***
Gus finished counting the last of the tens in her cash drawer and nudged it shut. Even now, in the twenty-first century, a lot of her patrons still preferred to pay their tabs in cash. Some of them didn’t want their husbands or wives to find charges from a bar on their credit card bills. A few of the old-timers didn’t trust credit cards at all. A lot of the young ones—the deck hands on fishing boats, the laborers, the clerks in touristy shops where business fell into a comatose state during the winter months—didn’t earn enough income to trust themselves with a rectangle of plastic from Visa.
So Gus relied on cash, which saved her money, since she didn’t have to pay credit card fees on cash transactions. All she had to do was maintain an adequate stash of legal tender in the register. She felt perfectly safe carrying her daily profits—often thousands of dollars in cash—from the tavern to the bank every day. Everyone in town knew she was Ed Nolan’s partner. No one was going to mess with a police detective’s girlfriend, especially when she was six feet tall, and her assistant, Manny Lopez, was built like a linebacker for the Patriots, and she ran the most popular bar in town.
She glanced toward the front door, which remained stubbornly shut. Ed had told her he would come to the bar this afternoon, and he hadn’t. Nothing to worry about, she assured herself, but she couldn’t keep from glancing obsessively at the front door every few minutes.
Ed was working on a drug case. A high school kid in a neighboring town had overdosed on heroin. Fortunately, he’d survived, and he’d told police he’d gotten the heroin from a crew member on one of the boats that trawled for cod out of Brogan’s Point. Ed had been waiting for that boat to come in today. He had backup. He was going to arrest the guy, run him in, and then come to the Faulk Street Tavern to let Gus know all had gone as planned.
She hadn’t told him she was anxious about his safety, and he hadn’t acknowledged that she might be anxious. They never discussed stuff like that.
But… She was anxious.
She eyed the front door for the thirtieth time in as many minutes, then steered her attention to a table of women drinking exotic martinis. She glanced at the bowls of barbecue-flavored peanuts lined up on the counter near the door to the kitchen. She checked out the table of older guys drinking whisky and arguing over the latest Red Sox losing streak. Then the front door again, praying for Ed to swing it open and stroll inside.
No sign of him.
She reminded herself that her worries were groundless. Ed was tough. He had backup. No captain would allow a twenty-something crew member onto his cod boat armed with anything more dangerous than a utility knife.
A utility knife could do a lot of damage.
Ed had faced worse, she reminded herself. He’d be fine.
Manny emerged from the kitchen, lugging glistening racks of glasses straight from the dishwasher. He shot Gus a quick smile before setting the racks onto the back counter and sorting the glasses onto shelves—stemware here, tumblers there, highball glasses in their allotted place. Could he tell she was concerned? Would he think she was weak for counting the minutes and wishing she could will the front door to open?
It did, and she felt her breath slide out of her on a sigh of relief, which was replaced by a pang of disappointment when she saw two people, neither of them Ed, enter the bar. That pretty red-haired girl, Monica Reinhart’s friend, stepped inside first, followed by the tall, lanky, dark-haired fellow Gus had seen at the bar with Monica and the red-head. She ought to know their names. Anyone who came into the Faulk Street Tavern more than once qualified as a regular. And the girl had introduced herself yesterday, when she’d wanted to talk to Nick Fiore. What the heck was her name? Emily?
“Want me to take that?” Manny asked, motioning with his head toward the booth where the couple seated themselves. It was too early for the waitresses to start their shifts, and none had arrived at the bar yet. Gus could serve the couple, though. Manny was busy with the glasses, and damn it, she wasn’t worried. She could take an order, fill it and deliver it without his help.
She waved him off, then sidled over to the newly occupied table, laid two square cocktail napkins on its scarred wood surface, and asked, “What can I get you?”
The man eyed the woman courteously, allowing her to order first. “Do you have any champagne? I feel like celebrating.” She smiled at the man. “Is that all right?”
“Order whatever you’d like,” he said, although he didn’t seem to be sharing her high spirits. Her face radiated a blend of happy emotion—exuberance, satisfaction, serenity. His darker features were matched by a darker mood.
She grinned at Gus. “A glass of champagne,” she said.
“We’ve got Moët, Mumm, and Tattinger.” Champagne wasn’t a big seller at the tavern, and Gus didn’t stock much. Too often, someone ordered a glass or two and the rest of the bottle lost its effervescence and had to be disposed. Still, she had to include a few bottles of bubbly in her inventory. She hadn’t kept the bar in business for thirty-plus years by denying her customers what they wanted. Sometimes those customers wanted champagne.
“Whichever one is cheapest,” the redhead said with a shrug. “I wouldn’t know the difference, anyway.”
Gus nodded and turned to the man. “A Sam Adams lager.”
“Tap or bottle?”
He asked for a bottle. Gus nodded again and left the table, casting a quick look toward the front door en route back to the bar. No sign of Ed.
He’s tough. He has backup. He’ll be fine.
As she worked the mushroom-shaped cork on a bottle of champagne, she forced her attention from the door back to the couple. She was pretty sure they’d been targeted by the jukebox’s magic a couple of days ago. She tried to remember what song had been playing when they’d been in that afternoon, seated at the very same booth, staring at each other. Had the song brought them together? Right now, she’d guess it had torn them apart. They really seemed to be moving to two different tunes, the girl’s upbeat and danceable, the guy’s dirge-like, something in a minor key.
When it came to the jukebox’s alleged powers, Gus was immune. No song had ever cast its spell on her, or on Ed. She wouldn’t mind having “Staying’ Alive” boom through the speakers when Ed was seated on a stool across the bar from her. That was a song a cop needed to hear.
She caught a motion near the entry with her peripheral vision. Don’t look, she cautioned herself. You’re acting like a fool. But she looked anyway—and in walked Ed, looking calm and confident, like someone who’d accomplished exactly what he’d intended and hadn’t shed a drop of sweat in the process. He met her gaze, smiled, and sauntered toward the bar, his expression just this side of smug.
Gus felt all the tension drain from her spine, her muscles, her nerves. The champagne cork came free with a festive pop. He’s tough, she thought. He’s fine.