I was behind the counter when the big guy stalked in. Halloween had rolled around, the first since Frankie's Cafe_ and Deli opened. My name's not Frankie, that's my ex, but it is my place. Tiptoe on a chair while I clutched her thin, jeans-clad legs, Angie, my one full-time waitress, had hung inky paper spiders and white paper skeletons from the light fixtures. Orange plastic jack-o-lanterns wearing witless grins sat on all the tables and spiky black cardboard cats posed on the granite counter.

Three black-garbed witches, secretaries from City Hall, came in for a late lunch. A Spock trekkie drifted through for a beer and an Elvis, pompadour adding six inches to his maybe five foot height, came in, spoke to Angie and walked on back toward the restroom.

A thin afternoon crowd was left scattered through the long, narrow room. A young, dark-haired female in a fringed leather outfit and matching moccasins worked on a laptop at one table, sipping coffee. An off-duty Fall Creek cop and his girlfriend were dragging out his break in one of the two booths. In the second, a couple of burly ironworkers from the paper mill project ate chicken salad sandwiches and drank Budweisers. They were the only ones who paid any attention to the big guy. I noticed the bigger of the two sizing him up.

He took the empty table nearest the front, and sat facing the window. My chairs are heavy duty oak. This guy had to weigh well over three hundred pounds. I hoped the one he was using held up. I only worked the floor when the spirit moved me, or when both a waitress and busboy didn't show up, usually on a holiday. When I walked over to ask what he'd have, he ordered a draft beer. I only stock bottles and cans, so he growled, "Gimme a can of Coors, then."

I'd seen him around town. Heard he worked as a bouncer at one of the local clubs after his PI license was punched. His arms were big, horizontal limbs, full of bristly hair like leaves, growing out of a chest like a tree trunk. I topped out at two hundred fifty or so when I was with the department. A more sedentary lifestyle since then had added a few more pounds. In our early, playful days, Frankie would chin herself on my outstretched arm and swing off the floor, giggling. Big and tough as I'd been, I would have called for backup before engaging in a discussion with this guy about anything but the weather.

He took his time with the Coors, occasionally raising the can to take a pull. At least, I figured that's what he was doing. His hand completely enclosed the can so it almost looked like he was kissing his fist. I doubted any sober person in their right mind would think of making that observation in his hearing. He never took his eyes off the street outside. I exercised my razor-sharp deductive powers, which must have been on hiatus before Frankie left, eight weeks ago. The big guy was waiting for somebody.

I'd just taken another beer to the big guy's table when his expression changed. I wouldn't say his face lit up, but it came as close as it was probably capable of doing. I looked at the beer can I'd just placed in front of him. Maybe I'd picked up a Dom Perignon by mistake. If there was any Dom Perignon on the premises, which there wasn't. But, no, his eyes were still on the door. I turned around and saw what had put that look in his black eyes.

Tall and big-boned, she pretty much blocked the doorway. Statuesque was not a word I'd often had occasion to use. But the word fitted her. Gathering the late afternoon sunlight and adding to her height, a pile of strawberry blonde curls crowned a pure cameo face.

High-heeled, oxblood-colored, size eleven Tony Lamas raised her another couple of inches. I knew they must be size eleven because they looked as big as my cheap, black ones from Wally World. The gleaming green silk shirt tucked into designer jeans was the exact shade of her eyes. The perfect proportions of her body, along with the face and hair, rewrote my definition of beauty. Beside her, any woman weighing under one fifty would look sickly and anorexic.

Apparently the big guy and I weren't the only ones bemused by this vision. The buzz of talk and laughter fell off. I could hear the ice machine doing its crunch and spit, as ice fell into the hopper. A squeal like fingernails scraping across a blackboard sounded, the restroom door hinge I kept meaning to oil. The big guy's chair grated on the tiles as he pushed it back. The vision let go of the door and it eased closed. She took one step into the room, eyes fixed on the big guy. And a wolf whistle fit to call Paul Bunyan's blue Babe, if she answered to whistles, split the air.

She stopped. The big guy paused in the act of rising from his chair, then slowly continued until he was upright. He turned his head with great deliberation, eyes boring into each occupant of the room. There was a sudden great interest in finding the bottoms of glasses and beer bottles.

One of the working stiffs, not the broad-beamed one who'd sized the big guy up, pushed half his sandwich in his mouth and chewed with great enthusiasm. The big guy started to walk with measured stride toward the sandwich eater. The strawberry blonde took a couple of quick steps, stretched out a hand, and spoke. "Don't, Charley."

So that's his name. Against my better judgment, I came up behind him and put a hand on that massive right shoulder. "Now, Charley, you don't want trouble. He didn't mean anything."

