Page 6 of Identify
“Do you know much about what happened?” Mack asks while my phone dings with an incoming notification from research and records:
MESSAGE: It’s Jenny. Call in when you get a second. Got a match on your sketch. You’re not gonna like it.
I interrupt Mack to show him the message, then excuse myself to make my call.
4
Quinn
“This is exactlywhat best friends do for one another,” I tell Daria from my perch on the other side of the bar.
“I love you like a sister, you know that,” she says, her Russian accent slipping in as she talks. She’s been wiping at the same spot on the bar top for a few minutes. “But, sweetie, you would explode up my whole operation, and I can’t afford for that to happen.”
“I wouldblowup your whole operation.”
“I know, that’s what I just said.”
“The word is blow, not explode.”
She waves her arm at me in response.
“You have no faith in me.” I frown and try to give her my wounded puppy-dog look.
“Don’t make that look at me,” she says, pausing for a moment before continuing. “Okay, fine. Prove me wrong.”
“Yay! How?”
“Carry a tray of beer from here to the holiday tree and back.”
“Pfft. No problem.” The bar isn’t even busy at this time of day, so it will be easy to do. “And it’s a Christmas tree, not a holiday tree.”
“Ha! That is not me getting one of your American words wrong. I don’t discriminate the holidays. That’s not just a Christmas tree, it’s an everything tree.” She spreads her arms as though encompassing everything in the bar. “And you can’t spill the beer.”
I give her my bestbring it onlook. She sets a tray on the counter along with six pint glasses which she fills with water, not beer, from the beverage gun behind the counter.
I grab it with both hands.
“One-handed.”
“It’s too heavy for one-handed,” I complain.
She takes it from me, and pretty much spins it in the air like pizza dough, lifting it overhead by the tips of her fingers, then walks back and forth behind the bar a couple times.
“Well, sure, easy for you to do, you’re the pro.”
“All my girls can do that.” She brings the tray back down to the counter; I examine it carefully to make sure nothing spilled.
It didn’t.
I huff loudly and roll my eyes, then slide off my bar stool, take the tray and hoist it over my head, careful to balance my palm directly in the center. Then I begin a slow and measured walk to the other side of the bar. The tray wobbles precariously above me and I keep my other hand up and at the ready in case it falls.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
I count my steps, watching the floor to make sure I don’t trip over anything. It’s reminiscent of when I was a kid trying to balance a library book on top of my head and walk. When I reach the other side, I place the tray down on a tall table and raise my fists in air, bouncing in place. “Woot!”
