“What’s his side job?” I asked nonchalantly.
Mac plunked his beer down. “You know, I’m not quite sure.”
“You’re his best friend. Aren’t you supposed to know these things?” I questioned.
“He didn’t tell me,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Didn’t you ask?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t you two talk about anything?”
“Sure.”
“What?” I asked.
His brows furrowed together. “You sure ask a lot of questions.”
“And you don’t ask enough,” I said. “You see Bob every day and yet you don’t even know what his job is.”
“If it’s so important to you, you ask him.”
“I will. As soon as he gets here.”
Mac gave a nod.
“When will he get here?” I asked.
Mac sighed into his beer.
“Is she giving you a hard time?” Hank asked as he swung through the door.
“I’m not giving him a hard time,” I said. “I’m asking him questions.”
“They don’t do questions here, Mars,” Jack said, following Hank out. “It’s the way of the bar.”
“Don’t give me that crap,” I said. “I can ask questions all day and you’d answer them.”
“No, we wouldn’t,” Mac said.
I arched a single brow, my signal for battle.
“What’s the most amount of times Hank has farted in one day?” I asked.
“Seventy-two,” Jack answered and then added, “That’s when the paint started peeling.”
Eesh!
I launched my next question. “How many women has Jack made out with while at work?”
“Pretty or ugly? Drunk or sober?” Mac cross-examined.
“Does it matter?” I asked.
“Yes. I have stats for them all.”
“Then a combined number.”
Mac’s eyes lifted to the ceiling as he calculated. “Thirty-eight. But one might have been a dude.”
“I never made out with a man,” Jack stated.
“I saw a mustache.”
Jack shuddered. “Don’t remind me. She was really pretty until I sobered.”
I wanted to hear more, but I had a point to make. “How many times has Bob fallen off a barstool?”
“Seven,” they all answered.
“And you say you don’t answer questions,” I said. “You just answered all of them.”
“Those don’t count,” Mac said. “Those are stats.”
“I give up,” I mumbled.
“It’s about time,” Hank replied.
Jack stepped over and patted my shoulder sympathetically. “I’d tell you it’ll get better, but we’re dealing with Hank and Mac.”
“It’s my own fault. I asked where Bob was working and it snowballed from there.”
“Things tend to snowball around here,” Jack said.
“Snowball or dive-bomb?” I questioned.
“Well, if we’re getting technical, then kamikaze dive-bomb.”
“I can’t argue with that,” I said. “Do you know what’s sad?”
He shook his head.
“This is about my only source of entertainment.”
Jack’s lips twitched into a smile. “What about Evan? Doesn’t he provide some . . . entertainment? You still haven’t told me about the incident the other night.”
Don’t blush, I warned myself.
“You’re blushing,” Jack said with a laugh.
I ignored him. “Evan provides plenty of entertainment when he’s around. But he’s always busy.”
“I hate to break it to you, but it’s only going to get worse once he’s in med school.”
“It already has,” I grumbled under my breath, thinking of the summons to Harvard. Okay, it wasn’t a summons. It’s a carrot in front of the donkey. A string in front of a kitten.
“What did you say?” Jack asked.
“Nothing,” I said, shaking off a bad feeling.
“If nothing else, at least the cooking competition should provide some entertainment,” Jack said. “Has anyone entered yet?”
“Just you and my dad so far. I’m not sure about Andrea,” I said and then turned to Hank. “Hank, has anyone called to enter?”
He scratched his chin. “Yeah. I wrote it down.”
“Can I have it?” I asked.
“Sure.”
That was it. Sure.
“Where is it?”
Hank glanced around the bar. “That’s the question now, isn’t it?”
I leaned over to Jack. “Is he normally forgetful or is this a senior moment?”
“Normal,” Jack answered. “But dipping into the senior-moment area.”
“I heard that!” Hank scolded.
I held back a sigh. “Where do you think it is?” I asked, following the trail of his eyes to the bathroom. “Why are you looking at the bathroom?”
“I’m pretty sure I took the call in there.”
“In the bathroom?”
“It’s a wireless phone, and nature called.”
“What did you write the message on?” I asked and then quickly reprimanded myself. I really didn’t want to know. Nothing good nor sanitary could come from the bathroom.
“Toilet paper.”
Ugh.
“Then what did you do?” Jack asked.
“I finished taking care of business, and then I came back out to the bar.”
“With or without the message?” Jack asked.
Hank pressed his lips together in thought. “I’m not too sure.”
Beyond the queasy feeling of hearing about Hank’s bathroom break, I had the feeling the message was repurposed.
“Do you remember if it was for the cooking competition? A name? Anything?” I asked.
“Nope, but it will come to me.”
Jack nodded. “He does remember things when you least expect it.”
Mac nodded.
Chapter 8
The next morning, I woke up alone. Evan was gone, or maybe he never showed. I had fallen into a deep sleep as soon as my head touched the pillow.