As though swatting a fly, Charley reached back, picked my hand off his shoulder, and pushed. I landed on the table he'd just vacated. It collapsed on the chairs and both parted company with their legs. I hit the floor rolling, unable to stop before I slammed up against the metal base of the first bar stool. It hurt worse than when a .38 slug put me out of the cop business. My view of events above me was laced with jagged flashes of light, while I waited for the agony to subside. At least I hoped like hell it would subside.

The sandwich eater and his buddy were frozen in place. So was the Indian Princess and even the off-duty cop and his girlfriend. There was nowhere to run anyway. Charley's right fist grabbed the front of the sandwich eater's denim shirt and lifted him from his chair, holding him at arm's length. The guy's mouth gaped and half-chewed rye bread, lettuce, tomato, and chicken salad spewed a good two feet. Even at that, it didn't touch the big guy, his reach was that long. Sandwich eater's buddy wasn't so lucky. Knuckles gripping his Budweiser, his left hand and arm caught most of the garbage.

The strawberry blonde vision was tugging at Charley's other arm. "Charley, you have to stop this or I'm going back to West Virginia."

Charley paid no attention to her. He turned and dragged sandwich eater with him toward the front door, kicking tables and chairs out of his way. The jagged streaks had cleared a little from my vision, and the pain had reduced enough that I could grab pieces of thoughts. In POST training, I'd placed first in baton hurling. I still had the one I'd used. It was behind the counter, under the cash register. It might as well have been on the moon.

I looked around and my eyes managed to focus on a dismembered chair leg. Not quite as heavy as the baton. But it might do the job. I picked it up and flung it at what I hoped was the level of Charley's ankles. When he and sandwich eater landed, the tile over concrete floor vibrated.. I heard Charley's head strike the concrete ledge under the front window.

He didn't get up. I was kind of surprised even that put him down. Charley's erstwhile victim and his buddy collided going through the door, Indian Princess on their heels. The strawberry blonde knelt beside Charley, dialing a cell phone.

I was listening to her lyrical voice asking Dispatch to send help when I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. The ceiling fell in on me and stars replaced the jagged colored lights that had just departed, then stars and consciousness both left together.

I opened one eye with effort, wondering where I was. A white ceiling was above me and I was lying on something hard yet yielding. There was a familiar feel, and smell, to this place, but I couldn't quite place it. I rolled my one open eye around and saw that curtains surrounded whatever I was lying on. Then I heard voices nearby.

"I mean it, Charley. You have to stop this. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself." So Charley and the vision were here, too, wherever 'here' was.

"I promised Mom I'd take care of you, little sister. And I'm gonna do it."

Sister. She's his sister.

The curtain on my right side flew open. A thin guy in blue scrubs, holding a clipboard came through the opening. "Awake, are you, Ringer?" He reached down and pulled up the eyelid of my open eye. I groaned. "Follow my finger," he commanded. I tried.I also tried to open my other eye, but it refused to cooperate.

"What happened?" I croaked.

"You tell me." He was probing the back of my head and on into my brain it seemed.

"I fell." Reminded of its mistreatment, my back sent lances of pain all along its length.

"That's what Officer King said. Hit your head on something when you fell?" The doctor stopped tormenting my head and moved his sadistic fingers to my back.

"I don't think so. How's the big guy? He did hit his head."

"Better shape than you. We've x-rayed his skull. Now it's your turn." He left the cubicle, saying over his shoulder, "They'll be coming to get you in a few minutes."

The curtain on my left rattled open. The strawberry blonde vision held its edge. The concern that filled her green eyes eased my pain somewhat. I glimpsed the mountain that was her brother sitting on the gurney behind her. She turned toward him and wagged a dark red, manicured fingernail in his face. "You should be ashamed, Charley."

He looked over at me and winked. "That was some move, way you brought me down. I was afraid I hurt you bad when I pushed you."

"You did hurt him, Charley. Big idiot."

I tried to shrug, regretted it, and tried to disguise my groan. "Nothing a month on the beach wouldn't cure. Why were you two in my place today anyway?"

She arched her perfect brows and rolled those beautiful eyes, before glancing my way again. "Charley's a bouncer at the Longbranch. I can't go there. He's lost jobs at all the other clubs because if anybody looks at me he beats them up. So I told him we had to meet somewhere else."

Charley pulled his shirt over his head, winced a little. "Mitch. That's your name, right? I heard the cop call you that. I'm sorry I busted up the joint."

I waved a hand. "Just a table and a few chairs. Probably needed to replace 'em anyway."

That's your PI shingle beside the restaurant, too? Dannielle here needs a job. She's a whiz at computers."

My laugh turned into a grimace. The pain in my back reminded me of its presence. "The shingle's about all I have. No clients, no income. Can't even pay myself."

"Advertise on the Internet. Let Dannielle build you a web site. You'll have more clients than you can handle."

