"Generally, or use the pager. And don't punch a case quite yet, okay? Off the books."
Joe stood on the sidewalk, his hands buried in his coat pockets, looking across the street at the bar. It was a far cry from the place in Gloucester where he'd first met Lyn Silva, whom he'd known then only as Evelyn. That had been a notorious dive, well known to the local cops, and literally home to an ever-changing tide of anonymous people who lived on the top two floors in rented rooms that looked like jail cells. Included among those residents had been the dead man Joe had come down there hoping to interview.
This was a serious step up. A handsome, elaborately carved sign over the door advertised "Silva's," the bay windows to either side of the door had been framed with nicely worked wooden casings in the style of a century ago, and he could see, behind the glass, tables placed on raised platforms to afford patrons a better view of the street.
He crossed over and saw a paper sign on the door reading "Not open yet, but hold that thought."
He paused at the foot of the three steps leading up, startled at how well that phrasing reflected his own situation. His attraction to Lyn was not at issue, nor was her clear interest in him, despite his wondering at that good fortune. What was stalling him was old baggage-his age, his past with Gail and its lingering emotional fallout, his near miss at losing his mother and Leo. He was gun-shy and unsure and more inclined to pulling in than to exploring a new relationship. His one night with Hillstrom had been a defining moment, though in large part appreciated precisely because it had no future.
Proceeding through the door ahead of him could be much more than he wanted to handle right now-if ever again.
"Does he dare?" came from behind him.
He turned around sharply, struck as much by the wording as by the voice. Lyn Silva stood in the street, carrying three precariously balanced cardboard boxes, a half smile on her face.
"I serve Coke, too," she added.
He wondered if her opening line, as insightful as it had seemed, had in fact meant something more mundane. It was possible, given the Coke follow-up, but he'd learned not to sell her short. Her canny instincts about people-including herself-had struck him all the way back in Gloucester. She was just as possibly allowing them both a little leeway.
"Looks like it's really coming along," he said blandly, instinctively reaching for the top two boxes of her stack.
She nodded, glancing up at the sign. "I was about to ask if you wanted to come in, but if you don't now, you'll be stealing my stuff."
Almost surprised, he looked down at what he'd just taken into his arms. "Sorry. That was a little-"
"Much appreciated," she interrupted. "Come on. It's open."
She cut around him and led the way, bumping the door open with one slim blue-jeaned hip.
The interior was warm and smelled of old wood and leather, with a scattering of tables and upholstered stools paralleling the long bar stretching into the gloom ahead. The room was narrow, high-ceilinged, and deep, with an unusual balcony high and to the back, overhanging what seemed fated to become a small stage for musicians. The decor largely consisted of more wood detailing, old mirrors, and framed photographs and portraits, some of which were still propped against the baseboard. There were also several dartboards.
"Just dump those on the bar," she told him, doing the same. "Would you like a Coke? I'm about to have one. Long day. Take your coat off."
He pulled over a stool and settled down as she circled the bar to get to a small fridge tucked under the counter near the cash register. "Lucky you have a thing for Coke. I had a deal with the Pepsi distributor until we got into a fight, so I dropped them for the out-of-town Coca-Cola dealer. Not that I've gotten the equipment and supplies yet, so we'll see. Anyhow, I keep a few basics on hand, just in case. Be crazy not to have anything except water, even if the place isn't officially open."
She quickly crouched and extracted two cans of soda from the fridge in one clean movement, reminding him of how habituated she was to this environment. Looking around again at the boxes and the gentle disarray, he thought this might be like visiting a magician backstage, before the curtain rose and the lights blocked out all but the main attraction. He recalled sitting at the end of the bar in Massachusetts, admiring how she simultaneously worked the clientele while balancing the multiple tasks of her profession-taking orders, pouring drinks, making change, washing glasses, refilling nut dishes, keeping the bar top clean and free of clutter-all without missing a beat. And by Vermont law, all bars had to serve enough food to supply at least 20 percent of overall sales, so he knew she had the basics of a kitchenette somewhere, as well.
She popped the tabs on both cans simultaneously and poured the contents into two ice-filled glasses she'd conjured up, seemingly out of thin air.
"Lime?" she asked.
He laughed at the automatic request dovetailing so perfectly with his line of thought. "No, I'm fine. Thanks. How long till you open?"
She took a long pull on her own drink and looked around, as if at a museum exhibition under construction. "Couple of weeks, tops. It's been an amazing haul-just filling out paperwork for over a month, for one thing. Inspections, license applications, tax forms, contracts-none of which had anything to do with the actual work of painting, sanding, buying furniture and fixtures, rigging the sound system, you name it. And there's still a ton of piddly stuff left. But most of the heavy lifting is done. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel."
"It must be like reaching a life goal," he suggested. "Being able to work for yourself."
By now she was leaning with the small of her back against the counter behind her. "I wouldn't go that far. It is just a bar. But it's nice to be out of Gloucester. I was way too long in that place."
He smiled and suggested, "Things look good after a few years, but maybe for all the wrong reasons?"
She nodded. "Yeah, exactly. A bunch of habits you start thinking are a life." She gave him a thoughtful look. "I have you to thank for waking me up, at least partly."
He was genuinely surprised. "Me?"
"That night we met at the end of the pier, after my shift. You were looking for the guy that killed poor old Norm, so you bought me a lobster roll and a milkshake to butter me up-you probably don't even remember that."
"Sure I do," he said, his own memory being much sharper than she could know.
"Well, call it the right gesture at the right time. I don't know," she mused. "But that hit me right where it counted. Made me think how I was about to make a really big mistake and probably take a huge step backward."
He looked at her inquiringly.
She frowned and stared at the floor for a moment. "I'm not making much sense. You remember seeing a kind of slimy guy at the bar earlier that night-long hair, tattoos?" she asked. "You commented about him-how I gave him a free drink to make him look good to his buddies."
"Kenny," he said.
Her mouth dropped open. "You remember his name?"
His face reddened. "I might've been a little envious."
She touched her lips with her fingertips, assessing this revelation, which he now wished he'd withheld.
But her conclusion set him at ease. Her face softened and her shoulders slumped slightly. She stepped up to the bar and laid her hand on his. Their faces were close together as she said, "You had nothing to worry about."
He didn't know what to say.
"I kissed you that night to thank you for being nice to me," she explained. "But there was more. I had almost decided to make a play for Kenny, even though every bone in my body told me I shouldn't. You woke me up."
"With a lobster roll?"
She laughed and stepped back, accepting his offer of humor to regain her balance.