“Thank you. And you don’t need the vest.” Her gaze lingered with mischief. “The fewer clothes you wear, the better. Now, take me inside this death trap and give me something to lie about.”
The teenage bouncer saw us coming and waved us in. Michelle crab-walked through the door like it was nothing, but once inside, things rapidly soured. Her nose wrinkled in horror.
“Oh, my god.” She pinched it closed. “What is that smell?”
“I warned you,” I said, my own eyes watering. My tongue recoiled, and for a few brutal seconds I fought to hold down mylicorice dinner. But I knew from experience that the stench would fade into the background, like radiation. Still there, just part of the ecosystem.
“Give it a second or two,” I said. “You’ll get used to it.”
“One. Two.” Michelle uncovered her nose, took a sniff, then clamped it again.
“You have to keep it open for my strategy to work,” I said. So helpful.
Like a champ, she uncovered her nose again, braced, and then inhaled Charlie’s final parting gift. I watched her slow, disgusted acceptance.
“There you go.” I nodded encouragingly.
The worst of it passed. Michelle frowned. “You better be worth it, Scott.”
“I usually am.” I didn’t bother qualifying it. “Best bad decision you’ll make all day.”
“McKallister! Where in the hell…” Allen stopped mid-sentence, his eyes on Michelle in her slip. “Oh, damn. Is this… gas station girl?”
Michelle’s brows lifted, a smile spreading as she pinned her stare on me. “Were you talking about me?”
“I might have mentioned you once,” I said, playing it cool.
“Once?” Allen lifted his hands, framing the moment. “I believe your exact words werethe one who got away.”
“That is wildly out of context,” I said, handing Wolfie off to Allen.
“You wantmeto string him up?” he asked.
“Dude, it’s not complicated—he has hooks. Just clip him on.”
Allen stood there with Wolfie, looking embarrassingly lost.
I exhaled. “Give me three minutes. I’ve gotta pay my respects.”
“Two. He’s already dead.”
Allen stalked off, and I turned back to Michelle.
“Who died?” she asked.
“Right. That part.” I took her arm and steered her toward Charlie’s shrine—a chalk outline shaped like the dead man himself redrawn before every show. Pay your respects to Chalk Line Charlie, then crank the amps. “That smell,” I added, “is the lingering legacy of Charlie Watkins.”
Michelle looked from me to the floor. “Wait—someone actually died here?”
“’Fraid so.”
“Did you kill him?”
I shot her a look. “Seriously?”
“Well, I don’t know!”
“No. Heart attack, stroke—something. Long story short, he wasn’t found for months. Kind of… melted into the floor. Left a stain. The owner tried to sell the place, but there were no takers.” I shrugged. “Go figure.”