"Don't hassle him, Charley. Mitch knows what he needs."

"I don't want you to go back to West Virginia. You need a job."

I'd just met her, but I didn't want her to go back, either. I wondered why I hadn't realized before now how much I needed a web site.

Angie ran into the room with the cop who'd been in the restaurant, just as an orderly came to take me to x-ray. "Oh, God. I was afraid you were dead, Ringer." She swiped at her eyes with her apron, leaving dark streaks of mascara on her reddened cheeks.

I waved vaguely. "Not dead, kid. Back in a minute."

Each wheel on my gurney had its own agenda, transferring the shock of every bump in the floor to my head and back independently. By the time I got back to the ER I was ready to trade any hope of heaven for one shot of painkiller. I only got a local while the doctor cleaned and sutured my head injury. He showed me a small splinter of wood he'd removed from the wound. "Guess you did hit your head on a chair or table."

He told me there was no fracture, but because of the possibility of concussion, he wanted to keep me overnight for observation. And I'd have to stay awake.

"Thanks, but no thanks. If I have to stay awake, I'll do it at my place. Where are my boots?."

"If you leave, Ringer, it'll be against medical advice." He made a notation on his clipboard.

"So sue me." I swung my legs off the gurney, jammed my feet in my boots and stood up. When the room stopped spinning, I lurched past the cubicle curtain and headed for the door.

"Wait. Ringer, wait. We're going with you." Charley and Dannielle caught up with me and she got between us, gripping an arm of each. Angie was in the waiting area and she grabbed my other arm.

A young girl wearing a red striped uniform was just getting out of a cab at the entrance. We climbed in and I told the driver to take us to Frankie's. When we arrived, Charley insisted on paying the cab, and we followed Angie inside. Gus, the cook, had cleaned up some. But parts of the table and chairs still littered the floor.

Charley and I collapsed in a booth while Angie got us coffee. Then she and Dannielle began picking up chair legs and plastic pumpkins. Charley asked about the restaurant's name and I told him it was named for my wife. She'd helped me rehabilitate after I was shot in the back, worked her ass off to make sure it was doing well, then decamped with Larry, our first cook. I'd never wondered how she'd been able to hire him away from a fancy restaurant to a tiny cafe. So much for my dazzling skills as a private detective.

In a little while, the girls walked over to our booth. Angie had a puzzled look on her face. "Mitch. Something odd. We thought maybe the chairs could be salvaged so we tried to match up the legs to their seats. But a chair leg is missing."

"Maybe Gus threw it in the trash." I leaned back against the booth and closed my unswollen eye.

Dannielle slapped the table. I jumped, swore, apologized. "Wake up, Mitch. You know what the doctor said. We looked in the trash. It isn't there."

"What the hell. So a chair leg's missing. What's the big deal?"

"The table collapsed and you rolled. I screamed when I saw your back hit the base of the counter stool. Remember?"

I remembered only too well. I remembered the jagged lightnings of pain, then picking up a chair leg myself and bringing Charley down. I glanced toward the front window. Angie was following my slow thought process.

"We found that one. Dannielle said the doctor took a piece of wood out of your head wound, Mitch. Where'd it come from?" Angie stood waiting for an answer.

A fuzzy memory surfaced. I remembered seeing movement and the ceiling falling in and seeing stars. Then nothing until I woke up in the ER on the gurney next to Charley. I looked from one face to the other. "Somebody hit me."

"Wasn't me. I was down, too." Charley chuckled, then sobered. "The others ran out. Except Angie and the cook and the cop and his girl friend. I doubt one of them did it, though. Did you, Angie? Had a raise lately?"

Angie ignored him, brow furrowed in thought. "Gus ran out the back door. Officer King was calling in on his shoulder radio. His girlfriend got under the table, I think. Dannielle called 911 on her cell phone. There wasn't anyone else."

"Then it must have happened when I first fell, or was pushed - sorry, Charley - and I didn't notice till a few minutes later." Something nagged at my mind. It didn't feel right. None of us was satisfied with the explanation, but nothing else seemed possible.

Angie and Dannielle finished straightening up and Angie went home about midnight. She said she'd open up in the morning. Dannielle poured herself a cup of coffee and joined Charley and me. We talked, me doing most of it, to keep me awake.

"So you and your wife opened this place?" Dannielle asked in a soft voice.

"Yeah. At first, I thought it was a crazy idea. Two months after the hospital sent me home, Frankie was paying bills, trying to decide which would have to wait till next payday. She said we were going under, we had to do something.

"Like what, I asked her. I was on the floor, lifting one leg as high as I could, not far and it hurt like hell, then the other.

"She said she'd been thinking. We could open a restaurant or deli downtown. If we owned the place, the profits would be ours. She wouldn't have to depend on lousy tippers to boost her lousy paycheck. I asked her what did we know about running a restaurant. She figured working as a waitress since she was in her teens was enough qualification. As it turned out, she was right."

