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150
a moment before I realized that he was the Stockmann
store detective who had been in the electronics department
when I’d confronted the junkie. On the job, the guy didn’t
wear glasses and dressed in bargain-basement jeans that
bagged at the knees and butt and a sweatshirt with tattered
sleeves. Finer ladies averted their eyes from him. The man’s
civilian clothes were more stylish, and I noticed that the
young women sitting at the table next to him were trying
their best to attract his attention. He wore no wedding
band, but I knew from experience how easy that was to
remove.
I shifted my position at the bar counter just enough to be
able to watch the women’s attention-drawing rituals
without turning. The man did not appear interested in
them. He was nice-looking in a safe, ordinary way, and men
like that did not turn me on. I didn’t look for bums, either,
and had zero interest in wasting time on whiners, for I was
not the sympathetic sort.
To the pair’s disappointment, the store detective folded the
paper, in which he had already finished the crossword, and
rose. He had to pass me on his way to the men’s room. He
smelled of musk and lemon, a pleasant scent. I noticed it
again when he walked past me to the bar and ordered an-
other Christmas ale. He sat at the bar to drink it. Since he
had evidently not come to the bar in search of female
company, I stayed silent. I ordered another tequila.