Chapter 16
Six hours later, I still haven’t solved the poodle problem.
Mostly because it takes me the entire time between Sheila’s blackmail and now to figure out what to wear to meet Tasha. After
trying on everything I own, I’ve settled on some jeans that make me look like I actually have a butt and a tank top from one
of my favorite bands, Boss Fight. It’s casual, a little punk, but it also looks like an actual outfit.
Just for the heck of it, I spritz some saltwater tousling spray on my hair, something Hannah gave me after the company sponsored
one of her posts. It’s supposed to give my limp hair a little body, but all it does is make it look slightly sticky.
Gross.
I check the time, and since I still have fifteen minutes, I hop in the shower and quickly wash out the tousling spray.
Apparently, though, I don’t shut the bathroom door all the way.
Just as I’m about to reach down to turn off the water, Jacques Cousteau lives up to his namesake and leaps into the shower with me, which makes me scream bloody murder Psycho-style and pull down the shower curtain bar on both of us, bonking myself hard just under my eye. Very cool to be almost blinded
today, on top of everything else.
Jacques prances around, apparently loving all this.
“I will call Animal Control!” I yell, sliding around the slick tub and banging my knees as I try to stand. “You wouldn’t last
an hour in that hellhole!”
He absolutely doesn’t care and leaps back out of the tub to pounce on the puddles that are now all over the bathroom floor.
The other two dogs watch from the doorway, looking amused.
I finally untangle myself from the curtain, shut the water off, and get out, first drying myself and then tossing the towel
down to mop up the water. I’m simultaneously swabbing the floor and cursing out Tond for sticking me with the dogs, when suddenly
I realize I still haven’t heard from Claudia about all my funeral revelations. Makes sense that she’d be the grudge-holding type.
Tomorrow, I’ll grovel like I’ve never groveled before. She’ll give in and help me figure out who’s the mastermind of Operation
Kill Cran and Possibly Mo.
Who’s the crime boss/Moriarty/Funeral Deep Throat.
Who’s got Tond wrapped around their little finger.
The woman’s a born meddler; she won’t be able to help herself.
When the floor’s mostly dry, I check the clock—five minutes until I’m supposed to meet Tasha. Crap.
After a few quick swipes of deodorant, I throw my clothes back on, grab my shoulder bag, and go.
I jog down the stairs and past Sheila/Roy’s apartment, almost tripping over a package on my way out of the front door.
I apologize silently to whoever it’s for, kick it into the corner of the mailroom, and tear down the path toward the gate.
I’m already halfway down the sidewalk when I hear the gate clang shut after me.
The whole way there, I try to walk fast enough that I won’t be too late, but not so fast that I show up sweaty. Tasha already
got that version of me once today. I need to show her I’ve got range.
As I turn onto Lincoln, Dickie’s Tavern appears in front of me, humming softly from the neon glow of the Old Style sign.
I suddenly feel a little queasy, and not just at the thought of two-star pizza. Here I am teetering on the edge of all things
unknown.
I mean, I might be murdered at any second.
AND I’m not sure if this is a date.
Which is worse? I don’t know. But somehow, I’m going to tackle both at the same time. This will be fine, I tell myself. I know how to multitask.
They keep the lights low in Dickie’s, which I assume is so nobody can see the layer of grease and dust on everything. The
wood is dark, too, and so is the red vinyl of the booths lining the walls. The dim light unfortunately does not hide the fact that the place smells like the ghost of a thousand sad-guy cigarettes. A quick glance around tells me that
Tasha’s not here yet. Might as well do a little recon to pass the time.
To start: The Cran/Dickie’s connection just doesn’t square. Every scummy inch of the bar reinforces my original theory that
it’s not the sort of place Cran would hang out. Not without disinfectant wipes and, like, kale. So why did he have the Dickie’s
matchbook in his pocket at the funeral? Did he just pop in to grab some matches one day? I’m sure he wasn’t a smoker, so why
would he even need them to begin with? Was he a scented candle guy?
My sense of the man just gets fuzzier and fuzzier.
I linger in the doorway for a half second, scanning the room and clocking three middle-aged sports guys at the bar and a couple at a far booth, their heads so close together I can’t tell what they look like.
The bartender, an older woman with tons of tattoos, leans against the wall behind her, checking her phone.
“Everything okay?”
I spin around, embarrassed to be caught mid-recon, and there’s Tasha, looking a little tired but happy to see me. “Sorry I’m
late,” she says with an apologetic grimace. “I just can’t get out from under my workload these days.”
Lucky workload, I think.
“No sweat,” I say and wave toward the booths. “Any preference?”
