The mugs were perfectly frosted, sun reflecting off the snow on the roof next door streamed through the skylight and the bartender was attractive and funny.
Baizer had been pissed about his driver’s side window getting smashed, but he was relaxing to the point of almost puddling into his comfortable bar stool.
The place was kinda dingy, the men’s room door was partially off a hinge and there was a yellow bucket with a Dead Kennedys sticker collecting a steady roof drip next to the jukebox.
Needs some love, Baizer thought. Wonder how much they’d want for it? Shitty neighborhood, but maybe I’ll buy it. Fix it up. See which nephew kisses my ass hard enough to run it.
“Guys across the street at the glass shop quoted me a great price on my window,” Baizer said to the bartender.
Place was empty at one o’clock in the afternoon. Kinda felt like he was doing her a favor, talking to her.
“They’re good guys,” the bartender said. “Not scammers.”
She was playing solitaire, behind the bar, with playing cards, not on her phone. Baizer liked that.
If he bought the place he’d keep her.
Texted Milligan. “Find the owner of the property at 3322 Curtis. Then see who owns the liquor license for the same address. If it’s the same person text me back.”
The license was displayed behind the bar. But he didn’t wanna ask, snoop.
He liked this bartender. If she answered questions she shouldn’t he wouldn’t like her anymore.
Strolled to the jukebox. Real vinyl. Fed it a few fivers, started to play stuff he liked, then switched gears. Tried to guess what she would like. She had one visible tattoo, on her forearm. Left ear pierced so many times it could have been a display rack. Not really much to go on. Didn’t recognize many of the musicians.
Played a couple leather-clad bands that looked like they might be ODing in the middle of the photoshoot.
Looked back at the bartender.
She looked clean, healthy. Probably ran 5ks.
Baizer exhausted his credits with more stuff he liked.
Sat down, ordered another beer, and Chambord up. Never would have ordered Chambord in a bar like this but it was unmistakable on the shelf, and half-empty, which meant someone here was drinking it.
Big guy walked in. Great smile.
“Hey Trent,” the bartender said and began to pour something without asking.
Start Me Up by the Stones ended and Witchcraft by Sinatra started.
The big guy, Trent, had taken a seat near the door. He stood up abruptly and walked past Baizer.
The guy smelled like sweat and cologne, blue-collar type. Baizer tried to guess an age.
Trent hip-checked the jukebox. It skipped out of Witchcraft into Summer Wind.
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