Craven Gets Flashed 27

They Came In Looking for Coffee, But All They Got Was Dead

By

Dwayne Dobbins

It was a burnt toast kinda mornin’ as the brutal rays of the Summer sun made its way through the darkened coffee shop’s blood-stained window.

Detective Sgt. Raven Granger gritted his yellow choppers and spat out a wad of chewing tobacco in the face of what was sure to be a grizzly Monday morning.

“How was your weekend, sarge,” said the patrolman.

“Beer, bourbon, and too many smokes, kid.”

“You’re a hellava connoisseur, sarge.”

“If that’s a fancy word for feeling like crud; damn straight I am. Now what have we got here?”

“Out here we got ten dead coffee guzzlers sittin’ on ten wobbly stools. In the kitchen we got one dead chef keepin’ warm in the oven, and a dead waitress chillin’ in the walk-in-cooler with the counterman. From the looks of it they were very much in love.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. Stone-cold dead and still smilin’; wrapped in each others arms like a hot and salty  pretzel. True love is what I’d call it.

“Sweet. Anything else?”

“Yeah. The rice pudding in this place is outrageously delicious. Ya oughta try some before ya leave.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. Seems the ol’ lady on the first stool was partial to it. You’ll have to work the spoon around her nose a little, that schnoz of hers takes up most of the dish, but there’s still enough left in there for a good taste.”

“Think I’ll pass. What’s the guy sittin’ next to her eating?”

“His own tongue, sarge. If ya like that sort of thing. He must have hit the plate pretty hard.”

“Anyone eating apple pie?”

“Nah, I looked. Best I could come up with was this mailman in front of me eatin’ rhubarb pie. And I just discovered I hate rhubarb.”

“What’s that hangin’ from his ear?”

“Rhubarb pie, sarge. I had to spit it out.”

“No apple pie? Damn it, kid! What’s a detective sergeant have to do to get a decent bite to eat around here? What kind of coffee shop doesn’t have apple pie?”

“It’s not that they don’t have it, sarge. It’s just that it’s in the oven with the chef, and it don’t look none to tasty with all his gooey entrails mixed in. Even Flannigan spat it out. And — as you know from the size of his ever-growin’ girth — Flannigan never spits out nothing. But I have to give him and A for effort on this one.”

“Good investigating, kid. One day you’ll make detective for sure. Where’s the dishwasher? You never mentioned him.”

“Spontaneous combustion from the looks of these walls, sarge. I knew the kid. He was an innocent for sure. I’m guessin’ he come up front to see what all the blood-curdlin' screamin’ was about, and the sight of all that blood dripping off the stools and ceiling fans shook his nerves to the boiling point and they had no where else to go but out, and. . . kablooey! Help Wanted: New Dishwasher.”

“Any idea who done it?”

“None, Sarge. You?”

“Nah. I can’t think on an empty stomach. I’m gonna hit the Automat on 86th. Round up the boys and have ‘em wash up. We’ll come back after breakfast.”

“Right, sarge.”

“Ha!”

“What’s so funny, sarge?”

“Kablooey! You kill me, kid.”

Photo courtesy of Wiki Commons:

https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?search=rhubarb+pie&title=Speci...