Page 1 of Freckles

CHAPTERONE

FRANCESCA

It’sthe last call before closing and Richard, a retired professor and one of the Concordia Bar’s regular drunks, sits at the counter, staring at me with his rheumy blue eyes.

“What kind of freezer are we talking about?”

“A big chest freezer. Like a fridge tipped on its back but deeper.”

His eyes narrow, head tilting to the side. “Right.” He nods at the bottle of scotch on the shelf behind me. “Might need a little something to jog my memory.”

Mari, my fellow bartender tonight, is at the other end of the bar, unloading the glass dishwasher. I quickly pour Richard a double, no ice, and set it on the counter.

When he reaches for it, I inch it back towards me. “Information first.”

“How illegal are the contents?”

Along with being a regular, Richard is a good listener, eager for any kind of gossip. When previous attempts to resolve my problem led me online to discussion boards that made 4chan look like a hotbed of liberal feminism, he was the first person I thought to ask. But there’s no way I’m telling him—or anyone—the full truth.

Not unless I absolutely have to.

“Say… full of endangered animals trafficking cocaine kind of contents. If the thing is ever discovered, it’ll be a twenty-year stretch for sure.”

“Mm-hm. And when does your friend need this done by?”

“In the next few months.”

From next year, I’ll be eligible to board in the university halls of residence, which gives me a firm six-month deadline because I can’t take the freezer with me. Even if I don’t attend university, my student housing subsidy will expire, and without that, I can’t afford the rent.

Different path, same result. Either I get it sorted soon, or my fate will rest on how good I am at lying to police.

Richard drums his fingers on the counter, then nods. “I know a guy.”

Bullseye!

My faith in the acquired wisdom of drunks is fully restored.

I slide the drink across the counter, keeping my fingers on the base. “And would you have this guy’s contact details?”

He taps the side of his nose, and my enthusiasm dims a little.

“If you’re not able to help, you could just say so.” I pull the drink back towards me. “No need to string me along.”

“Fine, fine. Got it here.”

Richard fumbles a wallet out of his jeans pocket, the leather bulging with scraps of paper and old business cards. He unfolds a page torn from a notebook and takes a cardboard coaster from the stack, copying a phone number onto the back. “The service’ll cost you.”

“I have money.”

Only a twenty-dollar bill I keep for emergencies, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“You’re… what? University age now?”

“High school senior. Why?” I tilt my head. “Does your contact have an age limit or something?”

“Just checking. If you were seventeen or under, you’d be eligible for youth court.” He pulls a face. “That’s like a slap on the wrist.”

“If I was seventeen, I wouldn’t be working in a bar.”

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