Jack’s warning drifted through my mind. It will only get worse, he’d said.
Yes. I do believe Jack is right.
Evan’s already-grueling schedule would be magnified at Harvard.
Harvard.
Boston.
I had done a web search last night to find out that little tidbit. In terms of long-distance relationships, he couldn’t get much farther away unless he hopped an ocean.
What bothers me the most — besides him leaving — is the fact that he hasn’t talked to me about it. And, he’ll have to leave soon.
Really soon.
Why hasn’t he said anything?
I couldn’t ignore it much longer. The fact that I had a desperate need to leave no loose ends undone gave me no hope of just letting it go. I hate loose ends. And yet, I seem to have several.
My internal list fired up, which was amazing considering it was still early morning and I hadn’t had a drop of caffeine.
The first item on the list: Meet with Evan for a serious talk. No tiptoeing around the subject.
Item two . . . check on Mrs. Janowski. Actually, I’ll bump her up to number one. No sense in hunting down Evan right away.
Wherever he is.
Item three: Come up with cheap advertising ideas for the bar.
Item four: Find out what Bob is up to, because it’s really driving me crazy.
Item five: Sigh.
There was an item five beyond my dramatized sigh. But that was the hardest of them all. Maybe not hard. Maybe just . . . no, definitely hard.
So . . . four items on my agenda today, and perhaps I’ll get to the other tomorrow.
Tentatively.
If he’s still in town.
He’ll still be in town. I’d bet on it.
With another sigh, I crawled out of bed and stretched. Let’s
get these tasks done.
* * *
“Hey, Mars,” Evan greeted over the phone. “I meant to call you last night but it was late and I was afraid I might wake you. I’m just heading to work right now.”
“Do you need to hang up?” I asked. “We can talk later. I was just calling to say hello.” And to ask you about Harvard.
Patience.
“We can talk now. I still have time. What have you been up to?”
“Not much. I checked on Mrs. J. this morning and she told me she’s healed.”
“She is? I thought she’d be in bed for at least a couple of days.”
“She’s in her recliner and insists that she’s fine. But the whole time I was there she never moved.”
“I bet she’s still sore and doesn’t want to admit it.”
“That’s what I thought. I’ll check on her later and make sure she’s moved from the recliner, or I’ll dust her off.”
Evan’s laugh tickled my ear.
“When can I see you?” I blurted.
“Miss me?” he teased.
“Yes.” That too.
“Do you work tonight?” he asked.
“Yes, but I’m not sure where. If it’s dead at the bar I’ll help the ladies at the arcade since Mrs. J. is down for the count—or so she denies.”
“Do you think you can take off for dinner?”
“I think that can be arranged,” I said, happily accommodating.
“Great,” he said. “I’ll text you later when I get a moment and we can plan something.”
I agreed and said good-bye. A shaky breath shuddered through my body. Well, no matter the outcome . . .
My phone rang, giving me a break from thoughts. It was my dad, asking if I knew when the Comet Riders were coming back through town.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I can ask Hank and see if he knows, but I doubt he does. They might have left for home already.”
“I’m pretty sure Fritz said they’d be in the area for a couple of weeks.”
“Well, then I’m sure they’ll be back, but I really don’t have any idea when.”
“I hope it’s soon. I’ve called an emergency meeting with the astronomy group. We’re gathering tomorrow to do a conference call with a man from MIT.”
“Sounds big.” There was no way I was going to ask him for more information. I’d have to listen to an hour-long explanation with no comprehension of what was being said. “Where are you going to meet?”
“I was hoping at the bar if Fritz was around. But maybe just at my house if he’s not.”
Hopefully he was around. More tips for me.
And a happy father.
* * *
I started work before the bar opened, because . . . well, I guess I had nothing better to do. Plus, I wanted to see if there were any good areas to hang signs. The flowers were a nice touch, but there was nothing to say, “Hey, stop here because we have great burgers and onion rings.”
I stood in the empty parking lot, surveying the building. There was a large Road Hog sign. However, there weren’t too many other options for sign placement, I thought, still assessing the grounds. The flowers took up the small spaces near the entrance . . . and the abandoned tire. I could put out tent signs, but I didn’t want the hassle of dragging them out and then bringing them back in every day.
Hank pulled into the parking lot, followed by Jack, and then Mac. The gang’s all here, I thought.
But not Bob.
Jack jumped out of his truck and walked over. “What are you up to so early in the morning?”
“You’ve been working this job too long. It’s not early; it’s nearly lunch time,” I said.
Hank stalked to the entrance. “Don’t plant any more flowers,” he warned before unlocking the front door and disappearing.
“I think that means he wants more flowers,” Jack teased.
“I’m trying to find a good place to put signs. We need more exposure.”
“Exposure?” Mac asked as he stopped near us. “Uh . . . just what kind of exposure are we talking about?”
