Easy Innocence

Chapter 27

WHEN GEORGIA went back to Burhops in Glenview, the afternoon manager told her someone did come in last Friday, looking for a bag of fish entrails.

From the back of the shop came the sound of a radio turned up too high. Spanish rock. "Can you describe the person?" She tried to rein in her excitement.

"A man. A boy, really," the manager said.

"How young?"

"Maybe in high school. Small. Skinny. Sharp nose."

"Clothes?"

"Jeans. T-shirt. Work shoes. Oh," He smirked. "And lots of jewelry."

"If I showed you a yearbook, could you identify him?"

The manager laughed. "No way! There's gotta be-what-three thousand pictures in those things? I don't have time."

Georgia bit her lip. "Well, tell me this. Did you give him the fish waste?"

He shrugged. "Sure. Less crap for us to get rid of."

Georgia thanked the manager and left. Was this the kid who was responsible for the mess in her apartment? She thought about running his description past Rachel, Ellie Foreman's daughter. And if he turned out to be a friend of Monica Ramsey... Then she reconsidered. Better not to get Rachel involved. Lauren Walcher was still her best bet.

That night it rained. A cold, stinging rain that stripped the leaves from trees, clogged gutters, and turned the satisfying crunch of shoes on dry leaves into a slippery ordeal. Georgia started to wander around the apartment. It felt empty and brooding. Too big. She grabbed her jacket and umbrella and headed to Mickey's.

The place smelled like a combination of wet wool and grease, but because of the rain, it wasn't crowded. She went to a booth in the back. Owen brought her food promptly. She was on the second bite of her burger when she felt someone's gaze on her. She looked up. One of the men at the bar was watching her. The light was dim, and she couldn't quite make him out, but he looked friendly. Indeed, he was smiling. She squinted. He had sandy hair, long on top but short on the sides. Rimless glasses partway down his nose. Jesus! Her upstairs neighbor. She looked down at her plate.

He didn't get the message, because he picked up his drink and started over. She wanted to tell him she wasn't interested, but something stopped her. Afterwards, she admitted she didn't know what it was. Not his clothes; ordinary khakis and a button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up. Maybe it was that he didn't seem to care that his clothes were fifty years out of date. He looked comfortable with himself. Or maybe it was his smile. Not the plastic grimace she saw on so many men, especially men on the make. His was warm, and that warmth was mirrored in his eyes. Or maybe it was just that it was a bad night, and she was tired of feeling lonely. Whatever it was, when he reached her table, beer in hand, she gave him a nod.

He sat down, the scent of Aramis drifting over to her. "Catch any big ones lately?"

She blinked.

He put the glass down. "Fish. The fish guts."

"Oh." She ran a hand through her hair. "You were right, you know."

"About what?"

"Compost. As a disposal method."

"How did you figure it out?"

"I went online."

"First time."

"What?"

He looked at her. "First time someone said I've been right in a while."

She cocked her head and took a bite of her hamburger. It was missing something. Ketchup? Relish?