Page 58 of Sweet T

“What? No. Why would you think that?”

Shelly gave Tucker one of her languid Academy Award-worthy eye rolls.

“OK, OK. There are some things I haven’t told you yet.”

“Do you know who beat him up? Did you figure it out somehow?”

“No.” Tucker glanced over his shoulder to make sure Evan was still in the kitchen. “If I had, they’d be in the hospital and I’d be in jail.”

“Oh, my. How Chris Evans of you.”

“I’m hardly Captain America.”

“Maybe not for the public.” She grinned. “But I sense you would be for Evan.”

Tucker opened his mouth, then closed it. There was no sense in trying to deny anything from Shelly. She could read him like a book.

“He’s a sweet kid, Shel. Somebody kicked the crap out of him. You know I don’t take kindly to that.”

“You’re taking kindly to him.”

“He was more than just beat up.”

“I figured, judging by his size and all.”

“He won’t go to the cops. Says it was consensual. That it just got out of hand.”

“It often begins that way.”

“I think the guy lives nearby. There’s no way Evan could have traveled far in his condition on Friday.”

Shelly nodded. “I was thinking the same. Maybe the guy got worried, panicked, that he went too far. Left him somewhere near, so he’d be found.”

“Yeah. And even if he doesn’t live near—”

“—he could know people that do.”

“You know how the gossip chain works around here.”

“You don’t want word to get out about him working here.”

“Bingo. That’s why I hushed things in the parking lot. I trust Ben, but I’m trying to sweep it all under the rug. The less said, the better.”

Shelly put the last of the silverware rolls in the bus tub. Her eyes met Tucker’s, probing. “You like him, T. I can see that a mile away.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s just passing through. He’s got somewhere else to be like everyone else... including you.”

“Maybe.” Shelly lifted the tub, moving toward the kitchen with a parting smile. “But he’s not going anywhere soon.”

* * *

At five, Tucker went to unlock the back door where, as expected, Sebastian was waiting. He entered the tavern with his usual flair, animated and expressive, wearing high top Vans, pleated shorts, a Barbra Streisand t-shirt, and an Atlanta Braves baseball cap.

“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears,” he said, enunciating every syllable sharply like a hook to catch prey. “I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.”

“Hi, Sebastian,” Tucker said, half-attentive and already returning to the bar. “King Lear again?”

Sebastian clutched his imaginary pearls with exaggerated outrage. “NO, my dear boy—Marc Antony, from Julius Caesar.”

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