“I liked her before. I’ve liked her since middle school, when she had braces and frizzy hair and was whipping all our butts at algebra.”
I sigh and give him a sympathetic look. I’m going to take the job, of course, but I’m not thrilled about it. Not because I’m opposed to manipulating Bryn, but because I already know Murphy’s going to get trampled. And since Murphy’s a tech-club buddy of Sam’s, Sam is not going to be pleased if I help Bryn break Murphy’s heart.
“Honestly, Murphy, it would be easier if you just wanted the social status.”
“So you’ll do it?”
I nod reluctantly. “Yes. But you’ll probably regret it.”
“How much?”
“Depends on how much you like her.”
“No, I mean—”
I wave him to silence. “I know what you mean,” I say, calculating the fee in my head. What is the going rate for breaking somebody’s heart? This is one of those questions that make me reconsider my line of work.
“Five hundred. Cash. Plus the standard proviso.”
“What proviso?”
“You owe me a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“The kind where you don’t know what it is until I ask it,” I say, pausing at the door to the Ballou. “If it’s any comfort, it’s usually something pretty tame, and generally in your area of expertise.”
Murphy mulls over my terms for all of half a second before forking over the cash. I’d never pay that much for a school dance, but then most of the students at St. Aggie’s have money to burn. Even worse is the threat of an unspecified favor to be called in at a later date. But I’ve never had anyone protest. I guess that’s what comes of having unlimited access to whatever you want—when you need something you can’t get, you’re willing to put everything on the line. Maybe the opportunity to confess your undying love is worth it. I’ve never felt that way about anyone, so what do I know?
“When should I ask her?” he says.
“A week from tomorrow,” I answer as I open the door. “That gives us time to lay the groundwork, but still gives her a few days to buy a dress. Assuming she doesn’t have a closetful already.”
“What if she says no?”
“You should be more worried about her saying yes.”
He gives me a confused look.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say, stepping into the warm glow of the Ballou.
It takes me longer than most people to order coffee, because I’m chatting up the cashier to finagle a free drink. It’s not hard. Especially at a chain, which is more likely selling the coffee-shop experience than the coffee. But even indie-shop baristas are given a lot of leeway. All I have to do is determine what pushes the buttons of the person who pushes the buttons, and bingo—all the macchiatos I can drink. But it does take a little more time than fishing for cash.
“You new?” I ask as I step up to the counter.
I’m a regular at the Ballou, so I know all the baristas. I’ve never seen this guy before, so I already know he’s new. It doesn’t really matter whether you’re a regular or not, though—just have a spiel handy for either possibility.
“First day,” he says.
Stocky and bald and built like a linebacker, the forty-something man looks more like he should be on the set of an action flick than wearing a barista apron.
“Like it so far?”
“Manager’s nice enough.”
“I’ll have a triple soy caramel macchiato, please.” The please is essential when angling for a free drink. “My name is Julep,” I continue, offering a hand while flashing him a dimpled smile.
“Mike,” he says as he shakes my hand.
“I know all the baristas’ names,” I tell him. “Have to put something next to their numbers on my speed dial. You never know when you’re going to have a caffeine emergency.”
He laughs and starts making my drink without charging me first, as he can see that I’m winding up for a full-on conversation.
“Have you been in the barista game long?”
“My first time, actually,” he admits with a smile. On him, it looks like a piece of granite cracking in the middle. “Tell me if I mess it up and I’ll try again.”
“Oh, I’m easy,” I say. “As long as it’s got loads of caramel, I’m a happy camper. Besides, you look pretty confident back there. I’m sure you’ve got it down.”
Compliment, compliment, compliment. But keep it focused on the job at hand. Telling him he looks great in that shirt sounds like you’re flirting rather than impressed with his handiwork. Flirting has its place, for sure, but not in this situation. You need generosity, not a date.
“That’ll be four-fifty,” he says, putting the cup of caffeinated sugar rush on the counter in front of me.
I rummage around in my bag. “Oh, jeez. Looks like I forgot my wallet. I guess I should cancel the drink order.”
“Might as well take it since I already made it,” Mike says, pushing the drink toward me. “Call it practice.”
“You’re a gem, Mike. You have no idea how much I need this coffee.”
“I’ve been there,” he says, smiling and wiping his hands on a caramel-smudged cloth.
“Thanks. I won’t forget this!”
I take a seat on a ratty sofa that’s been through the Goodwill mill a time or two and then pull out my phone. I left the gun in my apartment last night. I can’t tell if it’s a clue, a warning, or a loaded (ha) attempt at offering protection. If it’s a clue or a warning, I can puzzle it out without the actual gun; if it’s protection, well, it’s not going to do me much good. I’ve never even seen a gun—loaded or not—in real life, let alone fired one. My dad’s a con artist, not a thug, and he always says: Your story is your best offense; your disguise is your best defense. Weapons will only get you killed.
A clue, then. But I have no idea about what, so I set aside the gun conundrum for now and pull out the note.
I type “Field of Miracles” into my search engine app. The first page of hits all seem to be related to Pisa. As in, the famous leaning tower. I click on a link titled “Why is the area behind the Tower of Pisa called the Field of Miracles?” The answer has something to do with the Italian poet Gabriele D’Annunzio. I’m pretty sure my dad is not suggesting I take up Tuscan poetry. So what else could Pisa mean? Maybe there’s a museum display somewhere in Chicago showcasing blunders of an architectural nature? Another search dead-ends that theory.
Maybe Italy is the key. I look up the number to my father’s favorite Italian restaurant and tap Send. But a five-minute conversation confirms that the restaurant manager hasn’t seen my dad in weeks, and there are no reservations for him on the books.
I disconnect, discouraged but far from throwing in the towel. I scan the Wikipedia entry for Pisa, but nothing grabs me. I change tack and look more into the building itself, the design, the flaw, the man who built it. But there’s nothing that leads me to my dad.
Problem is, my dad is a voracious reader. He’ll read anything from physics texts to pulp private-eye novels. And he never reads a book twice, because his mind’s like Alcatraz—once something’s in, it never gets out. All good con artists are like that. We need to be knowledgeable on a thousand different subjects in order to convince a thousand different marks of our authenticity. So my dad might have been reading up on some obscure piece of Pisa history and it didn’t occur to me to notice. Or Pisa could just be a red herring.