“Sometimes they’re one and the same.”
“Want to talk to him?”
“No. Last thing I want is to ruin the evening with more of Joel’s ridiculous stories. Oh, hey, guess what? A couple of my students convinced me to explore some abandoned barracks.”
Tariq frowned. “That was stupid.”
“The MPs who busted me thought so, too.”
He let out a bark of a laugh. “What did they say? I assume they let you go with a warning.”
“They did. They also suggested that a woman of my advanced age and academic credentials should know better.”
“As well you should.”
“You didn’t grow up in the barracks, though, right? I mean, families didn’t live there, did they?”
“No, I grew up in family housing on base. Small, cookie-cutter houses, nothing fancy but perfectly serviceable,” he said with a shrug. “Oh, before I forget, I bought you something.”
“Seriously? Tariq—”
“Just a little present. I know you like to take long walks alone, and now, apparently, you’re clambering through abandoned military housing.” He placed a small canister about the size of a large lipstick on the table, along with a carrying case and a wrist strap.
Harper picked up the canister and examined the label. “Pepper spray?”
“Couldn’t hurt. Actually, it can—be careful not to accidentally set it off, and whatever you do, make sure you’re upwind. It’s powerful stuff, even when it’s not pointed directly at you. Just being in the vicinity can be painful.”
“Gotcha. Nifty carrying case, too.”
“Only the best.”
“Um, thanks. I appreciate it,” she said as she tucked it into her purse.
“Did you see anything interesting in the ruins before you were nabbed by the authorities?”
“Some philosophical graffiti. A couple of Steinbeck quotes, which gives me hope for a literate future. Surprisingly few signs of alcohol or that sort of thing.”
“No ghosts?”
“Very funny.”
Tariq waved at a couple of friends, who stopped by the table to say hi on their way out. He introduced them to Harper, but did not ask them to stay. As they left, Harper spied a couple of her students walk in, and scrunched down in her seat slightly so as not to make eye contact.
“I get the feeling that if we sit here long enough,” Harper said, “we’ll meet with the entire population of Monterey.”
“It’s a small town,” said Tariq.
“So I’m learning.”
A dark-haired fortysomething woman approached thetable. Her name tag read “Xochitl,” which Harper knew, from her time with her ex-husband, meant “flower” in Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs.
“Good to see you,” said Tariq, standing to give her a kiss on the cheek. “How’s business?”
“It’s good,” she said with an easy smile. “Busy lately. And who’s this?”
“This is my friend Harper Grae. Harper’s a new professor of history at the college. And, Harper, Xochitl is the owner of this gin joint.”
“Actually, the bank owns most of it, but I own at least a couple of square feet—it’s a work in progress. And please call me Xochi.” She pronounced her name “Sho-shee.” “So, I hear you were asking about the name of the bar?”
