What Doesn't Kill Us--A McKenzie Novel by David Housewright (best books for 7th graders TXT) 📕

Heavenly drained the Vieux Carré and held the glass up for the bartender to see.

“Needs work,” she said.

Bobby Dunston was sitting in his car in the parking lot of Club Versailles, Shelby at his side. They both slid out of the vehicle when Heavenly approached. She tossed the cell phone. Bobby caught it.

“I know now that Reinfeld had nothing to do with McKenzie’s shooting,” he said. “Saves me some time and effort. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she answered.

Shelby was less subdued. She hugged Heavenly who hugged her back.

“You look fantastic in that dress, by the way,” Heavenly said.

“It actually belongs to Nina.”

“Give her my love.”

“Give it to her yourself.”

“I need to go now. I’ll call in a few days after McKenzie’s up and around. I presume he’ll be up and around.”

“You don’t need to go anywhere,” Shelby said. “You’re just being your usual aloof self.”

“No, I do. I need to catch a plane for Edinburgh.”

“What’s in Edinburgh?” Bobby asked.

“A brooch that once belonged to the Queen of Scots that’s now on display in Holyrood Palace at the bottom of the Royal Mile. Rumor has it that it’s about to go missing.”

“Heavenly…”

“I’m not a thief, Commander Dunston.”

“Yet you have no qualms about acting as a go-between for thieves.”

“An acquaintance of McKenzie once accused me of being a mercenary bitch who profited off the misfortune of insurance companies. Do you have a problem with that?”

Bobby didn’t answer.

“At least stay for dinner,” Shelby said. “Nina and I have told the girls stories. They’d love to meet you.”

“You’re very kind, but I really do need to go.”

“Ms. Petryk,” Bobby said. “Justus Reinfeld looked you up on the internet and then you spoke convincingly about the energy industry…”

“The key to a successful grift is backstory, Commander. You should know that.”

“Perhaps one day you’ll tell me yours.”

“If I haven’t told McKenzie, what makes you think I’d tell you?”

Heavenly pivoted and started walking away. Bobby called to her. She turned her head, yet didn’t even slow down.

“Be good,” he said.

SEVENTEEN

Como Park in St. Paul was one of my favorite places. It sprawled out over 384 acres and included a large zoo where you could see all manner of creatures large, small, wet, dry, and in flight for free. The Marjorie McNeely Conservatory was the most spectacular public garden between Philadelphia and San Francisco (in my opinion) and everybody had their wedding pictures taken there. There was an amusement park complete with a hundred-year-old carousel, an eighteen-hole golf course, public pool, athletic fields (where Bobby and I played softball back in the day), historic sculptures, picnic shelters, a seventy-acre lake surrounded by hiking trails and plenty of foliage, and the open-air Lakeside Pavilion.

The pavilion had a roof but no walls and had been built on a slight incline overlooking Lake Como. It was large enough for several hundred people to sit on benches facing the stage where music, amateur theatricals, and dance recitals were performed. A couple of the benches were filled with retirees even though there were no performances scheduled. A few of the metal and wooden tables scattered along the back railing and on both sides of the benches were also occupied by people eating early dinners and by mothers, grandmothers, and a few grandfathers engaged in supervising children who had just been released from school.

Chopper noticed them all as he wheeled his chair up a ramp into the pavilion.

“I don’t like this,” he said. “Too many people.”

“Or not enough,” Herzog said. “We could cancel.”

“We here now…”

Herzog directed Chopper to a table nestled against the back railing more or less in the center of the pavilion. Chopper was ready to settle himself at the head of the table, his back to the stage, only Herzog cleared space for him on the side so that he could park against the railing, the stage on his right and the lake on his left.

“Better view,” Herzog said.

He was right about that. The rear of the pavilion was a good story and a half above glistening Lake Como and Chopper found himself resting his chin against his hand and staring wistfully at the piers jutting out into the lake and the pedal boats, kayaks, paddleboards, and canoes people were using to navigate it. Herzog left him to it, excusing himself and crossing the pavilion to the entrance of the Spring Café, the name of the restaurant that was attached to the pavilion and located directly behind the stage. He returned with a couple of IPAs and two menus.

Chopper spoke as he sat across from him.

“When I was a kid, during the winter, they used to clean the snow off a big part of the lake so you could skate,” Chopper said. “Right over there. Speed skaters used it before they built the oval in Roseville. There was a shed next to the pier where you could rent skates. We’d come down here on Saturday afternoons and skate for hours and hours, drink hot chocolate with marshmallows…”

“You can skate?” Herzog asked.

“Used to.”

This is where most people would say something; say I’m sorry, recognizing that Chopper wouldn’t happily skate away a Saturday afternoon again, ever. That’s not something you said to him, though. He didn’t take sympathy kindly, especially when your compassion reminded him that there was something he was no longer able to do. Herzog knew this, of course and studied his menu without speaking. Eventually, Chopper did the same.

“I am not eating here,” Chopper said. “I don’t care what this tenant of RT’s has to say ’bout it.”

“I don’t know. The Cubano looks good.”

Chopper tossed the menu on the table.

“It’s picnic food, man,” he said.

“Look where we at.”

“Don’t mean we gotta eat slop.”

Herzog let the conversation drop. He knew that it wasn’t the menu that his friend was upset about.

Chopper glanced around himself some more, paying particular attention to the children who were using the pavilion as a playground. A few of them dashed to the railing not far from where he sat, looked