I don’t really do much of that ‘thinkin’’ stuff, so if y’got some problem with me, old man, y’need to be a lil’ more specific.”
Morrison folds the newspaper and finally gets a good look at the boy standing in front of him, squinting a little in the bright light.
The kid does look a bit runty; in spite of the challenging look he’s giving Morrison, seemingly entirely relaxed with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, the boy’s good two inches shorter than him, and skinny enough for Morrison to be able to tell he hasn’t been eating well in a long time.
Still, in Minnie’s defense, he’s one Hell of a pretty thing. Way too pretty for his own good, most likely, judging by a hint of apprehension, gleaming in his eyes, by the way his entire body stiffens, as if ready to bolt at Morrison’s first sudden movement.
White hair, blue eyes, but no claws. No fangs. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a stray kid, one of many on the streets of Lawrence.
Morrison crosses his hands on his chest, giving the boy an unimpressed look.
“What’s your name, kid?”
The boy stiffens even more, though he’s hiding it quite well; had Morrison not spent the last twenty years of his life among creatures trying to look tougher than they really are, he might have fallen for it.
“Why, you’re a cop?”
“No. Merely a concerned citizen.” Morrison puffs a circle of smoke, causing the kid to wrinkle his nose in distaste.
“Name’s Tony,” he drawls, a slight lilt to his voice.
“Just Tony?”
The kid rolls his eyes.
“Anthony Redgrave,” he says, giving Morrison a mock salute, “Wanna hear my ma’s maiden name as well? Or can I like, go, maybe? ‘Cause I got places to be and people to meet, y’know, and no offense, but y’don’t exactly seem like a very fun guy to hang out with.”
Morrison chuckles, shaking his head.
“Out of all the things that just left your mouth kid, this last bit might actually be true, but I’m gonna call bullshit on the whole rest.”
“Look, mate, y’can call the damn Queen for all I care. I just don’t see how your calling’s my problem, so if you’d just lemme pass…”
“And let you ride off into the sunrise with poor Roddy’s hard-earned cash? I don’t think so, boy.”
The kid doesn’t even bat an eye; his grin just grows even wider, as he crosses his arms on his chest, mimicking Morrison’s posture.
“Y’got somethin’ hella confused, mate,” he says calmly, his voice tinged with mock worry, “It’s kind of a hot morning, ain’t it? D’ya want me to call someone?”
Morrison sighs, putting out his cigar with the heel of his boot.
“That loud mouth is gonna get you in trouble, boy, mark my words.”
“Yeah, if I got a dollar every time I heard that, then it’d be Billy fuckin’ Gates gettin’ my coffee right now.”
“Let’s get something straight Tony, or whatever it is that you call yourself.” Morrison picks some nonexistent mote off his duster. “You just stole a certain amount of cash from Roddy Fisher. I saw you stealing said amount of cash from Roddy Fisher. There are two ways things can play out now: the easy one or the hard one. Whichever you choose, it’s all on you.”
The kid narrows his eyes at him.
“Fine,” he chirps, “Let’s pretend I did steal somethin’, which I didn’t, by the way. Whatcha gonna do about it, huh? Call the cops?”
Morrison barks a raspy laughter.
“Oh, dear God, no,” (there’s a grimace, a tiniest little hint of one in the corner of the boy’s mouth at Morrison’s words; could be nothing at all, but even a nothing is worth noting, sometimes), “The only good reason for calling cops in Lawrence is finding a corpse in your chimney, and even then you’d be much better off burying it somewhere nice on your own. No, that is not how the hard way goes.” He points to the diner behind them, the only functioning letter in its neon sign blinking pitifully. “You see, that lovely place over there belongs to one Roddy Fisher. As far as the Fishers go, Roddy’s more of a pretty sleazy shrimp, but his brother? Well, Jonah Fisher is a whole other story.” The kid fidgets somewhat nervously, but Morrison pays him no mind, calmly continuing his story. “The thing about Jonah Fisher is that he’s a car mechanic. A good one. A smart one. And, most importantly, a discreet one. People around here need Jonah Fisher and it just so happens, they generally like Jonah Fisher, because he’s a decent guy. But that’s not the end of the story,” he says, raising his finger as the kid opens his mouth, “Jonah Fisher has kids, and one of his kids is a freckled little thing called Minnie; Jonah sure does love his girl, but even he knows she ain’t the brightest bulb in the box. And it’s all fine, you know, she’s a lost cause when it comes to the more delicate parts of the family business, so dear old uncle Roddy took her under his wing, made her a waitress. Minnie’s earning her pocket money, Roddy’s making sure she doesn’t get herself into trouble, everyone’s happy.” Morrison can tell that the kid already knows all too well where his tale is going, and he allows himself a small smile. “Now, if I told Roddy that some white-haired punk not only robbed him in the bright daylight but also tried to mess with poor, little Minnie, then you’d have to get your ass out of this neighborhood before the Sunday Mass, that’s for sure.”
