Friday McDaniels and the Case of the Missing Nutsack

Part 5: Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better

Friday slid onto the barstool and tapped on the counter. Anita smiled at him. She was young, barely twenty-one and covered in tattoos. She wore loud clothing and called attention to herself with her wild hairstyles. Some men were turned off by women like her, but not Friday. He smiled back. Tonight she wore a loose-fitting green shirt that fell off her shoulder, revealing a rather delicate imagining of a hummingbird drinking from a flower that sat just below her collarbone.            

It's about time you've showed up." she said, putting a glass of scotch in front of him. He pulled out a couple bills and pushed them toward her. He always gave her a three dollar tip.            

"Wednesday's being a prick."            

"Isn't he always?" she winked at him and walked to the other side of the bar where a small group of men gathered.            

"I thought I'd find you here." Someone said behind him. He jumped at the voice. Rananda took a seat next to him.            

"Oh, yeah. Hey.” He said, taking a sip of his scotch, peering over the rim of his glass at her.            

She looked at him as if he were something disgusting she pulled out of her bath drain, "That’s all you have to say to me?”            

Anita appeared in front of them, “Jameson?” she asked Rananda           

"Yes, please."            

Anita put the drink in front of her and Rananda pushed ten dollars across the bar. Friday didn't like the smile on Anita’s face as she tucked the extra five dollars into the tip jar. That smile signified that Friday’s tip was fool’s money. He’d have to adjust his tipping method in the future.             

"I'm going to want my appointment book back." Rananda said, breaking into his thoughts.         

Of course you are. Wouldn't want you double-booking people. What a problem that would be."            

“Excuse me?”           

"What you’re doing is illegal."           

“Breaking and entering is illegal.”           

“It’s immoral!           

“Breaking and entering is immoral. And harassing an innocent woman. And stealing her property when she kindly told you to leave her premises.”

“What you do for a living…it’s just—it’s—it’s disgusting.”           

She imparted a terse, close-mouthed smile. "You don't a have a clue what I do for a living."           

He shrugged her off, drank his scotch in one swallow, and slammed it onto the bar. Anita came at once, took the glass from him, and poured quickly.           

He slid a twenty across the table, "Keep the change." he said. Anita looked at the bill in her hand and back to Friday. He nodded. She shrugged and went to the register. He felt a sense of satisfaction as he watched her put the eight dollars into the tip jar.             

When he turned back to Rananda he felt an even heavier sense of pride. She looked like she had bitten into something sour. She took her glass, downed the drink and slammed her cup on the counter. Anita, who stood nearer the small group of men at the end of the bar, made her way back, filled the glass and put it down. Rananda gave her fifteen dollars and Anita, with a slight roll of her eyes, slid the extra ten dollars into the tip jar. Unable to put this silent argument to rest, Friday downed his second glass and slid twenty-five dollars across the bar. He turned to Rananda and raised an eyebrow, pressing her to continue.            

Rananda drank her glass but waved Anita away. She put a hand on Friday's and said, "That's enough. We’re not children. I just want my appointment book."           

Friday slipped his hand out from under hers, picked up his glass, and drank the liquor slowly, allowing it to rest on his tongue for a moment before pouring more in. He had come for a simple glass of scotch, not to get into a drinking war with Rananda Tippertoe of all people. He needed to slow down, let the amber liquid take over, taste it’s smoky, rich, peaty flavor, allow it to smoothly glide down his throat and warm his body. The fact that he drank—no—gulped down this fine scotch in three unenjoyable glasses sickened him.           

Griffin’s was his place. His refuge. And now Rananda had ruined that for him. She had waltzed in here with her short skirt, long bare legs, and her blouse one button too loose, knowing Friday couldn’t not notice. She looked at him with those big doe-like eyes, sliding a strand of hair through her fingers, the rest of her hair pulled to the side, revealing the perfect skin of her neck driving him absolutely mad—           

Wow, he must be drunk. After all he knew about her, to still think of her as if she were any other lady? He shook it off and stood. Without a word, he started towards the exit, glass still in hand. He needed to get rid of that damned appointment book and be done with Rananda Tippertoe once and for all. He could hear her high heeled shoes clicking after him as he stepped out into the muggy night. He didn’t wait for her, rather crossed the street without considering oncoming traffic.

A car nearly sideswiped him. The horn bellowed in the night, tires screeched. Friday stood in the blinding glow of the headlights and could barely make out the shadow man hanging out the driver's side window who shook his fist yelling,

"Watch where you're going you crazy son of a bitch! You nearly got killed!" 

Friday threw his glass at the shadow man. The man ducked back into his car and the glass shattered on the windshield. Friday turned and walked away, the man's screams filling the streets. 

"You're going to pay for that you psychopath!" 

But traffic was backing up. More horns blared. More people yelled. The man cursed once more, honked, and drove off. 

Friday unlocked the door to McDaniel and Son’s Investigations Offices and took the stairs two at a time. He opened Wednesday’s safe, extracted the appointment book, and waited in his office for Rananda.