Cold, she hunched into her long cashmere coat and scarf. The thin wool wasn’t enough to block the wind, but she’d bought it for the way it looked, not its thermal ranking. “You think our psychologists might be involved with Bill?”
“That’s why I brought my Glock.” Jack patted his coat, worrying her. His coat was thick enough that the bulge of the weapon didn’t even show. She didn’t particularly like guns, though she agreed they were handy in the right setting. The six-inch knife in her boot sheath was more her style: quiet, unexpected if done correctly, lethal only if she wanted—but always attention-getting.
Sandy’s slight form darkened the window, wiping her hands on her jeans as she reached for the lock. Sandy had evolved from psychologist to friend a long time ago, and Peri smiled wanly as the longhaired woman pushed open the door. If Frank looked like a Viking in plaid and jeans, then Sandy was an Asian princess, slim, demure, and capable of dramatic outbursts when the situation called for it. Peri had seen her drive drunk twenty-one-year-olds out the door with her voice alone. And she was the only person Peri knew who was smaller than she was.
“Peri! Jack,” the late-thirties woman said with the faint Seattle-Asian accent that always made her sound slightly exotic to Peri’s midwestern-bred ears. “Bill said you were coming for a debrief. I locked up to keep it more private. Come on in. It’s cold tonight.” She glanced at the light snow before ushering them in and giving Peri a hug. “Everything okay? You’re still in your work clothes.”
Cursing herself, Peri looked at her black slacks and matching blouse. She even still had on her pen necklace. Her subconscious had her ready to run—and Sandy had noticed. “Could be better,” she said as she scanned the bar with its low stage plastered with ’90s band posters, scuffed dance floor, never-lit flagstone fireplace, and lotto kiosk in the corner, its flashing lights even brighter than the Juke’sBox online music panel that Frank had put in after someone blew out the ’70s antique it was named after. Even Peri admitted it was easier to load a night’s music from the tabletop ordering pads, but she missed the clunky singles stacked neatly in rows waiting to be chosen, knowing everyone was watching her as she stood before it.
The lights were down in the adjoining gaming lounge with its low tables, couches, and the testosterone magnet of a six-by-ten gaming panel, but she could still smell electronics over the varnished wood that held sway in the main part of the bar. Somehow the shadowy cushy booths and black ceilings with their bare support beams and hidden state-of-the-art sound system felt ominous tonight, even with the band novelties that Frank collected and stuck on the walls amid the illegal drone shots of celebs, public figures, and the occasional sunbather seeking her no-tan-line perfection.
Chairs were atop the tables as the cleaner ran, and the floor was scuffed to a bland haze the color of spilled beer everywhere but a thin line along the walls. The dance floor’s yellow parquet was so scratched, she could hardly see the original lines.
Bill wasn’t here yet, which was both a relief and a concern. Jack gave Peri a reassuring touch before making a slow beeline for Frank, still on the ladder.
Sandy smelled of polish, a rag stuffed into a back pocket, and Peri felt a sudden wash of affection for her longtime friend and confidante—and more than a little guilty at suspecting Sandy’s motives. “Hard day?” Sandy asked, and Peri nodded. “I worry about you two,” Sandy said, arm muscles showing a wiry strength as she returned to the bar and scrubbed at the brass. “Bill said you drafted. You lose a lot?”
Bad news travels fast. Peri slid atop one of the stools. “Six weeks.” Taking off her coat, she set it on the gleaming black counter beside the glass jammed full of chopsticks. Frank liked his burgers, but Sandy had more cosmopolitan tastes, and every restaurant in a four-block area could be accessed for delivery from the tabletop pads. “It could have been worse,” Peri added as she decided to leave the scarf on. She didn’t recall knitting it, but her fingers remembered the pattern, and it felt familiar.
Dropping the polishing rag, Sandy went behind the bar, the light from the UV hand sanitizer flashing as she stuck her hands under it for a few seconds. Frank had come down from the ladder, and he and Jack were talking in hushed but strident tones. Peri jumped when Sandy handed her a chipped mug of lukewarm coffee. “How about you start with the black eye?” she said, leaning against the bar to make her long black hair fall in a curtain to one side of her face.
“Someone hit me.” Peri looked into the oily, rank depths of the coffee. Sandy’s coffee invariably sucked. “I hit him back. What’s to tell? Especially when you don’t remember.”