In the Belly of the Beast

25

The info she uncovered was surprising. He seemed to be a hardworking cop who had paid his dues, working up from patrol to detective. He'd been on the force for fourteen years.

"Hey, Fontaine," the silky baritone on her answering machine at home intoned, "it's Traynor.

Know your phone's unlisted, but nothing a little detective work won't uncover. Bad cop joke. Anyway, looks like the powers that be have decided we should play alongside each other in the same sandbox.

Seriously, I thought it might be a good idea to get together on neutral territory. Meet face to face, and maybe get acquainted a little better. I know it's not official until Monday, but if you have the time, stop by O'Shea's tonight around nine.

I hear it's your favorite hangout. Oh, by the way, the brews are on me."

So, he'd been checking her out as well.

Fair enough, she thought. She was unsure about the meeting though. He was right about O'Shea's being her favorite haunt. It was the place she dropped in to unwind, to begin separating her work self from her time-off self.

The bar was special, her oasis, and she wasn't sure she wanted to bring work there.

She decided at the last minute to go.

She spotted him immediately.

Holy Mary, no human had a right to look that good, she thought.

The green-eyed monster reared its ugly head inside her the minute she entered the bar, and she swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat. The guy was beautiful. Every woman in the place paled beside this man.

No photo could capture his special quality. He took her breath away. He filled the room. There was a relaxed easiness about him as he shared a joke with the waitress who was eyeing him like a shark zeroing in on for the kill.

His clothes were casual, but the way he held his body lent them an air of refinement. His thick hair brushed the edge of his collar, and Abby noticed that its rich blackness threw off blue highlights of iridescent sparkles in the light.

He smiled, dazzling all with his white, perfect teeth.

Here was a mortal kissed with favor by the gods.

Suddenly, she felt embarrassed, tattered and shabby.

While deciding whether or not to show up, she had determined not to be intimidated by his looks. She would not let him think she was self-conscious and had fussed over her appearance just for his sake.

First impressions were important, but Abby wanted Traynor to see her as a partner, as an equal. For this reason, she chose an oversized sweatshirt and jeans as the appropriate outfit to meet him. Except when working, these were the clothes she felt most comfortable wearing.

There would be no frills, no makeup, just herself.

She had done nothing to tame her unruly auburn locks, and the night's humidity seemed to have frizzed them out to five times their normal size. Now, she regretted her decision not to appear well groomed and saw the apparent childishness behind it.

He was a yacht, sleek and impressive, about to be greeted by a rusting, leaky tugboat.

She was about to turn and leave, when she heard him call her name. Somehow, he'd picked her out of a room full of strangers. His eyes lit with a degree of warmth that made her forget her clothes, her mat of wild hair, her plain-Jane frumpiness.

"You gotta be Fontaine," he'd yelled across the bar.

She moved toward his table.

"I've must say, I'm surprised. I've been enjoying myself here. This is quite a place. Come, have a seat."

The waitress gave her a hard, glaring look, and Abby decided then and there to order bottled beer. No telling what extras she'd have in her glass in retaliation for encroaching upon this shark's territory.

They recited their orders, and the waitress reluctantly left to fill them.

"So, Fontaine, dumpy, but like I said, not so bad."

Abby looked bewildered. A flash of anger flickered inside her.

Was he making a crack about her looks?

"O'Shea's," he said. "I like it. Little worn around the edges, but it has lots of character.

Not like those glossy spots in L.A. You know what I mean, where everything is cookie-cutter perfect, unblemished, unreal.

Can't stand that. The really good things in life should have that lived in look. Know what I mean?"

She said nothing so he continued.

"Ever noticed how some of the grittiest holes in the wall have the best food. Only the locals know about these places. Usually off the beaten path. Best kept secrets in town.

Course, I guess it's cause the griddle's never sparkling clean. But that short order cook, you know the one I'm talking about, in yesterday's not-so-fresh-not-so-white tee, can work magic with his spatula. Doesn't matter what you order. He throws it on his grill and all those built up leftover flavors caramelize and blend together. I'm tellin' ya, a gourmet's dream.

Just kidding."

Abby felt her anger melt.

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Too much clean tastes like disinfectant."

"Exactly."

The beers came. Along with nuts and napkins, all placed on Traynor's side of the table.

He handed Abby her beer.

"Cheers," he said, clinking his bottle against hers.

In spite of herself, Abby felt a thaw inside.

He'd often told her they were like an old, married couple, and in many ways, they were. At times, they were able to anticipate the other's moves, allowing ample cover in the hottest situations.