“Her public Facebook account.”
I took his phone. “This is her phone number?”
“Yeah.”
“You can do that?”
“Hm-hm.”
“For God’s sakewhy?”
Max smirked. “I love you, you cantankerous old man.”
ANGELA LONDONhad been suitably suspicious of me on the phone, which suggested she was notcompletelynuts. She agreed to meet me at Spirits, a bar on St. Marks.
At 2:45 p.m.
On a Tuesday.
During the daylight hours, the cultural hub, famous for its accumulation of individuals on the fringes of society, looked almost lackluster. Several of the storefronts were shuttered until evening hours, while the others that stood open were intended for tourism appeal—shit like sunglasses, funky winter hats, and glass pipes that’d make suburban moms gasp. Once it was dark, the street really came to life.
My taxi drove off, leaving me standing curbside between two massive trees. To the left was a shuttered body-piercing salon and a Japanese restaurant. On the right was some kind of alternative clothing store and a comic shop. Nestled smack between them—Spirits. I crossed the sidewalk and took the steps down into the underground establishment.
Spirits was dim, enough that I was able to change into regular glasses and be comfortable. I shoved my sunglasses into my messenger bag and took a look around. It was very cramped inside—almost no space widthwise, making it impossible to fit more than half a dozen very small standing tables to the right of me. The bar was, at least, quite long, going back the entire length of the room. The walls were painted a dark color, and window décor purposefully blocked out the daylight.
I recognized the musician playing on the overhead speakers—not because I was a fan of Marilyn Manson, but because I’d dated Neil for four years. Despite his uptight, stuffy demeanor, he was a serious hard rock and metal fan. One can imagine that music had been a point of contention in our household. I thought idly, while walking toward the bar, that Manson seemed too mainstream for a place like this, but maybe it was suitable during the slow daytime hours.
A woman sat alone at the bar. She tilted her head and took a shot before wincing and slamming the glass down. She wiped her lips on the back of her hand before noticing me standing several feet away. “The fuck you lookin’ at?”
Charming.
“Angela London?”
She started laughing and grabbed for her second shot. “Sebastian?”
“That’s right.”
She shook her head, muttered, “Fuckin’ nerd,” then tossed back the next drink.
I took a seat and left an empty stool between us.
The bartender moved to stand in front of me. He was clean-shaven, both face and head, with those big gauged ears like my friend Aubrey Grant had. “Can I get you anything?”
“A club soda.” I shifted and looked at Angela. She definitely didn’t fit the dark, morbid aesthetic of the bar any more than I did and, until quite recently, had held down a job at a science museum. I wasn’t sure why she was judgingmydress pants and loafers. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
“You’re researching Edward Cope, huh?”
I nodded. “I own an antique business.”
Angela pursed her lips and nodded. “Wow.” She leaned over the empty barstool and put a hand on my thigh. “That’ssointeresting.”
I cleared my throat loudly. “Yeah, I guess so. Cope surfaced during some research I’ve been conducting on a project.”
She kept drunk-nodding her head. “Uh-huh.” Angela pushed her hand up higher and very nearly learned I dressed to the right.
I took her wrist, firmly removed her hand, and put it on the bar top. “I’m not interested, Ms. London.”
Angela narrowed her eyes and gave me another slow once-over. “Fuckin’ queer.”
