Greywalker - Kat Richardson [31]
At 7:34, William Novak came out of the warehouse. I was still trying to reengage my brain. He started toward the lonely pickup truck, then changed direction, coming toward me through the drizzle. He tapped on my window.
I rolled the window down and he asked, “Problem?”
“Not now.”
“Sure? You’ve got blood on your cheek.”
“Yeah, well. Somebody tried to run me down.”
“And that’s not a problem?”
“Not at the moment. I’m still alive and he’s long gone. But I didn’t get the license number. And I really want a drink.”
“There’s a decent Italian place nearby that’s open until ten. They serve drinks, but their bar’s the size of a French provincial commode. I was going to get a little supper myself. I’d be glad to take you.”
I hesitated. My innards were still jumping in syncopation with my nerves. “What about your youthful assistant?”
“Mikey? He’s got some work to do and he knows how to forage. See, there he goes.” He pointed toward the warehouse.
A small motorcycle grumbled out from the building’s shadow. The slender, helmeted figure on the back waved to us and went slowly out the gate. The machine whining and coughing, the unsteady firefly of the taillight jounced away. We watched it until it vanished into a curve.
“So, you coming with me or you prefer to follow?” Novak asked.
I sighed. “I’ll follow.”
He grinned. “You shouldn’t have any trouble—I give great signal.”
I had to roll my eyes. “You’d better.”
I followed him around the perimeter of the lake to a scruffy-looking little building just off the lakefront industrial area. The rents are affordable and so was the food. If we leaned our heads a bit, we could still see the lake in all its famous nighttime beauty. The water looked like polished obsidian, reflecting the lights of the city and the boats. I could just glimpse the Space Needle pointing its green-glowing crown at the clouds.
The scent of food reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since lunch with RC, and that was mostly coffee.
As soon as we were seated, Novak ordered antipasto and then looked at me for my drink order. “Can I guess?” he asked.
“What I drink? Sure, give it a shot,” I allowed, leaning back on the padded bench.
“I’ll bet you used to drink white wine, but switched to something more interesting. . . . Scotch?”
I made a face. “Irish. I don’t like peat smoke.”
He looked at the waitress who had one eyebrow raised and a cynical crook to her mouth. “Bushmills?”
“Double?” she shot back.
I just nodded. Novak ordered a local beer and the waitress stalked off.
He glanced at me and gave an embarrassed smile. “The service here stinks. Luckily you only pay for the food.”
“So long as she doesn’t put ice in my drink, I don’t care.”
“She won’t—that would be extra effort. Can I ask what happened?”
“Back at the warehouse?” I clarified, and he nodded. “Not much, really. Some jerk tried to run me down. I jumped. He missed. He fled. Pretty much the whole tale.”
“Not the first time, I suspect.”
“You think weirdos in light-colored sedans chase me down every day of the week?”
“No,” he said. “But I also don’t think most women wear makeup that looks like bruises, so I’d assume that the marks on your neck and cheek are the real thing. Since you’re not wearing a wedding ring, I assume they aren’t there because your husband beats you.”
“No husband. I can’t believe you can still see the bruises.”
“Faintly. I thought it was the lighting in the warehouse. Same guy?”
“No.” I didn’t volunteer any more and turned my eyes to the menu instead. Novak did the same.
The waitress returned and put down our drinks. She nearly spilled Novak’s into his lap and gave him a curt little “Sorry” and an insincere hitch of the mouth before she handed me my drink. No ice. We ordered food and I asked where the restroom was.
“I’ll show you,” she offered.
We were crossing the tiny foyer when she said, “If some guy smacked me around I’d serve him one to the crotch and scram. You don’t have to put up with that, you know.”
“ ’Scuse me?” I asked, catching her arm. “You think that guy back there hit me?”
She faced me square-on