Final Act by Dianne Yetman (best free ebook reader .TXT) 📕

up at Andrew. “I don’t think we should talk here. We’ll continue this conversation later.”

Eleanor bit the nail on her baby finger nail.

Chapter 11

At 7:00pm, Kate shut off her computer, locked the office door, left the precinct and made her way downtown to meet her friends for a beer and something to eat.  Gordon wasn’t at the precinct when she and Shirley got back from the theatre.  She’d brief him on the interview results tomorrow morning after she paid an early morning visit to Roger.  She heard a rumour that he was fairly lucid these days.  Not so when she dropped in on her way home last evening.

He looked so vulnerable lying in the hospital bed in a drugged induced sleep.  Randy, sitting on one side of the bed, Sara on the other.  Neither speaking but sporting big smiles when she walked into the room.  She joined them in their silent vigil, smiling at the racing car mobile attached to the overhead light directly over Roger’s bed, the colourful cars twirling gently with climate control breeze.

Sara, a doctor’s bells and whistles hanging off her white coat, stroked Roger’s hand.  The book, Porche 917, The Undercover Story by Gordon Wingrove lay by his side.  Obviously she had been reading from it before Randy had come into the room.

She sat for who knows how long before she found herself nodding off.  The sound of a buzzer from the nurses’ station woke her.  Saying goodnight to Randy and Sara, she left the hospital, stopped in the neighbourhood deli for takeout; she had walked home hoping to clear her head of anxious thoughts.  No brooding tonight.  Meet with my friends, eat and drink and a good night’s sleep is in order.

Ten minutes later she was sitting at the Dock waiting for her friends to arrive nursing a cold draft.  She scanned the room.  Quiet this evening.  She thought about the decaled briefcase and asked herself for the umpteenth time – why?

Don’t engage, listen to the music.  She focused on the W.B. Yeats’ love song:

Down by the Sally Gardens

It was down by the Sally Gardens, my love and I did meet.

She crossed the Sally Gardens with little snow-white feet.

She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grown on the tree,

But I was young and foolish, and with her did not agree.

As soon as the song ended, she began to beating herself up again.  Bullying an innocent person - okay, maybe bully isn’t quite the word, too soft.  Crap, I’m not going there.  Where are they? She took another sip of beer, a shorter, slower one.  There’s no way I’m going to add maudlin to my list of failings, fat chance of getting away with it once Abir and Sandra arrive anyway.  Focus, focus – what’s the special tonight?

She swivelled around and read the chalked board.  Irish stew, soda bread, and green salad.  Good food, now where are the friends?  She watched the male waiters carrying trays of fish and chips, oysters, glasses of stout, red wine, salads, salmon, veggies dishes, escargots and steaming bowls of Irish stew high above their head to avoid collisions with beer drinking patrons, some who were stumbling towards the toilet sign, hoping, no doubt, there wouldn’t be a line up.

Black pants, white shirt, black bow ties and short, black jackets on tall, slim, good looking men held her attention and she wondered how The Dock’s job requirements read.  Only the sexy, good looking need apply?  Shrewd, savvy business owners, Paddy and Kathy, opened their establishment ten years ago and had never had a bad night.  Their customers retained their loyalty to the establishment with all the religious zeal of the faithful.

The bar was one of the beloved attractions.  It was designed and manufactured in Ireland - no expense spared - the materials and wood panelling being imported along with the furniture.  There were a number of large screen TV’s that showed all the popular sports of the season; the satellite wired up to be able to show 3 different games at the same time – a great crowd pleaser.  A large pool table was situated at the rear of the bar for those patrons who loved to drink, gamble, and play before or after their meal.

The outdoor terrace at the front of the premises was a popular place from April until the end of October.  Regulars braved the cool nights rather than come inside.  It was empty now.  Frost had arrived.

Kate and friends however didn’t patronize the Dock in the dead of summer – too many tourists invaded the bar and there was no chance of getting their favourite table and or finishing the evening off with nightcaps and a game of pool.

She looked towards the entrance.  Finally, they’re here.  She signalled to Sean to bring the usual drinks. for her friends.  How disgustingly happy they look, she thought, as the two tall women, one fair, one dark, made their way to the table.

In mere seconds, they were pulling out their chairs, flashing smiles of thanks at Sean for their drinks of Irish whiskey and Cranberry Juice.  Kate finished her beer and ordered another, sans smile.

“How’s Hanya doing”, Sandra asked.

“Not as bad as she could be, she’ll be joining us soon I hope”, Kate said.

Abir leaned in close.

“Okay, spill the beans.  Something’s brewing in that face of yours and it’s nothing to do with Hanya’s tragedy.  A week night, off the cuff call to meet you at The Dock gives it away.”

Kate, unable to slow the speed of her words, told them her tale in five minutes flat.

“You did what?”  Abir yelled.

“Calm down, Abir.  She needs our support”, Sandra said.

“Lose the head doctor talk, Sandra.  I know what I’m talking about.  Kate is abrasive as a wire brush by times and is off the freaking rails.”

“There’s no need to talk as if I’m not here.  I know