Around one o’clock he checked the parking meters near the restaurants on Main. The spaces were occupied with cars he didn’t recognize, which meant the outta-towners were in for the holiday. He wrote up three tickets before he spotted Donnie Adler leaving the burrito shop.
And just like that, Karl struggled to breathe again.
But now was no time to be choking on his own air. If anyone in town needed new skin, it was Donnie Adler. Though the man wasn’t a Trader, he was the first name Karl jotted on his list of candidates. A man like him was hard to forget. One look at his face stuck with you forever.
“Mr. Adler!” Karl waved him down. “How was your meal?”
“Had the five-alarm burrito,” Adler said, rubbing his gut. “Hottest thing to hit me since, heh, you know.”
Karl did know. Two summers ago Adler, who drank like a rain gutter, got himself sloshed one night while listening to the Phillies game near his backyard firepit. The Phils blew a ninth-inning lead and Adler threw a drunken tantrum that landed him in the fire. By the time he untangled himself, the left side of his face and neck had been cooked to leather. Without insurance, he couldn’t afford any cosmetic surgery, and ever since he’d been walking around town scaring kids and adults alike.
“Funny you mention that,” Karl said, gesturing at his own cheek. “Still thinking about surgery?”
“Nah.” Adler tugged his scarf up around his burnt cheek. “Not unless I can convince Bridget to sell the house. Hell, she barely lets me live in the house these days.”
Karl knew the feeling. His own marriage hadn’t been much cozier. “Listen, Mr. Alder. You got a minute? I know a doctor who can help you for cheap.”
Adler waved him off. “Gotta be heading home. They have me on graveyard shift these days. If I hit the pillow now, I can wake up for Wheel of Fortune.”
“You don’t want your skin fixed for free?”
“Free?” Alder wiped his lips. “What’s the catch?”
Karl hesitated. Partly because that was a tough question to answer, but also because he didn’t want to convince Adler. Not entirely. When Karl traded his knees, he’d received new internal parts, but the flesh around the site remained scarred to this day. Nothing as ugly as Alder’s damage, but Karl wanted the scars gone. One final dip in the creek could solve his problems.
Still, Alder needed it more. The way his cheek looked, someone might’ve thought he regularly used a lit grill for a pillow.
“One catch,” Karl said. “You won’t be able to leave town till after sunset tomorrow.”
“Huh.” Adler wiped his lips again. “This isn’t one of those shady black-market operations, is it? Like when they give you a donkey’s liver or something?”
“No, nothing like that.” A bell jingled, and Karl checked over his shoulder. Someone exited the diner. He lowered his voice. “This doctor’s a pro. Been practicing thirty-two years.”
“Huh. What’s the doc’s name?”
“Doctor…Snare.”
“Snare, huh? Anybody around here get treated by him?”
“Her, actually. And she treated my knees years back.”
“Same lady does knees and skin?” Adler squinted. His thinning hair danced in the breeze. “Aren’t docs supposed to specialize?”
“Not when they’re this good.”
“Yeah? Can anybody else vouch for her?”
Here was the tricky part. Karl could drop names, including the man’s next-door neighbor, but it was risky. These people might notify Candace. Until further notice, he needed to gather trade candidates in secret.
“I can’t name names. It’s a privacy thing.”
The door to How’ve Ya Bean swung open. Bill Werner stormed out, scowling. “What you doing in front of my shop, Karl?”
Karl cleared his throat. “My job, Bill.”
“You’re killing business. People see cops and get scared away. They think of tickets and arrests when they should be thinking about our $8.99 lunch special.” Werner marched over, fists on hips. Karl wondered if either of those fists had struck John MacReady’s face the other night. “How about you scram? Let Donnie Boy head home. He just ate. It won’t settle right in his stomach with you harassing him.”
“It’s okay,” Adler said, yawning. “Karl was telling me about this—”
“Parking ticket,” Karl interrupted, meeting Werner’s eyes. With a click of his pen he drew an X on the top sheet of his ticket pad. “We were discussing a parking ticket, and Mr. Adler talked himself out of it.”
“Right. Thanks, Karl.” Adler headed toward a Ford Bronco that looked as rough as he did. Before climbing in, he added, “We should grab a beer later. Tonight after Wheel of Fortune.”
“Sure,” Karl said. “But make it a club soda.”
Werner grunted. His eyes, two narrow slits, were fixed on Karl. In the years since Ashlee set fire to the restaurant’s kitchen, Karl had received many angry looks from Bill Werner.
This time, however, there was no anger in his eyes.
Only suspicion.
23
By two o’clock, Ash had nothing to show for her efforts other than a runny nose and a crumpled list of trade candidates. With nobody left to bother, she headed down the Main Road toward Narducci’s Pizza, the only place in walking distance that sold booze. Though she was freezing, she wanted nothing more than an ice cold beer. She couldn’t wait to head home, share a drink with Trent, and talk him into trading his leg.
The lunch crowd stuffed the pizzeria. Ash waited in line, her mouth watering from the smell of melted cheese and signature sauce. At the podium a perky Asian girl with cheek-length hair asked if Ash wanted the buffet or a sit-down meal.
“Just a six-pack to go.”
“Oh, okay!” The girl hurried behind the counter. “What kind?”
“Blue Moon. Make it two six-packs.”
The girl slid open the fridge and grabbed a pair. She set them on the counter. Rather than ringing up the register, she tilted her head and stared at Ash as if transfixed.
“Got a problem with me?”
“What? No. I—I like your hair. It looks cool. Real edgy.”
“Oh.” Ash brushed her dreads. “Thanks.”
The girl rang her up and took her cash.
“Is your boss here?” Ash asked, recalling that Gina Narducci was a Trader. Given that the woman had kids, she might be interested in Snare’s offer—especially if those kids planned on moving out someday. Narducci might even be compelled to name some prospective Traders. “Mind grabbing her?”
The girl disappeared into the kitchen. Ash looked at the pair of six-packs and wondered how she’d carry them home. She could only grab one by the handle. The other she’d have to hug to her side. Realizing this made her stomach turn hollow. She’d be in serious trouble if Snare didn’t deliver that new hand.
Gina Narducci exited the kitchen with grace despite her sauce-spattered apron. For a woman in her fifties, she looked like a walking miracle. Ash might’ve guessed that Narducci had traded her whole body, given how slim and fit she was. As she approached the counter, her wiry hair glimmered beneath a neon-green Rolling Rock sign. Her fiery black eyes met Ash’s.