Page 4 of Redemption

“If the bail-jumper weren’t important, the mayor wouldn’t have said anything.” Victoria gnawed on the stale granola bar and knew it was sacrilege to eat that while talking to Seven on the phone. Her pastries weren’t more than a five-minute drive away. “There’s something he doesn’t like about what the sheriff’s up to.”

“Sheriff came in this morning,” Seven said. “Ordered three dozen donuts. Cleaned me out. What does it mean? His day for donut duty? Or a nefarious sugar scheme?”

Victoria rolled her eyes at her friend mocking her and took a bite of the old granola bar, facing her cell phone as though Seven could really see her. “Why’s this jumper important?”

“Why are any jumpers important?”

“Good question.” Victoria chewed the inside of her cheek. “Some are worth more than others.”

“So-so answer and better question: why’s he playing politics and involving you, who gives no hoots about town gossip and politics?”

Seven was right. Victoria would sooner die than be a conversation piece. That anxiety was nearly debilitating. She cut favors and played the game with criminals, law enforcement, and attorneys at the bare minimum to keep the steady flow of information flowing, and that was that. No gossip. No BS. She never wanted the limelight when it came to chatter.

“Besides the fact,” Seven started to answer her own question, “you’re better than Douche Bag McDoucherson. Maybe he just wants a clean pickup.”

“Maybe.” But it felt like anything but.

“What are you going to do?”

“Snoop around. Check out his old lady.”

“Want some company?” Seven asked. “I know, I know. You work better alone.”

“Not always.” Victoria crumpled the wrapper over the half-eaten granola bar and pitched it into her trash can. “But I’m heading to the Ice House—”

“Ew, that place smells like year-old peanuts, beer breath, and armpits. Hold your breath, and don’t stay long enough to pass out.”

She wrinkled her nose, remembering the last time she’d pushed past the Ice House doors. The stench of stale beer and fermenting barrels was bad. “I thought it might not be your cup of joe.”

Seven giggled. “Not yours either.”

“The places I’ve seen.”

“And probably smelled. Pee-ewww.”

“Agreed.” Victoria reached into her office desk drawer and grabbed the subcompact 9mm that tucked nicely at the back of her jeans. “If you don’t hear from me by day’s end, you know where I am. Bring smelling salts.”

###

The heavy wood door had layers of paint that had peeled and been painted over far too many times, and yet the section near the door handle was completely worn away. If Victoria had to guess, it was from too many drunks falling against the door, going in and out. She smelled the stale beer before she toed the swinging door open.

The lights were low. The television broadcasted boxing from satellite—or so she assumed because she couldn’t understand the commentator or read the words on screen. The bartender, casually refilling a draft and lifting a phone to her ear, had a harsh glint in her eye. She smiled and made small talk, replacing the receiver, slinging the beer, paying no mind to the mess she made.

Victoria pulled up a bar stool, and the bartender made her way closer, dirty rag in hand. The cloth was more for show since she seemed to ignore the old sweat marks from glasses long gone.

“What can I do you for?” Her black eyelashes had on too much mascara for what Victoria thought such light eyes needed, but she wasn’t one to judge.

“Whatever you got. Just needed a break. My boss is riding my ass this morning.”

Pink-lined lips pressed into a fake smile as the bartender stepped back and drew a glass and filled it without taking her eyes off Victoria. “What kind of boss is that?”

“Sales.”

The woman slung the beer toward her. “Starting a tab?”

“The way my month’s been going? Yes and no.”

“Which is it?”

---