Page 53 of The Dead Romantics

He checked his smart watch. “I’m sure it’ll be open for lunch in a few minutes. They’ve got pretty good cheese dogs. And their Tater Tots are—” He mimicked an A-OK signal. “Why don’t you take the mayor with you? He’s due for an inspection of those tots, anyway.”

I guessed that Seaburn was helping out with the funeral, so the least I could do was bring his dog along. “Sure. Mayor, wanna go with me?” The dog popped to his feet. “Then let’s go! Thank you, John!”

I wasn’t looking forward to today’s tasks. While Carver and Alice were helping Mom, I had to figure out how to do Dad’s impossible tasks. I already miserably failed at trying to get the flowers yesterday. I couldn’t wait to fail at finding Elvis today.

At least I had a good companion with me.

But the flower shop ownerdidgive me a lead, and while he wasn’t exactly Elvis, I knew my dad well enough to know that he didn’t always mean what he said, and thank god Bar None actually did keep strict operational hours, because I got there right at ten in the morning.

I let myself in, the mayor at my heels. There was aDOGS SHOULD VOTEsign inside the bar, and I took that as permission enough to let the best dog in with me. A man stood behind the bar prepping for the day.

“Is that Florence Day I see?” he asked, and adjusted his glasses. “I don’t believe my eyes! The famous Florence Day.”

Dagger, meet heart. “You got me,” I replied with a practiced smile.

“Perez. I’m sorry to hear about the old man,” he said, offering out a hand.

I shook it. “Thanks. Um, I have a weird question for you. Mr. Taylor down at the flower shop said that there was an Elvis that plays here some nights?”

“Elvis...? Ah! Of course!” He thumbed over his shoulder to a poster on the events board behind him. “You meanElvistoo.”

I glanced behind him to the poster he was referring to, and found myself staring at an aged-out version of Elvis in glittery sequins, about to eat a microphone. “Oh, that’s—exciting?”

“Hey, Bruno!” he called in the back.

The chef poked his head out. “Yeah, boss?”

“This is Xavier’s kid.”

Bruno’s dark eyes lit up like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. He quickly exited the kitchen, wiping his hands on his pristine white apron. “Well, I’ll be! Florence Day!” His voice was velvety smooth. I had a feeling he was— “Your dad came to watch me sing every Thursday. Before the poker games,” he added when confusion crossed my brow.

“That makes sense.”

We shook, and he sat down on the stool beside me. Perez, the bartender, asked if I wanted a drink, and I told him a lemonade would be nice. Bruno said, “Your old man never missed a night—and when he didn’t come on Thursday, we knew something was wrong,” he said. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not much and it’s not a great word to express the shit that’s happened, but it’s all I got.”

“It’s really appreciated.”

The bartender slid over a lemonade, and I curled my fingers around the cool, moist glass. The ice shifted, condensation pearling on the outside like rain droplets. He said, “Your dad always raved about you.”

Bruno nodded. “Always said you were up in the big city, chasing your dreams. That you could write words that could wake the dead.”

“He said that?”

“Absolutely.”

I felt heat nibble at my cheeks. OfcourseDad would say something like that. He didn’t even know that I ghostwrote—that those books were sold in airport bookstores and at grocery store checkout counters—

And... now I couldn’t tell him at all.

Ever.

He paused. “Xavier swore me not to tell anyone, but I gotta know if it’s true that—”

“Bruno... ,” the bartender warned.

I frowned. “Know if what’s true?”

Bruno instead said, “He was so proud of you, Miss Day. So fuckin’ proud he cried. He knew you were chasing your dream, like Carver and Alice, and he was so damn proud of all you kids.”

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