obviously not going away, so let’s get whatever this is over with.
“Okay … What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Emily Parker.”
On second thought, let’s not even start this.
“Absolutely not.” I hasten my efforts to open the door.
“Please. Just a few questions.”
“‘Just a few questions’? I’m sorry. Who are you?” I ask.
“No, I’m sorry. I totally messed this up,” she says, reaching into her pocket and holding out her card. “My name is Genevieve Winters. I’m with the San Francisco Herald.”
Of course, she’s a reporter. Of course she is. I don’t even reach for the card.
“Not interested.”
“I saw how you two acted towards one another at the bar,” she says.
Get away! Get away from her! my mind screams, which only adds to the trouble with the key. Talking to a reporter isn’t going to help me figure out who killed Emily. It can only get me into more trouble.
“I have nothing to say.”
I’m trying desperately to open the door, but my hands are shaking so bad, that when I attempt one last time to get the key in the lock, it slides off to the side and I stab the glass, thankfully not hard enough to break it. That’s it. She’s got me.
I finally look up.
She’s staring at me like a ravenous cat eyeing a one-legged mouse.
“How well did you know her?” she asks.
“I said I’m not talking to—”
“Were you sleeping with her?”
There’s no use trying to hide the fact that she’s rattled me. I give up with the keys and give her my full attention.
“What makes you ask that?”
“Like I said, I saw you two together. You seemed pretty … friendly.”
“I’m a bartender. ‘Friendly’ is kind of my job.”
“I’ve also heard some things.”
“Have you?”
She nods.
That question pops into my head; the question that changed the dynamic with Detective Mendez: What can I get you? What is it that I can get you that will get me what I want, and what I want to know is where she heard anything?
I take her card and stuff it into my hip pocket.
“Tell me where you heard that.”
“If I tell you, will you answer some questions for me?”
I make a small show like I’m thinking it over. “Sure.”
She smiles triumphantly, confident that she has a story.
“I’ve been asking around. People said you two were friendly. Some people were suspicious that she was having an affair. Even the police know about it.”
I scoff. “The fact that she was found naked in a dive motel wasn’t enough to tip them off that she was having an affair? You are some reporter.”
“How did you know she was found naked?” Genevieve asks.
This is exactly why I didn’t want to start talking to her.
She waits.
“Are you gonna answer my question or—?”
“Nope,” I reply, finally sliding the key into the lock.
“‘Nope’? What do you mean, ‘nope’?”
“I’m not going to answer your questions.”
Her initial shock quickly gives way to anger. “We had a deal.”
“Yeah. I know.”
I’ve gotten what I needed and it’s clear that I know more than she does.
“Are—are you serious?”
“Yep,” I say, opening the door.
She’s royally pissed and not without justification, but I don’t feel sorry for her.
She gives me a furious stare. “You open in an hour?”
“That’s what the sign says.”
“Well, maybe I’ll come back, have a drink, and talk to some of your customers to see what they might know.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you harass them like that. If you come back, I’ll call the cops.”
“Fine,” she fires back, not missing a beat. “Maybe I’ll just have a drink. It’s a free country.”
“Yeah but, see, it’s not a free bar.” I step inside the door.
“You need to talk to me! I can get your story out th—”
“There’s a TGI Friday’s up the road. It strikes me as a little more of your kind of place.”
I close the door and lock it.
There’s a brief staring contest through the glass before she turns and leaves.
Once she’s out of sight, I sprint to the bathroom and vomit.
This is the longest damn shift of my life.
Katie and I have barely said two words to each other. I want to ask her for more details about her talk with Detective Mendez yesterday, but there’s no time for talk and she doesn’t seem very receptive. We’re still putting on our little show for the customers, but the ass-slaps are half-assed, the innuendo is weak, and I’m on a short fuse, which is obvious to all.
Things that I normally let slide are setting me off.
A group of office bros order a round of drinks but only one at a time, which is a massive headache. I make one drink, bring it to them, then they order another drink. If you’re in a group, order your drinks all at once. Good bartenders can work on three or four drinks at a time. They’re going one by one.
“Come on, guys,” I sigh after their fifth drink order. “Let’s act like we’ve been to a bar, before.” That stops them in their tracks. Katie shoots me a look.
Later on, a man studying the bottles in the display asks, “What’s the cheapest thing you’ve got here?”
“You,” I reply.
