by Harper Lin
Even though the temperature outside still veered to the chilly side, the café was getting hot with both the oven and fryer running. I swiped the back of my hand across my forehead before I remembered it was covered in flour. I checked my reflection in the shiny surface of the espresso machine and realized it apparently wasn’t the first time my ingredients had found their way to my head. Even my hair was covered with fine white powder, probably from when I got a little overzealous with the mixer and turned it up too high when the powdered sugar was on top and not yet mixed in.
I washed my hands and grabbed the café phone to call Matt’s desk at work.
It rang a few times before he picked it up. “This’s Matt.” He slurred the words together so they sounded like one.
“Are you okay?”
“Huh? Yeah.” His keyboard clacked rapidly in the background. “I’m just trying to get some stuff done before I leave for dinner.”
“That’s actually what I was calling about. You don’t need to rush. I’m going to be stuck here at the café for a while.”
“That’s fine. Do you want me to order for you?”
“I guess so, if you’re planning on picking something up.”
The clicking of the keyboard finally stopped, and there was a long pause before he said, “Wait, what?” Matt’s voice suddenly got louder, and I realized he must have had it wedged between his ear and shoulder until then. “Did you forget about dinner tonight?”
I tried to figure out what he was talking about. Of course I hadn’t forgotten about dinner. That’s what I was calling about.
“With the guys from NCTC?”
I had forgotten about dinner.
“You forgot, didn’t you?”
“Ummm…”
At least he laughed. Unfortunately, it was that low, throaty chuckle that started my stomach flip-flopping and made me wonder if I really needed to get all those donuts ready after all.
“So, you’re going to be late, or you’re not going to make it at all?” he asked, reminding me yet again that I had the most understanding boyfriend in the world.
I glanced at the big wrought iron clock on the wall. “What time is the reservation for again? I might still be able to make it.”
“Seven thirty. But if it’s going to be hard for you, don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal if you can’t make it.”
Seven thirty would be tough. Especially since I was covered in flour and sugar and—I noticed as I caught another glimpse of my reflection in the espresso machine—something that looked like raspberry jam, even though I couldn’t think of how that had happened. I’d need to get a shower before I went anywhere, especially with people Matt worked with.
The dinner with the guys from NCTC was something I’d known about for a while, but it had slipped my mind with everything that had gone on with Pablo. They came in every couple of months, usually with their wives, and we all went out to eat. Mostly the wives and I chatted while the guys all talked about work.
I glanced around the kitchen area. If I really hurried, I could get everything far enough along that Sammy would be able to get everything done in the morning. It wouldn’t be quite as much as I would have liked, and Sammy would have a lot of work to do in the morning, but I knew she could do it. “I want to come. I’ll probably be a few minutes late, but I’ll be there.”
“Before you go out of your way to be there, I should probably tell you it’s just the guys this time. They’re going up to Toronto after this, so they didn’t bring their wives. I would have let you know sooner, but I just found out a little bit ago.”
I hesitated. I’d gone to one of those dinners before too—when I was the only person who didn’t have a job in telecom engineering, and so I sat in silence, staring in boredom at whatever was on the bar TVs while Matt and the guys droned on and on and on about directional drilling and bore heads and conduit size and splicing and… it was mind numbing, and I wasn’t eager to repeat the experience. I didn’t want to hurt Matt’s feelings either though. “Oh. Well. Um…”
He laughed that sexy laugh again. “It’s okay if you don’t want to go.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to go—”
“It’s just that you don’t want to be stuck there listening to us talk about work all night?”
I laughed. He knew me too well. “Yeah, basically.”
“No problem.” The keyboard started clicking again. “I shouldn’t be too late, so I’ll come by and say hi to you and Latte when I get home.”
“Okay, sounds good. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
I was about to hang up when Matt’s voice called back out to me.
“Hey, Franny, do a good job on those donuts, okay? The guys are looking forward to having them at the breakfast meeting tomorrow morning.”
It took me a second to realize what he was saying. “Wait, one of these orders is for you? Sammy didn’t tell me that!”
“Must have slipped her mind.”
“You told her not to, didn’t you?”
I could practically hear his grin through the phone. “I thought it would be a fun surprise when I told you how much the guys liked them.”
I sighed. “You’re hopeless. You know that?”
“Yup.”
We exchanged I love you’s again then said goodbye, and I got back to shaping my dough into donuts and dropping them in the fryer.
As it tended to do, my mind wandered as I worked. And of course, under the circumstances, it wandered right over to Pablo.
The news about his gambling had surprised me. I never saw it coming. I didn’t even know anything like that went on in Cape Bay. Usually, we kept to small-scale crime, like vandalism. Well, that and murder. But the murders were sort of the exception to the rule. Gambling, for some reason, struck me as a whole different thing, like the kind of crime that meant there was actually a criminal element in town. I knew there had been some small-scale gambling going on a few months before, but that was over, as far as I knew. And that had been nowhere near the level this sounded like it was.
