12. Nick
Chapter twelve
Nick
Maddie accepted my offer to come along with her on this interview with the corrupt inspector because he wants to meet in a seedy-looking bar.
Luca said this place can attract a rough crowd and to be careful, so I’m relieved Maddie is allowing me to tag along.
That has to mean something, right? She trusts me.
This is definitely a step forward in our relationship.
She always wants to handle everything herself.
Or she truly thinks this is dangerous. Luca’s parting words were “duck and weave.” He said at least I’m fast on my feet, with all the dancing and exercise I do. He gave me a whistle. Some help he is.
I tighten my scarf and wait for Maddie outside the subway station.
A cold wind sweeps down Fulton Street, fresh off the East River.
The World Trade Center looms over the street if I look west. This corner has some thatched roof outdoor café set up, vacant at the moment, which promises that spring weather is coming soon, even if it doesn’t feel like it.
Seedy bars are not my thing. When I was thirteen (and becoming “a man,” as my mom said), my mom tried to find my dad because she thought he’d want to know me and that I might need him.
And we searched for him in some disreputable bars—huge men with black leather and tattoos and the smell of pot smoke and stale alcohol are what I remember.
I hated the way people would stare at me when my mom and I entered.
And she’d tell me to wait by the door in her sight while she checked out the back.
I didn’t like her going into those places—I worried about her.
I even thought maybe my mom had cooked this up as an elaborate scheme to deter me from wanting to be a musician.
But she found my dad. He wanted nothing to do with us.
I was relieved when he moved back to Nashville, and she realized once again that we didn’t need him.
I check my phone to make sure that Maddie hasn’t texted me with a change of plans, because it’s now five minutes past the hour.
It’s impressive Maddie managed to convince the inspector to meet for an interview.
She said that he’d hung up initially but then called her back.
He wanted to know how she’d been able to track him down.
She told him, and he seemed to change his mind.
She’s a good reporter. It was good to see her getting some recognition for that at her middle school event.
But Maddie freezing like that—I’ve never seen her react that way before. I didn’t even need the code word. I couldn’t care less if that woman outed me as rude. I wanted to pull Maddie away from her.
Has Maddie seen the comments online under the recent article about us? Or the photos taken of her leaving The Intelligencer one night? I hope not. Some are cruel.
Is he dating the Pillsbury Doughboy? Why is she always dressed in that enormous parka?
Is she carrying a dead body in that bag? Or just a lot of makeup to make her look passable?
What does he see in her? I give them three months.
Three months is right. At least it will be Maddie breaking up with me. And I have a feeling I’ll be able to make them believe I’m heartbroken.
But these trolls…
One more reason not to date someone who wants to be a famous musician.
And then there’s Cybergirl’s comments: What does she see in him? Rock stars are not to be trusted.
Why do I have a sneaking suspicion that Cybergirl is Iris? But good for her for supporting Maddie.
Should I tell Maddie not to look at the comments? I don’t want her feeling hurt. But if I tell Maddie not to look at the comments, then I fear her reporter instincts will take over and she’ll think they’re bad and she needs to look at them.
“Nick!” Maddie walks up, smiling. She puts her bag down and opens her parka for a minute to take out the pen recorder.
I take a moment to appreciate Maddie dressed up in wide-legged black pants and her tailored black jacket.
She usually wears jeans or yoga pants and a sweater, so I’m guessing she wants to look more imposing to this guy.
But other than that, her eyes are bright and open, unclouded by doubts or pain.
Not like yesterday. Even at the restaurant we all went to for dinner after the panel, she seemed relaxed and over it.
But I didn’t imagine her freezing—or how tightly she gripped my hand.
Maddie offers me her hand, and I hold it. She pulls it into one of her huge pockets. “Your hand looks cold.”
“I forgot my gloves at home.” Maddie’s hands are so soft and tiny. I should forget gloves more often. “Are you sure my hand isn’t too cold?”
“Yes,” she says.
“Looking stylish,” I say.
“A leather jacket?” she asks. We walk briskly towards the bar, which is several blocks away. “I didn’t even know you owned a leather jacket. Are you trying to blend in?”
“Every rock star wannabe owns a leather jacket. And yes, I thought it might be best to try to blend in. You obviously decided to go with the opposite approach.” I sweep my hand to indicate Maddie’s pantsuit.
