He’s perfect.
I lean over toward him and tap a nail on the sweaty wooden bar. “Hi,” I say. I give him a bright smile. “I’m Cass. Do you come here a lot?”
He takes a sip and sets the glass down. “Not interested, lady. I’m flat broke.”
When I realize what he’s implying—that I’m, shall we phrase it delicately, awoman of the night,offering up her paid services—I recoil. “Oh, no. I’m not— I’m not doing that.”
He looks irritated. “Then what are you doing?”
“I just want to talk.”
“About what.”
“Business.”
He looks at me again. Longer this time. His eyes do the same trek the bartender’s did: coat, watch, nails. And, just like the bartender did, he frowns. “I thought you just said you weren’t doing that.”
“I’m not! Notthatkind of business. I’m… Jesus Christ, the forums made it seem like this would be so much easier.” I rub a knuckle in my eye, then clear my throat and start over. “Look, I have a business proposition. A real one. Not a… not a hooker-y one. Nothing against those who do. I mean, sex work is work, and they deserve the same rights and protections as— Alright, I’m getting off-topic. Point is, I’m looking to hire someone. I can pay you very well.”
Mr. Refrigerator looks at me for a long moment.
Then he snorts. “You’re a moron,” he states.
Real smooth-talker, this one.
“I, uh… Pardon me?”
“You walk in here, looking like that, talking like that, asking strangers for… Shit, lady. You don’t even know what you’re asking for.” He picks up his drink and stands. “Go home. Before someone here takes your money and gives you nothing back but a problem.”
Then he thumps away. That’s it. Conversation over.
Unfortunately for me, he’s right. Idon’tknow what I’m doing. I thought I could just waltz in here and flash some cash and somelucky fellow would jump at the opportunity. That’s how it works in the movies, right?
But this isn’t a movie. This is a real bar full of real criminals who think I’m either a cop, a prostitute, or a moron. Possibly all three.
I take a sip of my martini. Good God, it’s terrible. Maybe I should just leave. Was this a bad idea? It was almost certainly not agoodone. And yet User @AskingForAFriend on theHow to Get Away with Murderforum swore that this bar, Khaza,wastheplace to come in New York City if you’re looking for a hired killer.
From the way he or she described it, I thought it would basically be like a homicidal vending machine. You just stroll up, punch in the number, and presto, you’d have your own little assassin, ready to rock ‘n’ roll.
Not so, it seems.
So yeah. I should go. The cyanide pills will still work, if I can just find the cojones to actually go through with it. I take a deep breath.
But as I do, I remind myself of the one thing that matters:
Giana.
I remember standing over her casket. We’d kept it closed, because the mortician had had the damndest time fixing the crater in her skull.It just won’t sit right,he explained to us apologetically.Did the best I could, but, well… Some things ain’t fixable.
So instead of getting to say goodbye to Gigi, instead of getting to kiss her forehead one last time and smooth the curly flyawaysout of her face, I had onlythisto look at: smooth, lacquered wood. As impersonal as it gets.
She was right there, just on the other side of it, but an inch of pine might as well have been a mile of concrete, because I wasn’t getting any closer. She was justthere,so very close and yet so very far away.
The mortician was right: Some things just aren’t fixable.
I can’t bring my sister back from the dead.
But I can damn sure take the man who killed her and send him to hell where he belongs.