extra
hots," the counterman called. Tess took the greasy brown
paper bag, plucked a bag of Utz cheese curls off the metal rack, and
turned back to Whitney, who was focused on her grilled
cheese's progress with bird dog intensity.
"Call me, hon." She had
started using the local endearment ironically, only to find it a
natural fit over time, Baltimore being an irony-free zone. Even its
synthetic nickname, Charm City, had begun to take on a life of its own.
"Crow doesn't take up all my time. In fact,
he's so busy being a local rock hero, I have plenty of free
week-ends and evenings."
Whitney nodded absently. But as Tess began
working her way out of the crowded carryout, Whitney reached out and
caught the sleeve of her coat.
"Tesser?"
"What?"
"How's your job? The
investigator thing? Tyner keeping you busy?"
"In spurts."
"Spurts." Whitney
laughed. Even her laugh seemed better than most
people's—rarer, richer, deeper. "I
thought that was how Crow kept you busy. Are you licensed? Have you
bought a gun? You know, if you want to go to a range with me
sometimes—"
"I don't have a gun yet.
You know how I feel about them." Whitney, who had hunted
ducks and doves with her father most of her life, and always kept her
rifle handy, had tried to interest Tess in the sport during their
Washington College days, to no avail.
"I know, I know. But you should
get a license to carry, since you're entitled to one by law.
If you had been carrying a gun last fall—"
"I probably would have shot myself
in the foot by accident." And everyone
who was dead would still be dead , she reminded
herself, as she did whenever someone alluded to that malevolent
September, to what might have been, and who might still be among the
living. The little movie, the one that seemed to have been booked into
her dreams for eternity, rolled again in her head, a trailer for that
evening's coming nightmares.
"If you say so." Whitney
gave her a kiss on the cheek, not one of those fake, airy ones
preferred by her class, but an exuberant smacker of a smooch that left
a pink smear of lipstick on Tess's cheek. The crowd loved it.
Quicksilver Whitney had already turned her attention back to her
sandwich.
"It's getting too brown.
Turn it, turn it, turn it!" she implored the short, swarthy
man at the grill, who grinned goofily, as if her imperious orders were
a declaration of undying love. "And would you be so kind as
to cut off the crusts?"
Chapter 5
N ever
a cheery place, The Point was particularly bleak at twilight. Even the
dusk's faint light illuminated too much, accentuating the
bar's distinct charmlessness. Tess could see dust on the
tables, the smeared glass in the jukebox, an odd assortment of stains
on the floor. She couldn't blame this on Spike's
absence. The truth was, the place looked marginally better under
Tommy's care.
"So, Tommy," Tess tried
again, fixing herself a watery Coke from the bar nozzle. "How
did Spike end up with a greyhound?"
"That blond girl sure is
pretty," he said, eyes fixed on the early news, on the
television set bolted above the bar. "But I don't
like the black guy. How come it's always a blond girl and a
black guy? How come it's never a blond guy and a black girl?
You ever think about that? And who do you think makes the more
exuberant salary, the girl or the guy?"
"Exorbitant salary, Tommy. And
I'm more interested in greyhounds right now. What was
Spike's interest in dog racing?"
"We don't have no dog
races in Maryland?" he protested.
"We don't have world
champion prizefights, either, but Spike has been known to take a few
bets on those. Look, did he buy an interest in Esskay? Is he a partner
with some out-of-state trainer? Or is he mixed up in betting on
greyhounds?"
"He didn't want nothing
to do with greyhounds," Tommy insisted. "He said
they were spooky looking? It bothered him to look at them?"
"Look at them where ?
Where he got Esskay?"
Tommy turned back to the television.
Reporters were camped out in front of Wink
hots," the counterman called. Tess took the greasy brown
paper bag, plucked a bag of Utz cheese curls off the metal rack, and
turned back to Whitney, who was focused on her grilled
cheese's progress with bird dog intensity.
"Call me, hon." She had
started using the local endearment ironically, only to find it a
natural fit over time, Baltimore being an irony-free zone. Even its
synthetic nickname, Charm City, had begun to take on a life of its own.
"Crow doesn't take up all my time. In fact,
he's so busy being a local rock hero, I have plenty of free
week-ends and evenings."
Whitney nodded absently. But as Tess began
working her way out of the crowded carryout, Whitney reached out and
caught the sleeve of her coat.
"Tesser?"
"What?"
"How's your job? The
investigator thing? Tyner keeping you busy?"
"In spurts."
"Spurts." Whitney
laughed. Even her laugh seemed better than most
people's—rarer, richer, deeper. "I
thought that was how Crow kept you busy. Are you licensed? Have you
bought a gun? You know, if you want to go to a range with me
sometimes—"
"I don't have a gun yet.
You know how I feel about them." Whitney, who had hunted
ducks and doves with her father most of her life, and always kept her
rifle handy, had tried to interest Tess in the sport during their
Washington College days, to no avail.
"I know, I know. But you should
get a license to carry, since you're entitled to one by law.
If you had been carrying a gun last fall—"
"I probably would have shot myself
in the foot by accident." And everyone
who was dead would still be dead , she reminded
herself, as she did whenever someone alluded to that malevolent
September, to what might have been, and who might still be among the
living. The little movie, the one that seemed to have been booked into
her dreams for eternity, rolled again in her head, a trailer for that
evening's coming nightmares.
"If you say so." Whitney
gave her a kiss on the cheek, not one of those fake, airy ones
preferred by her class, but an exuberant smacker of a smooch that left
a pink smear of lipstick on Tess's cheek. The crowd loved it.
Quicksilver Whitney had already turned her attention back to her
sandwich.
"It's getting too brown.
Turn it, turn it, turn it!" she implored the short, swarthy
man at the grill, who grinned goofily, as if her imperious orders were
a declaration of undying love. "And would you be so kind as
to cut off the crusts?"
Chapter 5
N ever
a cheery place, The Point was particularly bleak at twilight. Even the
dusk's faint light illuminated too much, accentuating the
bar's distinct charmlessness. Tess could see dust on the
tables, the smeared glass in the jukebox, an odd assortment of stains
on the floor. She couldn't blame this on Spike's
absence. The truth was, the place looked marginally better under
Tommy's care.
"So, Tommy," Tess tried
again, fixing herself a watery Coke from the bar nozzle. "How
did Spike end up with a greyhound?"
"That blond girl sure is
pretty," he said, eyes fixed on the early news, on the
television set bolted above the bar. "But I don't
like the black guy. How come it's always a blond girl and a
black guy? How come it's never a blond guy and a black girl?
You ever think about that? And who do you think makes the more
exuberant salary, the girl or the guy?"
"Exorbitant salary, Tommy. And
I'm more interested in greyhounds right now. What was
Spike's interest in dog racing?"
"We don't have no dog
races in Maryland?" he protested.
"We don't have world
champion prizefights, either, but Spike has been known to take a few
bets on those. Look, did he buy an interest in Esskay? Is he a partner
with some out-of-state trainer? Or is he mixed up in betting on
greyhounds?"
"He didn't want nothing
to do with greyhounds," Tommy insisted. "He said
they were spooky looking? It bothered him to look at them?"
"Look at them where ?
Where he got Esskay?"
Tommy turned back to the television.
Reporters were camped out in front of Wink
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