“I can’t describe it either. Seems like he had Fuckboy written all over him in 72 point font.”
“There’s something else there,” I said. “Some hidden depth. You know I can sniff out a story.”
“Girl. You need to stop. You’re getting your scoop sense mixed up with your man sense. Maybe you should stop looking at guys like they’re profile pieces, and start thinking about compatibility.”
“I’ve tried dating good guys,” I said. “I’m too much for them. I can’t actually trust myself in a relationship with a guy that wants to provide for me. It just feels gross. I mean. I’m an adult. I have a great career. I don’t need a guy for what he can do for me. I just need someone interesting, someone I can meet as an equal.”
“And I need a man with a big dick and a sadistic streak, but I’m better off without it,” Tamara said. “We’re both a couple of messes.”
“On the hunt—a story of two broken middle-aged women,” I said. “Maybe I can pitch that as an article.”
I laughed and kept laughing, and Tamara laughed, and soon we were talking about nothing and everything as we made our way across town.
Chapter 6
“Oh, look at this place,” Tamara said. “Creepsville.”
“Gabe was right. This looks sketch as fuck.” I looked around in wonder. This was a strip mall, but the architecture looked like it came straight from the Visigoth period. Cobblestone pathways here and there. Gabled roofs over buildings. At one edge of the parking lot, someone had parked an old-fashioned hearse. “This place is perfect. I should have—shit, I wish I’d thought to bring my camera. You got a travel charger? My phone’s almost dead. I need to charge it and take some pictures. Maybe come back with some professionals after I do a little poking around.”
“Here,” Tamara said, handing me the tail end of a cord. “I haven’t had lunch, by the way. You can buy.”
“Oh, I can, can I?” I asked, half-paying attention. “Any places around here that look appetizing?”
“No, but if I don’t get some food soon, I’m going to have to ask you to take The L back to your office. Because I’ll be dead.”
“Fair point.”
There was a rather disconcerting little greasy spoon between a dental office and a gym. Sal’s Salamis and ‘Za. The front windows had a fair patina of yellow grease from years and years of what I assumed was in-house deli meats and some tobacco usage.
“It looks so shitty from the outside. The food has to be amazing,” Tamara said.
“Interrogating a waiter is always a great place to start an investigation,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
A tiny bell chime greeted us, and the floors immediately fastened onto my shoes with a squelch. Old-world Italian orchestral music played from a distant, tinny speaker in the backroom. The overwhelming smell was, strangely, cumin—or something as aromatic as cumin. A few couples and strangers seemed to be seated at random. Everyone was hunched over, or occupied, or reading a newspaper.
Only two people looked at us when we entered—a man with skin that seemed to hang from his bones and a young woman with a unibrow. They immediately seemed to judge us and go straight back to their conversation. A couple of older men were playing a friendly game of checkers in one corner, their red baskets of fries sitting abandoned.
The air was off. I could feel that little tingle I got sometimes when a scoop was hovering around unexpectedly. There was something off about the energy. I had a few guesses—most of the food here seemed uneaten. That was a first strike. Second strike: people’s outfits were a little different. I wasn’t sure whether it was poverty or just an infectious rash of unfashionable choices.
An older woman in a long patterned dress swooped at us, her accent endearing and voice gustatory, and she seated us at a table near the front window. She handed us two vinyl menus, which Tamara unstuck with a meaningful look. She passed one to me and opened hers.
“Anything to drink?” the hostess asked.
“Maybe give us a second,” Tamara said.
“No problem.” The woman floated away.
Tamara flicked through her menu with ease. I stared hard at my menu, eyes skimming over the words. There didn’t seem to be a lot I was familiar with. I was used to Italian places back in Oklahoma—a lot of pasta, soup, and breadsticks. All carbs. But this menu. Well, I didn’t speak Italian, but there were pictures—everything just looked so weird.
“Sal’s Special Salami,” I said out loud. “Look at this menu, would you? Sashimi? Blood pudding? Sausage, rare. Have you ever heard of pork sausage served rare?”
“What page are you on?”
“Page 2. Look at this. Veal brains? Seriously?”
“I’m not seeing anything like that,” Tamara said.
“It’s right there,” I said, pointing.