The kid continues to give him a blank stare for a few seconds, before he sighs in defeat, a look of grim acceptance creeping onto his face.
“A’ight, fine,” he mutters, digging his hands deeper into his pockets, which gives him the air of a particularly sulky preschooler; Morrison realizes he can’t be older than sixteen, if not younger, “I took ‘em damn Benjamins, yeah, though it ain’t like that Roddy guy actually deserved ‘em in the first place. He should pay fuckin’ reparations to anyone unfortunate enough to put that shit he calls ‘coffee’ in their mouth. Also, ain’t my fault that I’m hot and that babe’s dumb as a rock.” The boy tilts his head slightly to the side, eyeing Morrison curiously. “Okay, the Hell d’ya want from me?”
Morrison hums thoughtfully.
“Where did you get the idea that I want anything from you?”
“That’s kinda obvious, innit?” The boy balances back and forth on his feet, seemingly fully relaxed. “Y’said you ain’t gonna call the cops, so it’s not like you’re a member of the crime watch or somethin’. If you just wanted me to give that cash back, you woulda turned me on back in that diner, instead of gangin’ up on me in that shithole of an alley, so yeah, I’m pretty sure ya want somethin’. Just not really sure what, unless the looks really can be deceiving and ya actually like random quickies in semi-public places, ‘cause it’s like, the only thing I got to offer, so.”
Much later, when Morrison will be recalling that encounter, he’ll never be able to tell what exactly it was, that led him to make that particular decision; if it was about this strange hunch, that just wouldn’t go away no matter how unjustified it seemed, or a sudden bright idea, or if he just felt sorry for the kid. Perhaps it was a mixture of all these things, who knows.
As it is now, though, he pushes himself off the wall, a small grimace tugging at the corner of his lips as an old wound on the hip pulses with dull pain.
“Let me buy you a drink, kid.”
***
“Not tryin’ to be rude, mate, but that’s not what I expect when someone offers me a drink.”
Morrison hums in amusement, getting comfortable on the bright red couch and straightening his sore leg under the table.
“See, boy, when I was about your age, my father told me that every man ought to have some principles. They don’t need to be anything fancy, mind you, just a couple of rules to grow a spine upon.” He reaches for one of the two huge, double-cream strawberry milkshakes the waitress has just placed between them and takes a sip. “Unluckily for ya, one of my principles is not letting children get drunk on my watch. Besides, these are the best milkshakes in this whole wretched town, so believe me when I say it, kid, you’ll be thanking me yet.”
Tony doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he does bring his own glass closer, toying with the straw uncertainly.
“Y’gonna just keep starin’ at me?”
“Oh, I just wouldn’t want to miss that moment.”
“What moment?” Morrison just keeps drinking his own shake in silence, causing the boy to roll his eyes impatiently. “’Kay, whatever. Keep bein’ creepy if that’s your jam, sure.” He takes a sip and his irises widen in surprise, an expression of pure awe creeping onto his face.
Morrison lets out a raspy chuckle.
“That moment,” he states, winking at the grinning waitress over the kid’s shoulder, “Good stuff, ain’t it?”
“Good? Dude, that’s the best stuff I’ve ever tried!” Tony latches himself onto the drink like a man dying from dehydration, while the waitress comes back with yet another glass of strawberry milkshake, accompanied by a large plate of steaming waffles she sets in front of the boy.
“Thank you very much for that, Josie,” Morrison fetches a cigar out of the pocket of his coat and smiles at the woman, “Give Chico my regards, will ya?”
“Will do, hon.” Josie glances at Tony, a mischievous glimmer in her eyes. “I’ll tell him his milkshake got your job done yet again.”
She leaves for a table on the opposite side of the bar, leaving Morrison alone under the boy’s suspicious stare.
“Y’gonna kill me, aintcha? Bet that stuff’s spiked.”
Morrison lights up his cigar, giving the kid an amused look.
“That’s something you should’ve thought about before you absorbed it all, young man.” Seeing as Tony’s still frozen over the waffles, glaring at him, Morrison sighs. “It’s just food, boy, nothing fishy. If you don’t want it, hand it over, I’ll be happy to…”
“No!” Tony protectively brings the plate closer, before he remembers himself and grins cheekily. “I mean, who cares, right? That looks like a good last meal to me.”
Morrison chuckles.
“That it sure does.”
Tony nods and attacks the waffles with barely restrained ferocity, confirming two of the assumptions Morrison’s made so far.
One: the kid is hungry.
Two: the kid is hella lot of bark, but bite? Not so much.
