picked up the phone and hadn’t yet heard what happened that day, Cassie didn’t want to be the one to deliver the news. And if Jenny had heard, Cassie didn’t want to hear what Jenny thought about it. She’d met Jenny once and recalled an intelligent, attractive, very strong-willed woman. She’d thought better of Cody after meeting Jenny.
But Cassie couldn’t discern what Jenny had thought about her —a younger single mother who was Cody’s new partner. And now the one, Cassie thought, who set up her husband to be fired.
So she pulled on her parka, told her mother and son she’d be back soon, and went out to find Cody. She needed to explain herself, justify her actions, and make him understand what she’d done wasn’t personal. Cassie was scared, though. Cody could be intimidating and he had an explosive temper. He might rip into her, even though she thought she might deserve it.
She drove her Honda past Cody’s house. His old pickup wasn’t there.
* * *
Cassie located Cody’s pickup where she hoped it wouldn’t be: the Jester’s Bar downtown on North Rodney. She parked her Honda Civic a block away, got out, and took a deep breath of cold thin air. She jammed her hands into the pockets of her parka, pulled them out again, and nervously smoothed down the front of her coat. A streetlight hummed above her through the leafless trees and threw cold blue light on the broken sidewalk.
Jester’s was a serious old-school bar located in the corner of a shambling historic stone building across the street from the brick building housing the Lewis and Clark County coroner’s office. She’d never been inside the bar—she wasn’t much of a drinker and her son prevented nights out on the town—but she’d heard the stories. Local cops were sent there frequently at closing time. The bar offered no food or big-screen TVs and catered to hard customers. From the outside it looked as inviting as a prison cell except with neon beer signs—Ranier, Pabst—filling the square windows. Three Harleys sat out front pointed out toward the street, front wheels cocked to the side.
Cassie paused at the door. She could smell cigarette smoke and hear the click of pool balls. She almost turned around and walked back to her Honda. Instead, she steeled herself and pulled the door open, to be greeted by a sensory rush of smoke, stale beer, and Lynyrd Skynyrd from the jukebox.
It was dark inside and unevenly lighted. The mood was as intimate as a small beat-up warehouse. There were photos tacked to the walls and names carved into the pine paneling. The floor was gritty with dirt.
Every head in the place swung toward her; the three bikers at the table near the bar, two tattooed pool players leaning across green felt, an emaciated cowboy emerging from the men’s zipping up his Wranglers, the pockmarked and pony-tailed bartender stubbing out a smoke, and the skanky old crow with dyed red hair and a tight black T-shirt seated on her stool.
And, in the corner in the back, illuminated harshly in yellow from a hanging lamp over a pool table, was Cody Hoyt. He was on a stool with his back against the wall at a high round table. Both his hands were on the table, framing a smoldering ashtray. A single tall glass half full with clear liquid sat near his elbow. His hooded eyes bored holes into her.
She nodded at him and took three steps in his direction and hesitated. He gave no indication he wanted her to join him. She flushed and looked around, embarrassed by the situation. One of the bikers winked at her. The old crow at the bar made a cackle that ended with a sharp punctuation of phlegm.
Then she turned back around and approached her former partner but didn’t take a seat. In her peripheral vision, the pool players quickly racked their cues and headed for the back door, their game unfinished.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked. She hoped her intonation wasn’t as limp as it sounded to her.
Cody didn’t say yes, didn’t
But Cassie couldn’t discern what Jenny had thought about her —a younger single mother who was Cody’s new partner. And now the one, Cassie thought, who set up her husband to be fired.
So she pulled on her parka, told her mother and son she’d be back soon, and went out to find Cody. She needed to explain herself, justify her actions, and make him understand what she’d done wasn’t personal. Cassie was scared, though. Cody could be intimidating and he had an explosive temper. He might rip into her, even though she thought she might deserve it.
She drove her Honda past Cody’s house. His old pickup wasn’t there.
* * *
Cassie located Cody’s pickup where she hoped it wouldn’t be: the Jester’s Bar downtown on North Rodney. She parked her Honda Civic a block away, got out, and took a deep breath of cold thin air. She jammed her hands into the pockets of her parka, pulled them out again, and nervously smoothed down the front of her coat. A streetlight hummed above her through the leafless trees and threw cold blue light on the broken sidewalk.
Jester’s was a serious old-school bar located in the corner of a shambling historic stone building across the street from the brick building housing the Lewis and Clark County coroner’s office. She’d never been inside the bar—she wasn’t much of a drinker and her son prevented nights out on the town—but she’d heard the stories. Local cops were sent there frequently at closing time. The bar offered no food or big-screen TVs and catered to hard customers. From the outside it looked as inviting as a prison cell except with neon beer signs—Ranier, Pabst—filling the square windows. Three Harleys sat out front pointed out toward the street, front wheels cocked to the side.
Cassie paused at the door. She could smell cigarette smoke and hear the click of pool balls. She almost turned around and walked back to her Honda. Instead, she steeled herself and pulled the door open, to be greeted by a sensory rush of smoke, stale beer, and Lynyrd Skynyrd from the jukebox.
It was dark inside and unevenly lighted. The mood was as intimate as a small beat-up warehouse. There were photos tacked to the walls and names carved into the pine paneling. The floor was gritty with dirt.
Every head in the place swung toward her; the three bikers at the table near the bar, two tattooed pool players leaning across green felt, an emaciated cowboy emerging from the men’s zipping up his Wranglers, the pockmarked and pony-tailed bartender stubbing out a smoke, and the skanky old crow with dyed red hair and a tight black T-shirt seated on her stool.
And, in the corner in the back, illuminated harshly in yellow from a hanging lamp over a pool table, was Cody Hoyt. He was on a stool with his back against the wall at a high round table. Both his hands were on the table, framing a smoldering ashtray. A single tall glass half full with clear liquid sat near his elbow. His hooded eyes bored holes into her.
She nodded at him and took three steps in his direction and hesitated. He gave no indication he wanted her to join him. She flushed and looked around, embarrassed by the situation. One of the bikers winked at her. The old crow at the bar made a cackle that ended with a sharp punctuation of phlegm.
Then she turned back around and approached her former partner but didn’t take a seat. In her peripheral vision, the pool players quickly racked their cues and headed for the back door, their game unfinished.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked. She hoped her intonation wasn’t as limp as it sounded to her.
Cody didn’t say yes, didn’t
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