Page 48 of The Wrong Side of the Law

It’s funny, the way he phrased it makes this almost seem like a date. Which it’s not, my own momentary flash of lust notwithstanding. We’re having a business meeting. A clandestine one, which in its own way may be even more exciting than a date. Which this isn’t.

“Um. White wine? I guess?” I have no idea if they even have wine, let alone anything decent. It seems more like a beer and whiskey kind of place.

Gabriel nods and waves to someone I can’t see in the dim and gloom, and a moment later an elderly man with a tweed flat cap and a white towel tucked into his belt shuffles over to our table.

“Ready for another one?” he asks in a charming brogue, pointing to Gabriel’s empty pint.

“Yeah, another for me, and do you still have any of that chardonnay? The… what was it? The 2013 Anaba, I think?”

“Oh, sure, an’ the lady will enjoy it, I think,” the bartender says, and shuffles off again to fill our order.

I reach into my bag and pull out the notepad I’d been working from this afternoon and start to lay it in the middle of the table between us. Before I can take my hand away from the paper, Gabriel covers it with his own, startling me and pushing the pad away. His hands are incredibly warm and strong, and though I can’t point to anything inappropriate in the contact, the touch feels tender, almost a caress. Something far too intimate for a public place, too intimate for a man that I have such mixed feelings about. My hand and arm tense up.

“That will keep,” he says. “What do you say we skip the shop talk for just a bit?” His eyes are hypnotic, deep brown pools.

“What happened to the urgency?” I ask.

I don’t break the eye contact—I couldn’t, even if I tried—but the muscles in my arm and hand slowly start to relax.

“It will keep,” Gabriel says again. “For a few minutes, at least.”

The moment is broken by the bartender’s return. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding when Gabriel’s hand lifts off mine to accept a pint glass of some dark, foamy beer. I reach for my own glass, hoping the chilled white will cool off the heat I feel rising in my cheeks, slow down my suddenly racing pulse.

“Thank you, Sam,” Gabriel says.

“How do ye like it, Miss?” the ancient bartender—Sam, I guess—asks me, rubbing folded hands together, working off nervous energy as he watches me take my first sip.

“Oh!” I answer, surprised by the taste. “It’s, wow. It’s not what I’d expected.”

“Because, a wee dump like this, right?” Sam beams at me.

“Well, I’d have said I didn’t expect a bunch of good ol’ boy cops to order this too often,” I answer, “but… honestly, I didn’t know what to expect.”

“I suppose we can accept you into the Old Boys Club,” Gabriel says, chuckling. “On a provisional basis, at least.”

“Sure, an ye’re a right idjit, ain’t ya?” Sam says, his wrinkled face bunching up like an angry bulldog. The old bartender cuffs Gabriel fondly on the ear. “Ladies don’t like ta be called old!” His stage whisper is practically a shout. “And she don’t look nothin’ like a boy, neither,” he finishes, giving me a friendly leer, stripped of its lechery by the context.

“Oh, get back behind your bar, you dirty old man,” Gabriel says. “Isn’t there a Dodgers’ game on or something?”

“Buncha goddamn bums,” the bartender grumbles as he walks away. His voice, though-

“Is it just me,” I say, once he’s out of earshot, “or did Sam’s accent slip there at the end?”

Gabriel smiles angelically as he takes a drink of his beer.

“Let’s just say there’s a lot more guys named Sam Rabinowicz born in the Bronx than there are in County Cork, and he’s still holding a grudge against the Dodgers,” he answers, wiping brown foam off his lip. “Ah, this is good stuff, though.”

I laugh, and the sound is strange in my ears. For the first time in months it feels genuine. There’s nothing fake or forced about it, no cynical or sarcastic edge. It feels good.

“I know you’re focused on investigating Ferry,” Gabriel says. “And I know you’re scared for your brother, and you’re wrapped up in dealing with the muddle your stepmother has made of things, but let me pass on a bit of wisdom to you.” He pauses, frowning down at the table. “God, that sounded pompous, didn’t it? Kick me, would you, if I do that again? Anyway. It’s a thing that Lisa had to beat into my thick skull, and I’m pretty sure your father had to force-feed it to her in one-syllable words, too, when she was young and eager.”

“All right then,” I say, smiling at him over the rim of my glass, curious to find out what piece of wisdom Dad is going to send me through those perfectly-shaped lips. “Lay it on me.”

“Once in a while,” Gabriel says, “you have to just step back away from work. You hit a wall, start feeling like you’re just bashing your head against it, and that’s not going to be productive. Back away from it. Work on something else for a bit. Think about other things. Maybe watch some TV, listen to music. Read a book. Whatever you gotta do to disengage your brain.”

Gabriel taps a finger to his temple and arches his eyebrows at me.

“Your brain is still working on it,” he continues, “but the processing goes on in the background. Keeps you from burning out, lets you relax some, and when you come back to it? Most of the time you’ll have some new idea, or you’ll see something you missed before. Lisa calls it sedimentation, because she just lets things settle out, and hopes that it gets less cloudy.”

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