The Search for Juno

Chapter XVII

"Do you think that's enough rice?" Conny asked.

    He and June were strolling through the streets of Eastern Portland, which were still slick and shiny from an earlier afternoon rain. The Willamette River was in view a bit ahead of them, a dark expanse of starlit water, the bridge stretching across it well-populated with evening traffic.

    "Lemme see," said June, nudging against Conny's shoulder to glance into the bag of Chinese takeout that dangled from his elbow. After a prolonged moment—throughout which Conny vehemently tried to ignore the brush of June's hair against his ear, and her rosy perfume in his nostrils—she moved away again. "Looks like enough to me. It's just for the three of us, right? Artemis won't want any."

    Conny grimaced, sweeping his peacoat closer around himself. "Maybe, but Alex eats like a fucking bear. He might see all that and consider it one healthy serving."

    June let out a high, squeaking cackle, one whose uncanny similarity to the Boss's made goosebumps rise along Conny's skin. Sure, June had sent a message back to him, but Conny knew Dolinski—it was his fourth year working under him, after all. No way any of this was going to be smoothed over so easily. When I call, he'd said the last time Conny saw him, I expect you come running.

    "You speak of your brother so fondly, mój skarb."

    "He's an idiot."

    "So are you."

    Conny scoffed. "Really, June—"

     "Still," she said, ignoring him, kicking at a pebble in her path with the toe of her combat boot. "He's done an awful lot for you, don't you think?"

    Conny slowed his pace. There was something in the rhythm of the words, the minuscule lift to her vibrant red brow as she said them, that he didn't like. "June."

    She looked at him squarely; a car drove by then, the glare of headlights carving her face into light and shadow. "I'm just saying, Conny. All of us know where you'd be if he hadn't stepped in."

    He stopped walking. "And where is that?" he asked, though he knew.

    "How do they say it?" June mused, letting out another hyena-like laugh. She grinned, leaning close, closer, so close that her sweet breath tickled his ear. "Oh, right. Sleeping with the fishes."

    It was just a mistake, Conny wanted to say, but stopped himself. Even he knew no mistake was ever just a mistake, at least not in the eyes of Bernard Dolinski.

    Instead, he swatted June's hand away as if it were a pesky mosquito. He picked up his pace again; the house was in view, warm yellow light seeping through the windows and out into the night. "Stop poking your nose in things that don't concern you, June," he snapped, gritting his teeth. "God, why did I even tell you—"

    "You loved me," she interrupted, her voice singsongy. "That's why you told me."

    "Well that," he said with a scowl, "was a very long time ago."

    He wanted her to be offended; he wanted to watch that brilliant little smile falter. But, he supposed just like June herself, it never did.    

    "Never long enough, though," said June as they reached the driveway. "Is it?"

The kitchen was barely in sight when Alex swept Conny and June behind a shadowy corner, holding a finger to his lips.

    Conny wrenched his arm free in annoyance. "Al, what are you—"

    He pressed a hand over Conny's mouth. Conny protested, trying to bite at Alex's hand, but then Alex pointed around the corner and that's when Conny saw him.