What blew my mind the most was that this was all apparently going on in a public place! The Sand Bar wasn’t some seedy hole-in-the-wall that you needed a secret knock and password to get into. It was the most popular bar in town, and not just because of its tongue-in-cheek name. The place was always busy, at all hours. And there was apparently a big-time gambling ring running out of the back. It was hiding in plain sight.
Most of the people who went in there probably had no idea what was going on in the back. They just went about their business, listening to the loud music, eating bar food, and getting drunk, all the while never suspecting the criminal activity going on just on the other side of the wall. I’d been there and hadn’t suspected! It made me wonder if it really was super sneaky or if it was the kind of thing that was obvious as soon as you knew what to look for.
And suddenly I had an idea.
It was a terrible idea, probably. And possibly dangerous too. But now that it had popped into my brain, I couldn’t get rid of it.
I really, really wanted to go down to the Sand Bar and see how obvious the gambling operation was… now that I knew to look for it.
My hands idly formed more donuts as I ran the idea through my head again and again. Whether I was trying to talk myself out of it or into it, I wasn’t sure, but I thought through every possible outcome I could come up with. I could find nothing. The bartender could be handing out betting forms from behind the bar. I could run into someone I knew, get started talking, and not be able to watch what was going on. I could catch on to how the betting worked… and get caught. And then what kind of trouble would I be in? Would I end up dead like Pablo? Or would they strong-arm me into letting them run out of my shop too? Okay, that was pretty unlikely, but I had to consider every possibility.
As I worked my way through the donuts, one thing became more and more clear to me—I was going to the Sand Bar.
Chapter Twenty
I decided not to go home before heading over to the bar. Instead, I wiped the flour off my face with a wet paper towel—fortunately, I didn’t have much makeup on to smear around—and shook the powdered sugar out of my hair. When I was done, I looked mostly presentable. Except for the smudges of flour and blobs of batter that were somehow all over any part of my shirt that my apron hadn’t covered. And my shirt was black, so I couldn’t just go with it and hope no one noticed.
I sighed, thinking I’d have to go home after all, before remembering I’d seen some old T-shirts stuffed in a box somewhere. It took looking through a few boxes tucked in back corners before I found them. They looked to be from some town event Antonia’s had sponsored years before. “Cape Bay Lobster Fest” was emblazoned across the front of the neon-blue shirt with “Get Clawed!” in smaller letters under it. There was a little lobster grabbing the word “clawed” with one of his and breaking it in two so that the “wed!” hung down lower than the rest of the word. The back had the logos of businesses across town that I guessed had sponsored the event. I didn’t remember my mother mentioning anything at all to me about any kind of lobster event in town, although I did vaguely remember her talking about a bad lobster year and the town needing to do something to support its fishermen. I think I would have remembered her telling me about this though.
I quickly changed into one of the shirts and checked myself out in the mirror. I was not ashamed to say that I usually looked good in blue. It brought out my eyes. Even fairly bright shades were fine by me. This though—this was a lot. The shirt was so bright, it practically glowed. I told myself it was dark in the Sand Bar and decided to go with it.
The music coming from inside was loud even in the parking lot. I hesitated. Did I really want to go in there? By myself, especially? It wasn’t exactly my kind of crowd. I remembered coming up to the bar with friends from high school a couple of times when I came home for holidays, but I was younger then. Not that I was old now—just thirty-four—but I still felt like it was something I would have enjoyed more ten years ago than I would now. But it didn’t matter. I was going in.
I briefly reconsidered my choice on my approach to the door as I walked past a man leaning against the wall, smoking. That wasn’t what bothered me. It was the way he leered, visibly running his eyes over my body before winking and making a kissy face. “I’d like to get clawed by you, baby.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d been catcalled with some dumb play on words, but it took me a minute this time to remember that my neon-blue shirt—which seemed even brighter, somehow, in the dim light of the parking lot—had “Get Clawed!” emblazoned across it. Clever. I ignored him and walked on by, straight into the bar.
My ears were instantly assaulted by music blaring from the speaker system. At least I knew the song though. And it was performed by the original artist since it didn’t look like there was a live band tonight—or at least they hadn’t shown up yet.
I’d left the café late but not late enough, it seemed, for business at the Sand Bar to have really gotten going for the night. I glanced around at the tables and booths lining the walls and headed straight for the bar. It seemed like it would give me the best vantage point for observing the goings-on throughout the bar, and besides that, I knew Dave, the bartender, in passing and figured he’d look out for me should Winky the Smokeface outside—or anyone else, for that matter—try to pursue matters with that kissy face he’d given me.
“What’ll you have?” Dave asked as soon as I slid onto a bar stool at the far end, where I had a good view of the entire room.
Red wine, my drink of choice, seemed a little out of place in a bar like this, so I searched my mind and spat out the first thing that popped into it. “Vodka cranberry.”
Dave gave me a look like he was mildly disappointed then went to get my drink.
“When do things start to pick up around here?” I asked when he brought it back.
He glanced at his wristwatch. “About an hour.”