“How about that one?” Tasha’s hand grazes my lower back, and my brain instantly puts a pin in the sleuthing and screams Date date it’s looking like a date as she gently steers me to the empty booth. She’s not in work mode anymore, and she’s let her hair down and—even sexier—unknotted
her bow tie, which hangs loose around her neck. I’m on an actual date with the after-hours James Bond of civic engagement.
High five to myself.
I let her slide into the booth and then ask her what she wants. “First round’s on me.”
“There’s going to be more than one round?” she asks with a grin.
“I have a lot of unwinding to do,” I say with a matching grin. “I’m guessing you do, too, workaholic?”
“Guilty as charged.” She holds up a hand. “What can I say, I’m a beast for public service. If I’m not in bed, I’m probably
at work.”
“Sounds like you need to spend more time in bed,” I suggest, raising an eyebrow.
“Get me that drink and you can tell me your pitch.”
Holy corporate-style flirting, Batman.
I float over to the bar with her order, and as I wait for the bartender to pour a couple pints of Green Line, I scope out the wall above the cash register.
It’s crammed with a bunch of haphazardly taped-up photos from one of those rebooted Polaroid cameras, and I search for Cran’s trademark sneer, but come up empty—just a lot of poorly framed shots of strangers toasting or making Malort face.
I sneak a look at the three sports guys, who are glued to a TV screen playing a Cubs game. One of them has a hand resting
in a bowl of nuts, like he’s getting a manicure and needs to soften his cuticles first.
Mental note: Don’t eat the nuts here.
Follow-up note: Those guys are probably not part of any potential crime syndicate.
A quick glance at the couple in the booth tells me they are full-on making out, so also probably not involved in much crime-ing.
How does recon work if people don’t just walk up and admit stuff to you? I’m starting to get the distinct impression that
I suck at this. Soldier on, I think solemnly.
As the bartender works, I try a little casual chitchat.
“So, you get a lot of suits in here?”
She stops midpour and shoots me a baffled look, like I’ve asked her about local Serbian politics.
Maybe that’s just not the right question.
“Cool matchbooks.” I point to the little bowl of them. “How many do you think you go through in a month?”
She squints and I think this is also not the way to go.
One more try. “How do you decide who gets to go up on the wall?”
Finally, she answers. “You have to be somebody I like.”
Then she gives me a look that clearly says I will not be going up on the wall.
That’s enough recon for now.
“Two Guinnesses,” she says, plopping the pint glasses down in front of me.
I check behind me. Nobody new has entered the bar. “I don’t think these are for me.”
“Sure they are,” she says, already looking at her phone again. “That’s what you ordered.”
Apparently I suck at recon and getting beers.
When I slide into the booth a second later, Tasha’s smothering a laugh so hard she’s tearing up. “I heard the whole thing,”
she manages to say. “Your small talk could use some work, but you definitely did not order those drinks.”
“Should I—”
“No!” she says, still laughing. “This is perfect.” She takes a big swig from her pint and sets it down with a smile and a
thick foam mustache. I can see every freckle sprinkled across her face. She grins at me, and my stomach flips over, so actually . . . ?
I’ll come back and do recon another night, because this is way better. I just hope I don’t fuck this up.
As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I realize I’m definitely going to fuck it up. Then I can’t stop thinking about all the ways I’m going to fuck it up. There are, literally, an endless
number of things I could do wrong.
I take a very long pull on my beer, which helps, but only a little.
“Are you allowed to have a beer right after a heart attack?” Tasha asks as one side of her mouth quirks up.
“It’s part of my treatment plan,” I say. “The doctor said I actually had a beer deficiency.”
“Well, we can fix that here.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I say, and we clink our pint glasses together. This beer is going down faster than usual because I’m so nervous. After another long drink and a moment of terrifying silence, I add, “You were right, by the way. It was just a pulled muscle.”
“I’m so glad,” she says. “Much better than a heart attack.”
I lean in to her. “So, government hotshot, what’s it like knowing things?”
She waves a hand dismissively. “You know things.”
“You get what I mean,” I say. “Secret nerdy government things. The seedy underbelly of Chicago.”
“Are you talking about Manhole Mondays again?” Tasha asks with a wicked smile. “Because I’ve noticed you have a real thing
for manholes. I saw you checking out those three.” She waves toward the sports guys.
“Not really my type,” I start, but I’m suddenly unsure about the subtext of this conversation. “I mean, I have in the past.
But I also have an appreciation for . . .”
Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
But the beer’s got me now.
“. . . ladyholes.”
We blink at each other for a second and I turn a Crayola shade of red as she bursts out laughing.
I have no idea which way this is going until she finally catches her breath, and in between gasps for air, she says, “Well,
thank goodness, that answers that question.”