Eddie could tell her about terrible things people had said regarding his father, but that didnât change Sloanâs opinion of why he had decided to come find her and sit down to talk with her in a coffee shop. Her fingers continued their incessant tapping against plastic, the only sound between them for a fair few moments before Sloan finally detached her hand from the cup and waved off his defense. âI donât give a shit about your daddy issues, Eddie.â If she liked him â - hell, if she even remotely tolerated him - â she wouldâve given him some level of sympathy. Sloan had grown up particularly close to her father, and she could easily put herself in Eddieâs shoes; the unanswered questions and long nights mustâve made it difficult to come to terms with the fact that Papa Reyes was gone. Unfortunately, Sloan didnât give two shits about Eddie and saw his relationship with his father as nothing more than a wound that she could poke and prod and open over and over again.Â
âThing is, I canât figure out another reason that youâve decided to embarrass both of us like this.â Was that it, then? Was Sloan embarrassed or afraid of being overheard in a crowded coffee shop? It was bad enough that her brother was in prison for tax fraud, but any whispering of misdeeds would inevitably come to affect her business in some way or another. Perhaps she was more like her mother in that way â - obsessed with appearances. âThis does seem personal, Eddie, and transparent. Give me one good fuckinâ reason that youâre here talking to me instead of someone else. What do I have that nobody else could tell you?â Nothing, she assumed. She was transparent â - accidental catastrophe aside - â and just foolhardy enough to think she couldnât be pinned down so easily. Her pride wouldnât allow Eddie fucking Reyes to be the one to take her down. âYâknow, I mightâve actually been happy to talk to you if youâd thought for one goddamn second and had come to my shop or set up some private meeting, but no. Youâre out here acting like you can catch everyone off guard. Get a fucking grip â - we both know this is shitty police work.âÂ
Sloan stabbed at the remainder of her ice then, her straw skidding off the slicked surface of cubes and into the half-water, half-coffee remnants at the bottom of her cup. If she hadnât been so angry, she mightâve laughed at his question about David Lynch. There was a moment when she wondered if heâd grown up in a house where they didnât allow color television or any sort of programming other than the 700 Club, or perhaps his family had raised him on a strict home-schooling regimen. Maybe he didnât like movies, or maybe he was a Luddite; whatever the case, she decided sheâd inconvenience him as much as he had her.Â
âHowâve you lived in this town and not met David?â With the image of the director in the back of her mind, she pushed her cup aside in favor of more interesting prospects, âI thought you wouldâve been told to talk to him by now. Jesus Christ â - he was at Spring Fling.â Sloan was no actor, but what she lacked in talent she made up for in patronization, âYou oughta ask Bax whoâs looking into him instead of bothering me while Iâm trying to have a cup of coffee.â
Eddie almost laughed at her rather daring assertion of his personal mood. âIâm not embarrassed, Sloan. As much as Iâm sure that youâd like me to be.â Like he had always planned, he was keeping his voice low and his body language casual. If anyone was embarrassed, it was her. He knew that police attention was bad for anyoneâs business, whether they were in deep with the Rascals or not. This whole kerfuffle might encourage her to submit to questioning to avoid further bad press. Then again the woman was nothing if not stubborn, Eddie figured. How the hell did a good chunk of his colleagues put up with her?Â
He wasnât going to lie. The accusation against how good his police work was struck a nerve. For a second, he genuinely considered her rather abrasively put point. He could concede that his certainly wasnât something his father would have done. Douglas would have stuck to the book as if his life depended on it, only talking to Sloan if given total consent by the Sheriff and, even then, only in the interrogation room. But Eddieâs father was dead. Killed by those that the woman sitting across the table called friends. What did Sloan have that nobody else could tell him? âThe truth.â He held a stare for a second, then dropped it.
He could work out enough from context and his own extensive suspect list to determine that Sloan was messing him about this âDavid Lynchâ figure. Even if she wasnât, heâd just google him later and find out if he was worth adding to the suspect list. What the flippant answer did tell him, regardless, is that Sloan was totally uninterested in answering any useful questions. And Eddie was done wasting his time. He downed the last of his coffee and stood up as abruptly as he had sat down.Â
He considered just marching straight out the door but that was too good for her. âWhen all this is done, Sloan? When we both end up wherever we end up and have to deal with the consequences?â The image of his father lying in his own blood flashed through Eddieâs mind. A man dying alone, scared and cold. âI just want you to remember that right here, right now, I offered you a way out. And you said no.â
The coffee shop was still crowded. Eddie hadnât been there long. âThat seatâs free.â he told someone on his way to the exit, jabbing a thumb behind him. He pushed the door open and walked out into the twilight, hot summer air flooding his nostrils. The setting sun roared in the distance, its orange rays ran rampant over the streets of Muddy Waters.
It looked like the world was on fire.