After Dannielle refilled our cups, Charley prompted. "How did just the two of you get it going? You not fully recovered and all."

I didn't know if they really wanted to know or were just keeping me talking. But I answered. "She found this place, used to be a hole-in-the-wall cafe, still is, I guess. Some equipment was left, including that old granite counter and revolving metal stools." I winced. "We added five tables and the two booths and maxed out the last credit card for a used freezer, grill, and cooler. The guys in the department donated a lot of off-duty labor, cleaned walls, replaced floor tiles. They claimed to expect free food and drink in return for at least a year.

"Frankie stole Larry from the Mountain View, where she used to work. He was a little guy, wiry, but he cooked like a dream. We hired Angie and a busboy and opened on April Fool's Day. By Memorial Day, we had to add another waitress for early morning, late afternoon, and weekends. All summer things went great, I thought. Damn fool." I set my cup down, hard, and coffee splashed on the Formica. Dannielle sopped it up with a napkin.

"More coffee, Mitch?" Without waiting for an answer, Dannielle took my cup behind the counter and refilled it. I watched her walk back to the booth, light as a feather in those Tony Lamas, despite her size.

I glanced at her brother, remembering his reaction to the wolf whistle. A wide red welt slashed a broad cheek, which gave his grin the sinister look of a James Bond villain. He winked, spoiling the effect. "She's something else, right, Mitch?"

The next part was harder to talk about. I was in the dark about what had been going on at Frankie's all summer until early morning on Labor Day. I'd staked out a motel the night before to get the goods on a cheating wife. How's that for irony? When I stopped in for breakfast, I found Angie and a couple of customers standing in front of the closed restaurant.

I unlocked the door and went in, leaving the others outside. Having flashbacks to my cop days, I worked my jaws to get a little saliva going and swallowed to moisten my dry throat. Would I find Frankie sprawled behind the counter with a bullet in her head? Or had Larry decided to quit his job in this two-by-four joint by burying a meat cleaver in his employer's chest?

I didn't realize my breathing was so shallow until, finding no body, alive or dead, I pulled in a convulsive gasp of air. What I did find was a note taped to the cash register. I read it twice, then stood staring at it for another two minutes. My head jerked up at a gentle touch on my arm. Angie had come up behind me and read the note. Her blue eyes were damp.

"I'm sorry, Mitch. We didn't know how to tell you."

"English would've worked." I wanted to hurl the words at her, but they came out dull sounding. I looked down at the note and then at Angie again. "How long?"

She shrugged. "Pretty much since we opened. They didn't try too hard to hide it.You just weren't around to see it."

True enough. Frankie was so good at running the restaurant. I'd left it to her while I pretended I was some kind of famous detective, maybe even better than when I was on the force. The slug that had very nearly snuffed me had also mortally wounded my pride. All the ten years I'd been with Frankie, I'd been the macho cop, then police detective, risking life and limb to protect family and society. If she sent any signals that she'd grown tired of the scene, I missed them.

In the note, she told me she'd planned to walk the very day I was shot. The tears she splashed on me when I woke in the recovery room were real. She wasn't a cold-hearted bitch. She'd had enough decency to realize that, if I survived, she couldn't leave me. Or, at least, not until I was back on my feet.

I rubbed my aching head and tasted the acrid residue of all the coffee I'd drunk. "She's been gone eight weeks. I've had to spend most of that time learning the ropes. I made Angie manager and she persuaded her cousin, Gus, to help us out as temporary cook. He's working out pretty well. Seems to like it, so I hope he'll stay.

"PI work has dried up from a trickle to nonexistent. Frankie's is my bread and butter, but, for my soul, I need to revive my PI business."

The bell over the front door jangled and I looked at the clock, surprised. Six a.m. I'd talked the night away. Angie came in followed by Glenn King, in uniform, for his usual morning coffee. He walked over to our booth. Hooking a thumb at Charley, he asked, "Hey, Ringer, you gonna charge this guy with destruction of property?" He smiled as he said it. He probably wasn't keen on offending Charley either.

Dannielle slid out of the booth, saying she'd lend Angie a hand. Charley mumbled something and headed toward the restroom in the rear. King sat down and his elbow bumped the non-working juke box selection panel on the wall. It reminded him of his running request. "Ringer. When are you gonna start having Karaoke in this place? I've got a couple more of the King's numbers down good."

Dannielle set a cup of coffee in front of him. Glancing at his badge, she asked, "You mean you do your own songs?"

King laughed. "God, no. You know. The King. Elvis." He positioned his hands on an air guitar.

"He never came out." I said slowly and stared at King till he stopped his air strumming.

"What? I do great Elvis, don't I, Ringer?"

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