Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

to get to my job.” She put the dog in his lap and stood.
    “Where do you work?”
    “At The Big Dipper. Do you know it?”
    “Yup.” He got up and set the dog on her feet, unknotting the leash. He was stocky in build, about a head taller than T.J. “Maybe I’ll see you around,” he said.
    She didn’t look back though she felt the need to. When she did there was no sign of him or his dog. Forget them, she thought, think about your job. She planned to shower and change into the tight jeans and one of Zoey’s tee-shirts that bared the belly-button. She’d make herself up with a lot of eyeliner and mascara and shiny lip gloss. Wally Dipper wanted hip, she’d give him hip.
    Her thoughts veered back to the financier. He was the key. She’d been at the site of the explosion, she was sure of that now. What had she been doing there? “My name is Leslie,” she said aloud, to hear how it sounded.
    When the light turned green, she crossed the street, walked the short block to Fifth Street and Zoey’s building. Some instinct, good self preservation genes, she thought afterward, made her focus on the two men moving away from the building. She ducked behind the tall steps of the brownstone across the street.
    The men paused, looked back to where T.J. would have been. Acid rose in her throat, bitter and viscous. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but after a moment, they appeared to exchange cards. They shook hands and separated, one man walking west toward Second Avenue, the other eastward toward Avenue A.
    T.J. had no trouble recognizing either man. The one walking toward Second Avenue was Mary Lou Salinger’s phony Uncle Lew, and the man he’d just parted from was David Lumare.

20
    K EEPING ONE eye on the door, Wally Dipper whipped bottles of beer down in front of four of the half dozen people sitting at the counter, then filled mugs from the tap for the others. He did a double take when T.J. walked in, releasing a “Whoa.” In spite of the paper coasters, the bottles and mugs sweat sloppy puddles on the old wood. The beer drinkers were hyper, the laughter shallow as they talked about work, a film shoot in the area. Unwinding. She could feel their edge; it hadn’t gone smoothly.
    When Wally finished he motioned her over. He wore a blue cap with the white NY initials of the New York Yankees, jeans and a black tee-shirt that stretched tight across his gut, distorting the foaming mug and the words: The Big Dipper. One end of a white towel was tucked into the side of his straining waistband.
    “You can hang your jacket on one of the hooks in the back and grab a cap. It’s gonna be busy tonight because Ellis came in drunk as a skunk and I sent him home. I’ll handle the kitchen, it’s only burgers and fries, but you’ll have to tend bar.”
    “I’ve never done it.”
    “Don’t matter. They mostly do beer and wine. Once in a while, a martini. Just roll a little white vermouth around the glass and fill it with gin or vodka, whatever they want, and a coupla olives on a toothpick. Blink those pretty eyelashes at them and tell them you’re a rookie. The beer is three bucks, wine, six, martini, seven. Cash box’s under the bar. No credit cards or checks. Make sure you card the kids. Tips are yours.”
    She went back where he’d pointed and hung her jacket from a hook, one of many all different heights, on the wall outside the kitchen. From one hook hung a basket full of assorted caps and worn, crimped up gloves. She picked out a Mets cap, put it on, pulled her hair through the back opening, and adjusted the back clip so it didn’t settle over her eyes.
    Where would she find another place to stay? She’d tell Zoey she was leaving when Zoey came by later. Maybe it was time to stop running and call the tall cop with the sad eyes. The decision, because that’s what it was, came as a huge weight lifting from her shoulders.
    “T.J., you get lost back there?”
    She came rushing back, embarrassed. “Sorry.”
    “You have to move fast around here.” Wally headed for the kitchen. “And you’d better use the stool or nobody’ll see you.”
    T.J., looking for the so-called stool in the space behind the bar, found a raised wooden slat runner about a foot deep and a step high. It gave a bit when she stepped up. Behind her was a refrigerator case crowded with bottles of beer, mostly American but Mexican and German as well.
    The film group was replaced by three NYU students on their way to the Public