Dark Reservations Read Online Free PDF Page B

enjoyed the relative quiet of pre–happy hour. Mickey would turn the music on around 4:30, sometimes Tony Bennett, sometimes something more current. And then the after-work regulars would start to trickle in, most sitting at the bar, a few grabbing tables for dinner. Joe knew the routine of the regulars. He’d become a member two years ago, ever since Christine’s …
    He downed the mug and set it at the end of the counter, indicating to Mickey he wanted—no, needed—another. Mickey hobbled over, took out a fresh mug from under the counter, and filled it.
    â€œReady to talk?”
    â€œYeah. Just needed to get one down.”
    â€œI’m listening.”
    â€œHad a job interview today. I was late and it didn’t go too well. The guy was younger than my daughter.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it. You got a good reputation and you know your shit. It’ll work out. But next time, don’t forget to shave.”
    Joe stroked his face. Shit. Actually, he’d hadn’t forgotten. He just hadn’t bothered. Shaving was one of those things that didn’t seem so important anymore.
    Mickey went on: “How’s Melissa?”
    â€œTop of her class, as always. Just like her mom.” He took a swallow of beer, a long swallow. “Nothing like her dad. At least I can be thankful for that.”
    â€œSnap out of it, Joe.” Mickey’s voice was serious. “I don’t mind your business. Hell, I appreciate it. But you got more going for you than coming in here and drinking by yourself every night. You’re still young—younger than me, anyway. Get out and meet people. Meet some women.”
    â€œYou’re a broken record, Mick.”
    â€œSee what I mean. You’re outta touch. They ain’t got records no more. You gotta say, ‘Mick, you sound like a skipping CD.’”
    Joe smiled. “I don’t think anyone says that.”
    â€œThey should. ‘Broken record’ sounds old-fashioned.”
    Joe wrote skipping CD in the condensation on his mug, wrapping the letters all the way around so they started and stopped at the handle. No, it didn’t have the same ring as “broken record.”
    â€œWe may have a prospect,” Mickey said.
    Three women walked toward the bar. They didn’t look over. Joe knew two of them, Linda and Sue. Two very nice, and very loud, married women who came to Mickey’s a couple times a week to grab a drink and do battle with the bar’s sound system. They worked for a large development company down the street. Joe liked them because they were fun to listen to. He didn’t know the third woman, a blonde. She walked between the other two, laughing a nice laugh, a friendly laugh. Joe immediately liked her. She filled out her beige pants like roses fill out a bouquet—and she wore sensible heels. If she had been wearing high heels, he’d have pegged her as high-maintenance. Christine, his wife, had never worn stilettos, but she’d always had great legs and never needed the extra sculpting.
    Joe returned to his beer. This time he wrote stilletto in the condensation, not sure how to spell it. He tried to remember if he’d ever written the word before. He didn’t think so. He couldn’t remember writing high heels, either.
    Joe took another long swallow of beer. He was about to draw a high heel, when a woman spoke behind him.
    â€œIt’s only one l. ”
    Joe turned and saw the blonde standing next to him. She offered a smile. He turned on his charm.
    â€œHuh?”
    She pointed to his mug. “ Stiletto has one l. Why did you write that on your mug?”
    Joe had an answer, but not one that made sense. Oh, hi. I noticed you weren’t wearing stilettos, so I knew you weren’t high-maintenance. Why, no, I’m not crazy. Why do you ask? Instead, he lied. “Reliving my fifth-grade spelling bee. I got it wrong then,