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Bayer saw three empty seats at the far end of the bar and went and sat in the very last one, against the wall. He realized that from there he could keep an eye on the lobby and probably see when Koch came in and intercept him. Then they could go get dinner.
He looked on top of the bar and smiled—there were bowls of potato chips and nuts.
Bayer was reaching for a chip when the bartender walked up. He was in his midforties, tall, with thinning salt-and-pepper hair, a gray mustache, and somewhat jowly cheeks. He wore a cheap black vest, a clip-on black bow tie, and a white shirt with slightly frayed cuffs. The gold tin name tag on the vest pocket read: SEAN O’NEILL.
“’Evening,” the bartender said. “What’re you drinking?”
“’Evening, Sean,” Bayer said. “I was thinking about a beer, but I’ve had a long day and think I deserve a real drink.”
“You name it.”
“Martini, up.”
Yeah, that should either tame the rumbles in my stomach or make me ravenous.
“Vodka or gin?”
“Gin. Do you have Beefeater’s?”
I’m supposed to be blending in. What good German would be drinking British booze?
“You got it, pal.”
The bowl of chips was empty, and he had the nut bowl down to half full by the time the bartender brought his second martini. And still no sign of Koch.
“Thank you, Sean.”
“Sure thing.”
Bayer looked at the drink before taking a sip.
Better take it easy on this one, he thought. My old man always said to stay away from gin, that it made you mean or stupid. Or maybe both.
Now’s not a good time to learn that he was once again right.
He took a sip at the same time the bartender brought bowls of fresh chips and nuts.
He put down the glass and reached for a chip from the new bowl. Right as his hand got to the bowl, there were slender, pale white fingers with long, red manicured nails reaching in ahead of him.
“Excuse me,” a female’s soft voice said.
Bayer turned to the voice and was met with the same sweet smile he had first seen earlier, just before getting on the elevator.
“Would you like some company?” the young blonde in the tight black skirt said, motioning at the empty chair next to him.
“Please,” he tried to say but his throat caught.
He took a sip of his martini as she stepped up into the seat and put a small black clutch bag on the bar.
Well, if she’s a hooker she’s not getting much business on a Saturday night.
He glanced at her. She was trying to get the bartender’s attention.
What the hell does Koch know? She’s not one. Look at her. She’s too good-looking, too young, too innocent.
She turned and caught him looking at her. She smiled, more widely this time, and for the first time he noticed that her teeth were crooked.
Bayer glanced down the bar to the far end, where the bartender was making small talk with a customer.