I nodded, wondering whether it would be easier or harder to figure out exactly where the bookie hid out once things got busier. It was easier to see what was going on with fewer people, but when it got busier, it was more likely at any given point that someone would be going back to place a bet. I’d have to keep my eyes open the whole time, no matter what.
“You’re Fran, right? Sammy’s friend?”
I nodded.
“I’m Dave,” Dave said and stuck out his hand to shake mine. He nodded at my drink. “Let me know when you’re ready for something a little more interesting.”
“Thanks, I will.” I took a sip as he walked away to take care of someone else farther down the bar. It wasn’t bad, but I could see why he thought I should order something more interesting. I’d have to ask him for a recommendation on my next drink. If I even had another. I wasn’t there to get drunk. I was there to investigate Pablo’s death.
I scanned the room. Nothing I hadn’t noticed—or at least been vaguely aware of—before. Dark paneled walls, booths circling the room, with a bunch of tables in the middle. A stage that was mercifully empty at the moment (because, like I said, it was still too early for the bar to really be in full swing for the night), with a small dance floor in front of it. A swinging door led to the kitchen, and there was a short hallway that went down to the bathrooms. There were a few decorations on the walls, mostly related to one or another of our local sports teams, including the Cape Bay High Fighting Lobsters. There were also pictures of local celebrities and even a few of actual celebrities who’d accidentally wandered in somehow.
Nothing looked suspicious or out of the ordinary at all. No “Gamble Here!” signs or “This way to the bookie!” I was pretty sure there were no hidden doors tucked into the paneling, since they would have been hard to get to with the booths ringing the walls. And it probably wouldn’t be all that subtle, either, seeing somebody swing open the wall and disappear inside. I’d just have to keep my eyes open.
Which I did, through the rest of my drink and most of a martini Dave picked out for me. Traffic was picking up, but I still hadn’t noticed anything particularly out of the ordinary. I ordered some wings since I was starting to get hungry and too much alcohol on an empty stomach was a recipe for disaster—especially since I was on a stakeout.
It was about the time I ordered my second martini—Dave’s choice again—that I realized there had been a man sitting alone at a table in the back corner as long as I’d been there. His back was to the wall, and his table was clear except for his beer. While I watched, he drained his glass, and almost immediately, without so much as a nod from him, the bar’s lone waitress appeared with a fresh one. My interest piqued, I decided I should keep an eye on him.
He sat, and he drank. He finished one beer and was brought another. He stared, apparently at nothing, and drank. No phone, no book, no newspaper, nothing in front of him. Just him and his beer. Staring. Every so often, another bar patron walked over to him and exchanged a few words, but no one ever sat down or stayed at his table longer than a minute or two. Maybe they were just people he knew, coming to say hello. Somehow I doubted it.
Dave came over to check on me. “Can I get you another one?”
“Not unless it’s a virgin.” I needed to keep my senses about me.
Dave looked down at my empty glass. “I don’t think I can make you a virgin martini.” He drummed his fingers on the counter. “I’ll make you something else though.” He grabbed my glass and started to walk away.
“Wait!”
He walked back over to me.
I leaned in. “Who’s that?” I jerked my head over toward the solitary drinking man, trying to be subtle. “Over in the corner. Do you know him?”
Dave looked over there in the most conspicuous way possible. “Him?” He gestured in the man’s direction.
“Yes!” I hissed, motioning frantically but—I hoped—subtly for him to be less obvious.
“That’s Don.”
My mind went straight to the mob movies Matt liked to make me watch on the weekends, where the head of the crime family was always called the Don. “The Don?”
Dave didn’t realize that’s what I meant. “The Don?” He pronounced it with a long E: thee Don. “I dunno if he’s The Don. He’s just Don as far as I know.”
I shook my head. “No, I mean—never mind.” I glanced that way again out of the corner of my eye. “What’s his deal? Is he a regular?”
Dave, yet again, looked over at Don—The Don?—in the most blatant way possible.
I waved my hand, trying to get him to look back at me, but then I realized that was probably even more likely to draw attention than Dave’s staring, so I just looked the other way and tried to seem uninterested.
Dave finally looked back at me. “Yeah, he’s here pretty much every night.”
“Is he waiting for someone?”
“I don’t think so.”
“He just comes in by himself?”
“Yup.”
“Does he socialize with anyone?”
“Not really.” Dave wasn’t exactly being forthcoming.
I struggled to keep my impatience in check. “So, he just sits there with his beer and stares into space all night?”
Dave’s shoulders twitched in a shrug. “Pretty much.”
I sighed. Dave was not being as helpful as I’d hoped he’d be.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man walk over to Don. It was the same thing that had happened throughout the night. They conversed for a moment, Don suddenly laughing and acting friendly, before the man walked away. For a second, I watched, hopeful that maybe this time Don would pull out a notebook—or his phone at the very least—to make a note of the man’s visit. Of the man’s bet. But, as it had before, Don’s face immediately returned to its stoic stare.
“What about that?” I asked in what would have been a whisper if the bar wasn’t so loud. As it was, I was actually talking louder than my normal speaking voice.
