One month later

The familiar jingling announces my arrival when I ignore the “closed” sign and push in the door. All the chairs are still up on the tables, the place cool and empty except for Stan the janitor, who’s tapping his shoe to the swinging sound of Ben Webster on tenor sax flowing from the jukebox as he goes about mopping the hardwood floor. The joint won’t open for another six hours, but that doesn’t concern me as I sit down at my usual spot, where the bartender has been expecting me. “Hasn’t anyone told you that drinking before noon is a no-no?”

I rest my elbows on the counter and point to one of the bottles behind her. “Who are you now, my mother?”

I can tell she’s in one of her playful moods when she ignores my request with a smile and begins measuring out portions of a concoction behind the counter. “Every boy’s first love is his mother, so it only pleases me if that’s who I remind you of.”

I suppress a groan that’s comes out half a laugh. “You’re a real card, Akizuki.”

“And you’re a real jerk, Kinomoto. Maybe I ought to start calling you Peach Boy or some name you don’t prefer.”

I raise my hands in mock surrender as she finishes stirring the mixture and combines it with half a cup of crushed ice and club soda, smirking as the corner of my mouth twitches when she drops in a wedge of pineapple, finally topping it off with a toothpick umbrella and placing it before me. I frown as I pick up the glass and inspect the fizzy red drink. “Never seen one like this before, what’s it called?”

“Scarlet Lady; I came up with it just recently.”

I would scowl at her, but she’s immune to it. “Okay, what’s in it?”

“Taste it and find out.”

I take a sip, the flavor subtly shifting with every swirl in my mouth, from burning vodka to sweet cherry to a hint of bitter and a multitude of other tastes that shouldn’t have been possible within a single glass. “I can’t tell.”

“You’re not supposed to, it’s a secret.”

My eyes narrow into a glare, which prompts her to start giggling. I shake my head, knowing it would be pointless to ask when all I would get is more mysteries. Better to get down to business; besides, it tastes pretty good. “What have you got for me?”

She leans forward, resting her chin in her hand. “Well, it seems that the bigwigs have given up; people noticed that none of their dirty little secrets are showing up on the front page so the manhunt fizzed out. The freelancers have turned to less ambitious targets rather than spend their lives chasing after a treasure ghost’s skirt and leaving the bills unpaid. I suppose that includes you.”

“Who knows, I may still catch her.”

“There’s also been talk of the Lady ditching her boss; seems they parted on less than friendly terms, if the rumors that she cleaned out several of his bank accounts before vanishing are anything to go by.”

I allow myself a small grin before raising my glass. “Bastard probably deserved it.”

She looks at me in a funny way before deciding against asking questions that risk too much information, instead reaching below the counter and pulling out a thick envelope constructed with tough brown paper and bound with several lengths of twine. “This came for you by the way. Arrived just yesterday through the underground courier; smelled like trouble, which is why I asked you to show up early.”

No return address of course, only my name in font cut out from a magazine glued to the front. I cut the twine with my pocket knife and peek inside the packet, which held a two inch stack of fifties bound with an elastic band. Looking up, Nakuru hands me a small envelope, which reveals a tourist card with a majestic shot of the Alps on the front and a single line of handwriting inside:

“For the loan of your clothes and an unforgettable night. K”

“Well? Is it trouble?”

“Yeah, it’s trouble.”

“In that case maybe you ought to stop grinning like an idiot.”

I don’t, replacing the card in the envelope and slipping it into the breast pocket of my shirt. Finishing my drink, I lick my lips and pocket the windfall. “How much do I owe you?”

I should’ve picked up her change in tone, for she had gone into one of her jealous moods, which was a bad thing. Her cheeks were puffed out as she pouted her reply. “One seventy-five for the drink and twenty percent of what’s in that envelope for staying mum.”

I wince as I stand and reach for my hat. “How about fifteen?”

“Fine, but you mister are taking me dancing on my next night off.”

“As you wish.” It was the best deal I was going to get. Stepping onto the cracked sidewalk, I remove my jacket and roll up my sleeves, feeling the warmth of the noonday sun on my back as I jog cross the street to my motorcycle, the adjacent phone booth reminding me I still owe my secretary dinner at the French Bistro, so I better make a reservation as soon as possible before she makes good on her threat to start hiding the sugar.

The End