Morrison rubs his chin thoughtfully, watching as the kid destroys a waffle mountain at an alarming speed.
Demons are good liars, he’s learned. But no demon he’s ever met would willingly walk around starving.
He takes a deep drag of his cigar.
“Now,” he starts, clearing his throat, “Tony, was it?”
The kid beams at him between one waffle and another.
“Aww, you remembered!”
Morrison doesn’t take the bite this time.
“What are you doing here?”
Tony shrugs, stuffing his mouth full.
“Makin’ the best out of a random encounter with a creepy old dude before he murders me and buries my chopped body in six different states?” His face lights up. “Hey, maybe we’ll even make it into the evening news! We’d have to play it out super cool, but…”
Morrison decides that even if the kid has nothing to do with demons whatsoever, he sure as Hell could teach them a lot about being impossibly annoying.
“Let me phrase it differently,” he says, resting his elbows on the counter, “You’re a kid. And don’t give me none of that ‘I’ll be eighteen in a week’ crap, think we’re both too smart for it,” he adds, seeing as Tony opens his mouth to cut in, “You’re a kid, and kids don’t usually hang around in the world by themselves. Where’s your father, boy?”
“Gettin’ cigs.” Tony’s face scrunches up in thought. “Though now that ya mention it, he’s been gettin’ ‘em for quite a while now. Guess he just can’t find his favorite brand.”
Assumption number three could be considered confirmed.
“And your mother?”
Tony shrugs.
“No idea. She ain’t gonna be lookin’ for me, that’s for sure,” he chirps lightly, “Actually, no one’s gonna be lookin’ for me if that’s what you’re worried about. As far as serial killers go, I’m a perfect catch, so c’mon, let’s make each other famous or somethin’. Promise it’ll be fun.”
Morrison just shakes his head.
The kid could be lying, though Morrison is familiar with most missing children reports, out of professional curiosity. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen a report on a kid, who’d look anything like Tony.
Meaning, there probably really is no one looking for him.
Meaning, he’s a nobody’s child.
Living in Lawrence has made Morrison meet many kids like him over the years; kids whose parents were killed in one gang war or another, whose parents knew too much or just didn’t care enough to keep an eye on them.
If they’re especially feisty, they sometimes make it out of their teens.
Sometimes.
Morrison flicks ash off his cigar.
"You're not from around here, are you?"
Tony huffs a laugh.
"What, you know every single person in this city?" He stirs the milkshake with the straw and hums softly. "Fuck, maybe you do. Nah, I'm just sightseeing."
“Why here?"
“Heard the climate’s awesome.” He shrugs at Morrison's steely glare. “What? You gotta appreciate your hometown more, sir, it’s a real hot destination right now.”
“Any appreciation for this place would be too much appreciation, trust me on that, kid.” He takes another drag of his cigar and puts it down on the ashtray. “Been here for a long time?”
“Nope.” The kid licks the last droplets of the milkshake off the straw.
“Good,” Morrison reaches into his pocket, “I’ve got an offer for you.”
He fetches out his business card and slides it across the table towards Tony, who picks it up uncertainly.
“What’s that?”
“My phone number and the address of my office,” Morrison keeps searching his pockets for the change to pay for their desserts, “Should you have troubles finding the place, just ask anyone about J.D. Morrison, chances are they’ll point you in the right direction.”
The boy looks at him curiously, as if he’s just seen him for the first time.
“So you’re tellin’ me, you’re J.D. Morrison? The J.D. Morrison?”
“In the flesh.” Morrison raises his eyebrow in surprise. “You heard about me?”
“Yeah, heard folks mention ya a couple of times. Or like, fifty times, whatever. Enzo says you’re the best private detective he’s ever known. That if a job’s givin’ him chills, he just hands it to ya and you get it done.” He narrows his eyes at him. “He also says that you quit.”
Morrison makes a mental note to visit Bobby’s Cellar and have a long talk with one sleazy Italian.
“I’ll tell you something about Enzo Ferino,” he muses, looking into the window, “He’d be the best broker in town if it wasn’t for the fact that half of his intel is yesterday’s news. And what’s even worse, you never know which half it is.” He puts the cash on the counter and pushes himself up from the seat, patting the kid on the shoulder. “Contrary to what Enzo says, I’m not quite done yet, and matter of fact, I could use some help with a case I’m on right now. Come by tomorrow at three and we’ll talk. If you’re interested, of course.”
He’s almost halfway to the doors when Tony’s voice stops him.
“Why?” He’s looking at him with confusion, blue eyes gleaming beneath a too-long, white fringe. “I mean, it’s not like you couldn’t find a proper partner, so why the fuck would ya bother with me?”
Morrison smiles politely.
“I just got a good feeling about you, kid.”
He puts on his hat and walks out into the warm, golden morning.