Page 46 of Rest In Pink

“How do you feel about it?”

“It’s more than the bar is worth right now,” Jill said, looking around at the empty tables.

Somebody signaled her and she went and drew a couple of brews and took them over to a table, then came back. She leaned forward, elbows on the scarred wood. “Sometimes I get tired of it. The grind. Trying make ends meet, keep up with the bills. And now the future isn’t looking good. I don’t think those yuppies who are going to live in Cash’s development are gonna come here. Not their kind of joint. So maybe we just give up. Somebody even made a counteroffer today. No contingency. Dad’s thinking seriously about it.”

“Who?”

“A young Black woman.” She turned to the back of the bar and plucked a pale green business card off the mirror frame and handed it to me. There was just a phone number on it and the word “ECOmena” with two green leaves between the “ECO” and the “mena.”

“Have you called it?”

“No,” Jill said. “I really don’t want to sell unless I have to. But Dad has a say, too. A big one, since he owns the place. And with this kind of business, I don’t think we’re going to have much choice.” She smiled, but it was weak. “Maybe they’ll give me a job in whatever it’s turned into, if they don’t tear it down.”

Before I could say anything—hell, what could I say?— the door opened and a gaggle of strangers came in and went over to one of the tables. There were eight of them, looking around as if they were tourists on a movie set, pointing things out and laughing. I wrote down the company name and phone number from the card in my notebook as Jill went over and took their order, which seemed to take an unusually long time and a lot of talking, but they weren’t giving her a hard time, she was smiling. When she came back, she was shaking her head. “You aren’t going to believe this, Vince. You know why they’re here?”

“The ambience?”

She began mixing cocktails. “Thacker’s posts. They’re from Cincinnati and they say people are talking about Burney. Want to know what it’s all about. They wanted to know where they could find Liz Danger or dour Detective Vincent Cooper. Wait ’til I tell them you’re standing right here.”

“You’ll owe me free Cokes for life if you do,” I threatened.

“Come on, Vince. You’re good for business. And we need good business.”

I handed her the card back and reluctantly nodded.

Jill loaded the tray and went over to the table, spreading them out. Then she pointed at me and there was a babble of excitement. Jill came back smiling. “They’re thrilled.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Apparently, they did a vote and a twenty-something redhead won. Or lost. She came over and asked me for my autograph on a bar napkin. I scrawled my name and she thanked me profusely before heading back to the table, proudly showing it.

“You’re a star, Vince,” Jill said.

“Great,” I said, and wished Liz was here. Liz would think this was funny as hell. Except the redhead would be asking her for an autograph, too, and she’d probably sign it,Shady Liz Danger who is doing the dirty with dour cop Vince Cooper.

I was starting to notice that every night when I got off work, I thought about Liz. That wasn’t a good idea, I am not relationship material, but I also knew that nights were better with Liz, and not just because of the sex. This farce would be a lot better with Liz.

That was a dangerous thought.

But there was something worse than that, I realized. That twenty-something? I’d forgotten to scope her out. I wasn’t interested.

She wasn’t Liz.

Rain would tell me I was walking into an ambush.

“Fuck,” I said, and Jill said, “Some people would be glad to be a star.”

And that’s when my phone buzzed. Liz.

Chapter Twenty-One

On Saturday, I wore myReady, Willing, and Vaguely Competentt-shirt to inspire Anemone, who looked at me, shook her head and then deserted me to drive into Cincinnati to have another lunch with friends from another one of her marriages.

I finished up the revisions on the first five chapters and was getting ready to dive into Chapter Six, the senator who’d co-opted her low income housing charity, when Peri asked about mermaids (she’d swum the length of the pool underwater again the day before), pizza (no, we’re not going to make our own but we can order some, but not tonight, Marianne made lasagna), and Vince (where was he? Did we break up? Was I sure?). Clearly the kid was feeling lonely, so I bagged the book for the day and we ate lasagna (divine lasagna with stringy mozzarella and creamy ricotta and spicy sausage and a great red sauce with that crunchy stuff in it that Marianne said was called chili crisp) and we read until her bedtime. At least she read and I thought about Vince because I wasn’t sure. It had been a while since Vince and I had crossed paths. Or bodies.

We talked on the phone every night, but he was distracted, something was bothering him, he was chasing something again, and I didn’t think it was just the threat to George’s job and Bartlett’s general asshattery. What with one thing and another we hadn’t had any time together. I did know he was depressed about the death of his friend, Dave. After telling me about the funeral, he’d never mentioned it again, but death doesn’t just simply disappear. It has a long shadow.

But one thing I’ve learned from writing about Anemone’s life: If you want something, go after it.

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