Hedging (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery)

Theatre, which was in the neighborhood. Two tap beers, one white wine. White wine for the two burger customers. She filled the glasses and Wally picked them up and served them before he headed back to the kitchen for the burgers. She saw that while the diners waited for their burgers, they would drink the wine, then when the burgers came, they would order a refill.
    Caught up in the process, she didn’t have time to think about her predicament. She was learning how to fill the mugs from the taps without splashing herself. The fumes alone were intoxicating. Just when she thought it was going to be a slow evening, the barstools filled up and a waiting line formed for the first vacant table. Her calves tightened as she moved back and forth on the wood slat runner. Her hand and arm cramped over the taps. Blisters appeared on her thumb, in her palm.
    She began to feel as if she were in one of those silent movies, fast motion, pour the wine, uncap the beer, pull the tap, light on the foam, serve the customer, collect the money, pocket the tips.
    At one point, she thought she heard Wally say, “You’re doin’ great,” but couldn’t be sure because the noise level mixed with the rock music from the jukebox was a head thumper. The case for the empty beer bottles was full. She picked up another empty case and put it on top. Her eyes were drooping; her hand throbbed. She thought, how long am I going to be able to do this?
    “Hey, T.J.” A sporty type shook an empty Corona at her. “Brewski.”
    “House red, T.J.,” one of Wally’s hamburger customers said, getting out of her seat. They all seemed to know her name now. T.J. poured a glass of wine and handed it over, making a mental note to tell Wally. But Wally knew from instinct what to charge, or maybe from looking at what was on the table.
    Someone sat down on the one empty stool. “What’ll you have,” T.J. asked, wiping the counter and putting down a paper coaster.
    “Beck’s.”
    She reached into the case and pulled out an icy bottle, uncapped it, and set it in front of the man who’d ordered it, glancing at him for the first time.
    “What’s the T.J. stand for?”
    “Where’s your lady friend?” She almost didn’t recognize him without the dark glasses, and he’d shaved off the stubble. Even in the gauzy light, his eyes were a startling turquoise.
    He didn’t get it. “Lady friend?”
    She turned away to take some cash off the counter, the charge into the cash box, the tip—four dollars—into her pocket. Her pocket was getting crowded. “Isabella.”
    His eyes teared up. What an odd reaction. “She’s probably smoking a cigarette and sitting on my favorite chair.”
    More patrons left and T.J. got busy taking money, making change, wiping down the counter. Almost everyone was gone, or on the way out. Zoey would probably be there any minute.
    The man with the striking eyes was still at the bar nursing his beer. He put some bills on the counter.
    “Are you an actor?” T.J. asked. She started to give him change.
    He waved his hand, rejecting her change. “I work for the city,” he said.
    Wally had come out of the kitchen drying his hands. He took off a grimy apron, stared after the man as he flipped them a goodnight salute. “Yeah, right,” he said.
    “Do you know him?” T.J. went over the counter with a damp cloth. Another minute and she would drop where she was standing.
    “I’ve got to sit down.” She came around and sat on one of the stools.
    “Works for the city all right,” Wally said. “Good job, T.J.” He went behind the bar and unloaded the cash box, counting the proceeds, tapped himself a beer. “What’ll you have?”
    “Beck’s. What’s that guy’s name?” She took a hefty swallow. She was really thirsty.
    “Don’t know. Never seen him in here before.” He drank down half the mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
    “But you knew he works for the city.”
    “I know a cop when I see one,” Wally said.

21
    T.J. DRANK her brew and watched Wally replenish the beer in the refrigerator. The cold bottle eased some of the raw pain in her swollen hand, but she couldn’t hold onto it. She switched it to her left hand. “You don’t like cops?”
    “Hangover from the sixties.”
    She held out her damaged hand. Her fingers wouldn’t flex. “Any suggestions?”
    “Ice. And next time use one of the gloves in the basket.”
    Of course, she thought.
    He filled a metal bowl with ice cubes and set it on