Bull's Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective #3

Chapter 18

The Eagle is a bar and grill a few minutes' drive away, and at this time of night it's 90 minutes or so from closing. It's one of three restaurants within the radius Zandra drew in her mind, but it's the only one that matches the rest of her considerations. Close, but not too close. Frequented by the business class, but not exclusive. The best Friday Fish around.

She instructs Vince to park in the rear of the Eagle within a few feet of a Dumpster illuminated by a security light.

"What's the plan?" Jo says. The pistol is still lodged into her waistband. Zandra sees now that there's actually a holster inside the waistband.

Makes sense. It'd be uncomfortable otherwise.

"We wait and we watch," Zandra says.

"You don't want us to go inside? Ask around?" Vince says.

Zandra shakes her head as she focuses on the Dumpster. "We have to avoid anyone connected to Gene. We need to talk to someone who will give it to us straight."

"Which is?"

"The workers who take out the trash," Zandra says. "They're in the trenches, they know who comes and goes, and they don't give two shits about the management or Gene or anyone else. They're there to make rent. They'll talk. They're ignored every other day of the week."

Never discount the disgruntled.

It's suspicious, though, for three people in a muddy Jeep to leer at a Dumpster on an evening outside a bar. Zandra suggests they reposition across the street within view of the Eagle after a drunk teeters and pukes down the side of the Jeep.

Welcome to Wisconsin.

Vince guides the Jeep across the street, where they look more like three people waiting for a friend rather than a crew of political operatives staking out the Eagle. Jo flips the radio on to relax the mood.

Classic rock. Again.

Zandra never got into music enough to have a favorite genre, but she knows enough about the local radio stations to loathe classic rock. The "classic" period apparently only applies to six years and seven bands.

Back before Sneak Peek was a tangle of cinder, Zandra would play ambient "New Age" music, usually in the "space" sub-genre. That meant five notes slowly dragged across six hours. It kept the air full, though, and it didn't distract her. It did its job well enough that Zandra can't even remember what the music sounded like. The notes clung to Sneak Peek like paint.

"There," Zandra says finally. She points at a young woman hauling a black trash bag half her size toward the Dumpster. Even from across the street, Zandra can hear the sound of bottles inside the bag.

Heavy night.

"On it," Vince says and opens his driver side door.

"No. You two stay here," Zandra says and leaves the Jeep, but not before grabbing a print out of Julia's mug. She hobbles toward the Eagle, relieved to see the young woman pauses for a cigarette after disposing of the bottles. Buys her more time on her bad ankle.

"Back off, asshole," the young woman says as Zandra approaches.

No hesitation in the delivery. Spoken with a strong breath the whole way through, a hint above socially acceptable volumes. She's confident when she speaks that way. I bet she says that a lot.

"Not here to hurt you," Zandra says between labored breaths. The slow sprint to the Dumpster took the wind out of her. "Need to talk to you."

The young woman looks to be in her 20s. The front halves of her all-black T-shirt and pants are covered in specks of grease, soap and whatever else managed to hitch a ride from the bar.