I'd been in worse places than the Frisky Missy, but not many that smelled quite this much like spilled beer and bad decisions. I'd come here looking for a man named Alex — the same Alex who'd walked out of my casino that afternoon with a bag full of tokens and ninety thousand dollars of my money in an envelope he thought he'd earned fair and square. Markus had given me the address. I hadn't expected the place to be this loud, or this full, on a weeknight.
A waitress in a maid's costume intercepted me before I made it three steps inside. "Hey, honey," she said, all syrup and customer-service warmth, "tables are open if you need one, or there's room at the bar."
"Thank you," I said, the kind of fake smile I'd perfected over twenty-six years of being told to smile more.
I found a table near the back, close enough to the stage to watch the band without committing to actually listening to them, and took my time scanning the room. Old photographs lined the walls — some current, some decades out of date, the kind of mismatched decor every dive bar accumulates without anyone deciding to. The bar itself looked like a crowd waiting for a ride at a fair, everyone leaning in, laughing too hard at things that probably weren't that funny.
Not bad, I thought. I should come somewhere like this more often, when I have a life that allows for it.
Before I could enjoy the thought for more than a second, four women descended on my table like they'd been circling.
"Hey, hottie," one of them said, the kind of opener that made my patience evaporate instantly.
"Are you here alone?" another asked, her voice pitched somewhere near a dog whistle.
I looked them over — blonde, blonde, blonde, blonde, identical except for height, like a matched set someone had ordered off a catalog. "I am," I said, flat enough that it should have ended the conversation right there. "Waiting for my lover, actually." A lie, but an efficient one.
"Oh, you are?" the drunkest of them slurred, taking another pull from her bottle.
"Want us to wait with you? So you're not alone," the last one offered, sounding bored enough that I doubted she cared either way.
"I'm good," I said, letting my voice drop into the register I usually reserved for difficult negotiations. "Have a nice night."
They drifted off eventually, and I went back to scanning the room for the man I'd actually come to find. Markus said he worked here. I saw a bartender who clearly wasn't him, and half a dozen waitresses in matching maid uniforms, and none of them matched the face from the casino surveillance footage.
Then one of those waitresses turned around, and I realized I'd been staring at exactly the person I was looking for without recognizing him — because nobody had mentioned the part where Alex apparently moonlighted in heels and a skirt.
"May I ask why you're staring at me," I said, when he finally noticed.
"I'm sorry," he said, blushing immediately, beautifully, in a way that made the whole trip already feel worth it. "I've just never seen you here before."
"First time," I said, and meant it as more than small talk. First time seeing the casino thief up close, dressed like this, blushing like he had no idea who he'd robbed that afternoon.
"Can I get you something to drink, sir?" he asked, and I watched him do the same thing I'd done a hundred times in business meetings — scanning every detail of the person across from him, trying to read what he was dealing with.
"So you're a waiter," I said, mostly to see what he'd do with the framing.
"I am," he said, and something in his posture eased slightly.
"You're a little different from the others." True, and not just because of the obvious. There was something underneath the customer-service smile that didn't quite match the costume — something sharper, more guarded.
"What do you mean by that," he said, laughing in a way that sounded like deflection more than amusement.
"Nothing," I said, shaking my head. There'd be time to figure him out later. "I'll have a beer. Whatever works."
"Got it. Be right back," he said, and walked off toward the bar.
I watched him the entire way, and I didn't bother pretending otherwise. The way he carried himself reminded me of the man on the surveillance footage from that afternoon — nervous, quick on his feet, always glancing sideways like he expected to get caught at something. Same tells. Same blush, even, when he thought no one was paying close enough attention.
Thirty minutes later, when he finally came back with my drink, I'd had more than enough time to decide what I wanted to do with this information.