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Poppy thinks about this. She’d like to. Her few friends from high school have moved away. But she needs to focus on the case. And she’s not sure of the politics of hanging with KBI employees.
“I’d love to. This week is bad, but maybe another time?”
Chantelle smiles at her like she thinks that’s never going to happen. “For sure.”
After she’s gone, Poppy thinks about Alison’s note.
If something happens to me.
What did you think was going to happen to you, Alison Lane?
13
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA
Shane O’Leary eats his lunch in the back room of the bar. His father creatively named the place O’Leary’s Tavern thirty years ago. It’s Tuesday, the day he listens to community grievances, another relic from his father. He knows the younger guys make fun of the ritual behind his back, but they don’t understand: This thing doesn’t work without the neighborhood getting something out of it. So far today, there was the guy who runs the laundromat complaining that he’d been robbed, so O’Leary assured him the money will be returned or the robber won’t see another sunset. There was the man who owns the bodega asking O’Leary to take care of the guy who was fucking his wife, which O’Leary politely declined. And there was the usual line of gamblers and hard cases asking for loans. He obliged but warned them that they’ll get more than a bad credit score if they miss a payment. Usually broken bones or, if they’re really behind, a disfigurement that will be a constant reminder of their debt.
“Who’s next?” he asks Patrick, who’s sitting on a stool in the back, next to members of his crew.
Patrick raises his brows as he steps off the stool to retrieve the next visitor from the bar area.
O’Leary shakes his head. Can’t just answer the goddamn question. If Patrick weren’t Chaz’s son, O’Leary swears…
In walks a woman with legs longer than a carnival stilt walker. The room nearly vibrates as she struts slowly in her fuck-me heels to O’Leary’s table.
One of the boys says something under his breath, and O’Leary shoots him and the others a look to cut the shit. It’s not professional.
“What can I do for you, Ms.…”
“Sriracha,” she says, with the hint of a smile. She wears bright red lipstick. “Like the hot sauce.”
“Okay, Ms. Sriracha, what can I do for you?” O’Leary takes a bite of his steak. It’s chewy and that’s about his last straw with the cook.
“Thank you for taking the time. I, um, it’s, um, a private matter.” She looks over at the crew.
O’Leary nods, makes a shooing gesture with his hand.
Before Patrick leaves the room, he comes over, runs a metal detector wand up and down the woman, taking longer than he should.
O’Leary rolls his eyes. The kid couldn’t find a fucking nuclear weapon if it was shoved up his own ass. “She’s fine,” O’Leary tells him, exasperated.
Patrick and the others shuffle out.
“So, Ms. Tabasco,” O’Leary says, if only to amuse himself.
“Sriracha,” she corrects, not catching the joke. “So, um. I’ve been working at Bustingham Palace,” she says, referring to a strip club O’Leary owns out near the airport. She looks higher-end than most of the gals who populate the place. “And, well, Mr. Franko, he keeps, like, forcing me to…” She pauses, not wanting to finish the sentence.
Franko is another half-wit on the outer fringes of the organization. He’s a creep for sure. O’Leary tries to stay out of the business with the girls, to insulate himself from such distasteful things, but what can you do?
“I’ll talk to him,” O’Leary says, knowing that it won’t be O’Leary making the visit and there won’t be much talking involved.
He sees the relief on her face.
“I can’t thank you enough.” She steps closer, places both hands flat on the table, and leans forward, so her shirt falls open.
O’Leary frowns. “If that’s all,” he says, gesturing to the door.
She seems surprised at his lack of interest. He imagines it’s rare that she’s rejected. Shane O’Leary is a lot of things, but disloyal to his Gina isn’t one of them.