“Does your mind ever leave the gutter?” I asked.
He pondered.
“I didn’t mean nude exposure,” I said, exasperated. “I meant I need to find places to put signs.”
“I thought you hung all the cooking-competition signs,” he said.
“Not those signs. I want signs for the bar.”
“What would they say?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe, ‘Great burgers and onion rings,’” I said.
His lips pursed. “Not very creative.”
“It’s better than what we have now. No one would know that we serve food here. By looking at the building, all you’d think you’d get here is a case of hepatitis.”
He didn’t argue that point, but instead looked around. “Why don’t we place signs on the small stretch right by the road. We could put a bunch of them with all different slogans.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Jack said. “We have a decent stretch here. I bet you could place twenty signs without overcrowding.”
It wasn’t a bad idea at all. In fact, it was a great idea. Twenty eye-catching signs would be just what this place needed.
“Well, I better get to work,” Mac said, heading inside. “This might take me all day.”
Jack and I watched Mac disappear into the building.
Bad, bad, bad idea! I mentally kicked myself.
“This should be interesting,” Jack said with a shake of his head, following in Mac’s trail. “Are you coming in?” he asked.
“Do I have to?” I asked, following him in anyway.
“If you don’t, then you’ll have no control over what signs he makes.”
“I don’t have any control either way.”
“Have some faith,” he said with a growing smirk. “Those markers are fifty years old — they have to run out sometime.”
“They haven’t yet.”
“Like Hank always says, ‘They don’t make ’em like they used to.’”
With an internal groan, I followed Jack into the bar.
* * *
Four hours later, the bar had been transformed into a sign factory. Bob had arrived shortly after we opened and jumped on the runaway train. There was plywood on every table in the bar. Each was being painted by the boys, prepping it for their slogans, which they tossed about as they painted.
So much for the hope that the markers would dry out.
“I think we should open an advertising firm,” Mac said, as he came up with the ever-witty, “Stop here if you love beer.”
“We should,” Bob agreed. His claim to the advertising world was, “Bikers rule and have big tools.”
“Jack,” Bob called across the bar. “You should write a slogan.”
“I’ve been thinking of one,” he said, tossing an amused look at me before saying, “Free body shots for hot chicks.”
“That don’t rhyme,” Mac said.
“But,” Bob said thoughtfully, “I wouldn’t mind if it actually worked.”
Mac nodded at that. Even Hank gave a partial nod. Or it could have been a twitch.
“Write that down on the list,” Bob said to Mac. “We’ll use it.”
Mac scribbled it down on his pad of paper before saying, “How about this: Stop now for good chow.”
“Not bad,” Bob said, and I had to agree.
“Okay, let me try again,” Jack said, posing for a theatrical prose. “This place smells like a fart, but we’ve got darts.”
I snorted with an unexpected laugh.
Mac grinned. “It rhymes.”
“We don’t want to advertise that it smells in here,” I said.
“I think they’ll figure it out when they walk in the door,” Jack said.
That was a good point. I could do all the advertising I wanted, but not many customers would return to a place that stinks.
“Do you think Lysol would work?” I asked.
; Jack shook his head. “Grandma sprayed this place from top to bottom one year. It only lasted a day.”
“What could be causing the smell?” I asked.
Everyone looked at Hank.
“I didn’t do anything!” he barked.
No one said anything, but we were all thinking it. Mac’s bar stats came to mind.
Since I doubted Hank would let me hang air fresheners on him, I thought of the next best thing: air fresheners under every table, chair, and barstool.
“I’m heading to the store,” I said, grabbing my purse.
This bar is going to smell great when I’m through.
* * *
By the time I returned, the boys were stenciling letters onto the signs. They ran through their list of slogans.
“We need a couple more catchy lines,” Bob said. “We have two boards with nothing on them.”
“I’ve been thinking of one,” Mac said. “Wear leather, down with pleather.”
“That has nothing to do with the bar,” I said, stowing my bag of air fresheners for later.
“It has everything to do with the bar,” Mac said. “We like leather.”
I couldn’t argue with that. They did love leather.
I strolled around the room, reading the signs.
Are you beat? Stop and eat.
“Hey, this one is good,” I said, then continued my tour.
Need balls? We got ’em all.
“Balls?” I questioned.
“I was thinking of the pool table when I wrote that,” Mac said, breaking into a grin. “But we have others the ladies might enjoy.”
“Which led to this one,” Jack pointed to a sign.
Save a horse, ride a biker.
I closed my eyes and took a deep, fortifying breath.
“You wanted signs, you got them,” Jack said, humor filling his voice. “All twenty of them.”
Twenty.
Dear Lord.
* * *
The signs were drying, giving Bob and Mac an hour to drink before Bob slid off his barstool and said, “Well, I should be getting to work.”
I had been itching to ask Bob about his “job.” This gave me the perfect intro.
“Where do you work?” I asked.
Security Squad Page 6
