W is for Wasted

As soon as I reached my room, I stripped down and took a shower, emerging from the bathroom fifteen minutes later with clean hair and a pure heart. I stretched out on the bed, thinking to close my eyes for twenty minutes while I worried about Felix. I had no idea what was going on. All I knew was the Boggarts had attacked him in retaliation for the raid on the camp. I woke with a start an hour and forty-five minutes later and had to scramble to throw on my clothes, retrieve the Mustang from the parking lot, and reach the Brandywine by 8:00.

The club was largely deserted at that hour, as Anna had predicted. I paused inside the door to get my bearings. Two bartenders were setting up, moving bottles and stemware, dumping ice from a plastic bucket into one of the wells. A waitress stood at one end of the bar, leaning on her elbows while she chatted with the two. The music from the jukebox played at a muted level. I picked up a portion of the sound track from Dirty Dancing, which I thought might bode well. The raucous thumping numbers would come later when I was gone . . . I hoped.

Since there was no sign of Anna, I sat down at a table in view of the front door. The main room was half dark and smelled of beer. The air-conditioning was turned up in anticipation of the crowd. Behind me and to my left, I could see the raised dais where the band would play. I’d make a point of being gone by the time Ethan arrived. I could hear billiard balls crack into one another smartly, and assumed there was a pool table in the back room.

I finally spotted Anna. She’d changed clothes. For her Friday-night attire, she’d selected a form-fitting red leather miniskirt, a glittering red sequined tank top, and four-inch heels. Her demeanor had undergone a transformation as well. Gone was the industrious shopgirl with her cuticle expertise. She was in hunting mode and dressed for the kill. Her eyes were lined in black and her lipstick was the same hot red shade as her nails. Her hair was still secured by a clip but arranged in a French roll instead of a tuft on top. She’d added long, dangle earrings that bobbed and sparkled as she moved. There was no sign of anyone with her.

When she slid into the seat across the table, she was accompanied by a subtle cloud of perfume. She made eye contact with one of the bartenders who knew what she was drinking without being told. A moment later, a waitress appeared with a martini on a tray. Three olives were submerged in the depths and the glass was frosted with a thin sheath of ice.

Anna glanced at me. “What are you drinking?”

“Chardonnay.”

The waitress made a note before she turned and walked away.

Anna picked up her glass. “End of a long week. Excuse me if I don’t wait.”

“I thought Ellen would be with you.”

“In a bit. Hank, too. His mom lives six doors down and she said she’d watch the kids. So what’s the plan? Staying over?”

“I have a room at the Holiday Inn.”

“Good for you,” she said.

“Is this where you spend your Friday nights?”

“Saturday nights, too. I date a guy who plays keyboard in Ethan’s band.”

“Is that how you met?”

“Other way around. I talked Ethan into hiring him when another guy dropped out. Where’re you from?” she asked, switching the subject as if the answer had slipped her mind. Ethan had probably unloaded anything and everything I’d said about myself.

“Santa Teresa.”

“Nice. How’s the club scene?”

“There isn’t one.”

“Bummer.” She took a sip of her martini, holding the glass by the rim. Her nails looked great and I checked mine by way of comparison. With me, she’d used a nail buffer instead of polish, but my nails still had a high shine, as though she’d coated them with clear polish. I remembered her remark about my slender fingers and arranged them on the table in what I hoped was an artful pose.

She moved a cocktail napkin closer and set the stemmed glass in the center with care. I wondered if she already had a buzz on. “Ethan says you’re a private detective.”

“This is true.”

She speared the top of an olive with a long red nail and held it up like a lollipop. “So what’s it take to get a job like that?” She closed her lips around the olive and chewed.

“Long apprenticeship. You work for a licensed PI until you’ve put in the hours you need.”

“Which is how many?”

“Six thousand. If you work a forty-hour week, fifty weeks a year, you’re talking three years.”

“Bet you need a college degree.”

“I don’t have one. I attended a couple of semesters of community college, but I didn’t graduate.”