The Best American Mystery Stories 2008 by George Pelecanos; Otto Penzler

Author:George Pelecanos; Otto Penzler [Penzler, George Pelecanos; Otto]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

THISBE NISSEN

Win’s Girl

FROM The Cincinnati Review

I’m not ever going to be Win Cryer’s girl—still, I’m here at the Quarry Bar to hear him play every Friday, up front, watching him like I am someone Win Cryer loves. I get off work at the slaughterhouse at five, and that’s enough time to drive home, have a shower, heat something for dinner, open the mail, watch a little TV, and make it to the Quarry to get my table near the stage. By nine the bar’s filling up, most folks not even changed from their work clothes—some guys from the cheese factory shooting pool in their coveralls, a young, pimply drunk zipped into his Jiffy Lube jacket hunched over a tall glass of bourbon. Lonny Bondorf—Officer Bondorf—walks toward my table like he’s ready to arrest me.

I take out a cigarette, and Lonny’s there with a lighter so fast he nearly burns my nose off. “Here for Win’s show?” he asks.

“Always,” I say.

“You think Win knows you? Think he remembers you every week?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“So how’re things?” Lonny is a thirty-eight-year-old bachelor who’d like not to be. You could probably say nearly the same about me: over forty, not a lot of prospects.

“My money from the accident just came through,” I say. Lonny was first on the scene that night they pulled me from my truck, blood running out my knees like garden spigots. I was on my way home from work, stopped at a light waiting for it to go green, when a drunk from Fairfield jumped the divider, plowed me head on. He didn’t die either, which I’m glad about.

“You should get something nice for yourself, Doreen,” Lonny says.

“I’m thinking I’m going to have the house rewired,” I tell him.

“Well, that’s fun,” Lonny chides.

“Funner than frying in some electrical fire. You know how overdue that house is for an upgrade?”

“So you got someone to do it already?” Lonny asks.

“Rudy Hatch had a look at it a while back. Since he moved I’ve been nervous about finding someone else, getting bids.”

“My sister-in-law had some work done on her fuse box couple months ago,” Lonny says. “Some guy drives in from Solon. Said he did a good job.”

“You remember the name?”

“Duane.” He pauses. “Duane. . .Miller maybe?”

“Duane Miller,” I repeat. “I’ll look him up.”

Onstage, Win turns to his bassist. Then a drumbeat starts in, and I’m recognizing the intro of one of my favorites. And for a second, as Win turns back to the audience, I think maybe he’s playing it for me, because even if that smile tucked under the shadow of his hat brim is for everyone out here, I’m out here too.

Monday on my lunch break, I call Duane Miller, who sounds like the nicest guy in the world, but he’s over his head in work and doesn’t foresee an end anytime soon.

“Shoot,” I tell him. “I really want to get this done. . .”

“Hey,” he says, “I know someone might be able to fit you in.

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