Harry sat on one of the two facing built-in benches that ran along the van’s side, singing, “Don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky / Stormy weather / Since my gal and I ain’t together / Keeps raining all the time…”
Friday watched the van drive away, its brake lights blinking once before the van turned the corner at the end of the block.
Her tears made it hard for her to fit the key in her car door. Rossiter came up beside her, took the key, unlocked the door, and handed the key back.
“Let me buy you a drink,” Rossiter said.
Twenty minutes later, Friday sat in a booth across from Rossiter. A candle flickered in a red-tinted dimpled-glass hurricane lamp.
“Harry will be just like everyone else,” Friday said. “That’s what Bender said. Do you want Harry to be just like everyone else?”
“The world is crappy,” Rossiter said.
“But Harry turns the crap into adventure,” Friday said. “Romance.”
Friday finished her drink, scotch, Glenmorangie. Gestured to the waitress for a refill.
“Crazy,” Friday said. She shrugged. “Maybe he is.”
The waitress brought Friday’s refill.
Rossiter repeated, “The world is crappy.”
Friday took a thoughtful sip of her drink.
“But Harry’s in shape,” Friday said. “How the hell could Cotton knock him out?”
“Don’t start,” Rossiter said.
“Unless—” Friday began.
“What?” Rossiter said. “There was a body? A gun in the wall safe? Cotton’s a killer? Nothing is what it seems? This is what happens when you hang out too much with Harry.”
“It does,” Friday agreed. “If you’re lucky.”