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One fortune read: Love for a person must extend to the crows on his roof.
That would be Kennedy’s, clearly. If ever a guy had a permanent case of crows on the roof, it was he.
The other slip of paper read: The happiest life ends before death.
Great.
Jason drained the last of his beer and left the restaurant, retracing his steps through the alley and heading back toward the General Warren Inn. As tired as he was, he was also restless, uneasy. Partly it was just the weirdness of being back in Kingsfield after all this time and under these circumstances. Partly…he wasn’t sure.
&nbs
p; When he reached the motel, he glanced through the arches and saw the lamp shining behind the curtains in Kennedy’s hotel room. Maybe Kennedy was working late—or maybe he slept with the lights on.
Jason kept walking.
A block up the street he came to the Blue Mermaid pub. He recognized the flirtatiously smiling mermaid on the retro-style hand-painted sign, grinned inwardly, and pushed open the heavy door.
To his surprise the bar was busy. Not packed, but definitely doing a brisk trade.
Jason went to the bar. “What have you got on tap?” he asked the pretty blonde bartender. She had long, pale hair rippling in waves to her shoulders and glittery blue eye shadow. Her lipstick was a neutral color with a hint of gold. It was startling but effective.
She rattled off, “Anchor, Bell’s, Blue Moon, Budweiser, Bud Light, Coors Light, Corona, Miller Lite, Sam Adams—”
“Sam Adams.”
“You got it.”
Jason leaned back against the bar. Talk about memories. Back in the day they had served a decent lunch, and his parents had occasionally come for the burgers and kitschy charm. He had loved this place as a kid. In fact, he couldn’t wait to turn twenty-one so he could come in here and drink.
The motif was pure ahoy-thar-be-a-shipwreck! relying heavily on clunky wrought iron, broken trunks, and splintered kegs filled with sand and topped with paste junk jewelry. The walls were adorned with pirate flags, fiberglass fish, and kitschy 1950s mermaid memorabilia. The main attraction for his younger self—the pièce de résistance—had been the retro mermaid “tank” complete with plastic seaweed and a giant conch shell.
In actuality the tank was just an ornately framed plate glass window set into the wall and covered with blue cellophane. Once upon a time a succession of scantily clad mermaids had reclined on the glittering blue sand in the room behind the glass, entertaining patrons by genteelly waving their giant rubber fish tails while sipping drinks and reading fashion magazines.
The mermaids had fallen out of favor in the eighties, which Jason always thought was a shame although at seventeen his own taste had run more to mermen.
The black curtains drawn across the front of the tank window cast a slightly funereal air over the former exhibit.
The bartender set his moisture-beaded glass on a fish-shaped coaster. “Did you want to run a tab?”
Jason shook his head. “What do I owe you?”
She told him, and he pulled a couple of bills out of his wallet. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks.” She smiled. “You’re with the FBI, right?”
He smiled. “Is it my haircut?”
She laughed. “No. It’s your suit.”
“I’m not wearing a suit.”
“Yes you are. Only it doesn’t have anything to do with your clothes.”
It was Jason’s turn to laugh.
She offered a hand. “Candy Davies.”
“Jason West.” They shook.