“I thought it best to remind him I work for a reputable paper,” she says.
“I agree with that approach,” I say, regretting that I didn’t also wear a suit. “I didn’t know this was the Strangelove dress code.”
“You’re the muscle, so you’re perfect.” She winks at me.
Something melts within me.
I pull out my phone. “You need to say that again so I can record it.”
She shakes her head, and her ponytail swings behind her head. “Nope.”
“But don’t worry, I’m still wearing sneakers in case we have to make a fast getaway,” she says. “Here we are.”
A red neon light STRANGELOVE BAR sign blinks on and off, as if it’s conserving energy to keep going for another night. The two windows are grimy, so we can’t see the interior.
When we walk inside, it’s practically pitch-black, and the walls are covered in graffiti.
Not only the walls, but every available surface—the chairs, tables, and even the cash register.
The musty smell doesn’t help either. Nor does the headless mannequin also covered in graffiti stationed at the end of the long bar.
Maddie stops briefly next to me. “I think my heel just caught on some sticky spilled beer.”
“You always take me to the nicest places for our dates,” I say, teasing.
“Not everyone can find the types of places where we can date without your fans catching us,” Maddie says.
“I hope these are my fans—and not my anti-fans.” I stare at the two big, tattooed guys at the bar. They thankfully ignore us, more focused on their shot glasses. Another man is slumped with a drink next to the mannequin. He raises his head to call for a refill.
The only other customer is sitting at the very last table in the back and dressed in black, barely visible, except that someone opens the bathroom door next to him and the light reveals his hunched-over shape.
“I’m going to ask Luca for the spray next time I see him,” I whisper to Maddie.
“Is now a good time to tell you I forgot to bring it?” Maddie asks.
“No. Not a good time,” I say. What do I have? Me, my phone, my whistle, and my backpack with Maddie’s gift and probably guitar picks. But I thought Maddie’s bag had everything. Should I call Luca or Mr. Muscle and see if they know any security guys in the neighborhood?
“Just kidding,” she says.
Maddie strides up to the table with her hand out. I actually don’t like shaking hands anymore. I thought I had it tough shaking fans’ hands, but this is a whole other level.
The man half-rises to shake her hand but keeps his cap low on his head, hiding his face.
“Who’s your friend?” he asks in a gravelly voice that sounds as if it’s been burned by years of smoking. “I thought you were coming alone.”
“My boyfriend,” Maddie says brightly. “We’re having dinner after this. I haven’t been to this bar or area before, so I thought I might as well check out the neighborhood.” She looks around as if we’re having tea at The Plaza. “He can sit at another table if you want.”
The man shrugs.
We both sit down, although Maddie places a handkerchief from her bag on the seat first. That bag really does have everything. Except for an extra protective cover for me. She takes out a notebook and what I hope is the pen recorder.
“How long have you been an inspector for the Infrastructure Department?” she asks.
“Two months,” he says.
“What did you do before?” she asks.
“Is that relevant?”
Yes. I want to know if you were a boxer—or a hired assassin.
“It might be,” Maddie says. She must be used to hostile subjects.
“I got the job, so I had the necessary qualifications,” he says.
“What made you want this job?” she asks.
“Why does anyone want a job? The pay and benefits seemed alright,” he says.
She asks a bunch more warm-up questions, but he doesn’t seem to be getting any friendlier.
I leave to order drinks because the bartender is glaring at us.
I give the bartender double the amount of the bill.
Maybe the prospect of high tips will keep him on our side.
I place two sodas on the table and another beer for this guy and sit back down. He raises his glass to me.
Maddie clicks her pen. “Are there any pay incentives to find violations?”
I guess we’ve moved past the warm-up.
“No,” he says.
“What’s your connection to Ophelia?” she asks.
“I don’t know anyone named Ophelia,” he says quickly.
“That’s not what I heard,” she says. “Nor what the evidence shows.”
“What evidence?” he huffs.
Maddie pulls out a piece of paper. “Here’s a list of bars that were cited for violations in the past month and yet cleared upon a second inspection by you once they offered to let Ophelia play.
Funny how they match. And the bar owners tell me that’s not a coincidence—that you said you’d ‘overlook’ these issues if they gave Ophelia and her band a chance. ”
He stares at her. “How did you figure that out?”