Julie shuffles the printouts until they’re straight. She riffles through them one more time and puts them in a soft-sided leather attaché case.
“I really think we’re onto something,” she says.
“I hope so.”
I look at the last dregs of cold coffee in my cup.
“I need another drink. You?”
She drains the last of her beer. Shakes her head.
“I’m good. You’re sticking with coffee, right?”
“While you drink beer?”
“I don’t have a drinking problem.”
“You think I do?”
She starts to say something, but stops, like she doesn’t want to get into it.
“Just stick to coffee for now.”
“Yes, boss.”
I head back to the bar. Carlos sees me coming and has the coffeepot ready.
“How’s the sober life treating you so far?”
“It’s been ten minutes of sheer hell.”
“I hear it gets better.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Fuck you.”
Carlos puts a hand to his ear.
“Sorry. I can’t hear you over the music.”
I give him the finger as he moves on to other customers.
“You heard me just fine.”
Someone says, “Drink up, cowboy. I’ll get the next round.”
It’s a woman’s voice, but when I look there’s no one there. Someone taps me on the shoulder. I have to turn to see her.
She’s wearing shades. Round and deep black, so her eyes are invisible. Her hair is buzzed to maybe an inch long and dyed cotton-candy pink. Black lipstick and a bomber jacket over a “Kill la Kill” T-shirt. Black tights with thigh and shinbones printed in white down the sides. Shiny black boots with pointed studs on the toes and heels.
“So,” Candy says. “Different enough?”
“Plenty. Perfect. Still got your knife?”
She opens her jacket and shows me where she’s had someone at Lollipop Dolls sew in a leather sheath.