Dixon tapped Lila on the shoulder before she could follow. The tongueless man held up his notepad. A shamrock charm dangled from a silver bracelet at his wrist. Lila skimmed through the notes from earlier in his day, which was something of a guilty pleasure. Dixon never seemed to mind all that much unless he was in a hurry. Today’s page had started with a hastily scribbled eggs and two biscuits please and led into a boast about a blonde, mid-20s, nice ass, nice everything soon after. An all caps DON’T BE SAD. I’ll find another for you tonight poured into a note about Lila. Tristan’s getting her? Good.
Dixon tapped his smooth, aristocratic fingers in the middle of the page, and she found her place. Are you ok? Last night you limped. He cocked his head to the side, squinting through the mesh, watching her face.
Lila nearly shivered at the intrusion. His blue eyes always seemed to catch more than others, and she sometimes wondered if he knew who she was. “I’m fine, Dixon. It was just a few blisters. Thanks for asking.”
You lost me last night. He wrote quickly. Next time, you won’t.
“Oh yeah, what’s the score again?”
Dixon narrowed his eyes, bit the air in front of her hood with a twinkle in his eye, and returned to cover the dock door.
“Words, words, words,” she called out.
Dixon flipped her the bird, then rolled down the steel door behind him, returning to his chair outside.
“Are you done yet?” Tristan asked impatiently, leaning on the wall at the top of the stairs.
Lila took one last look around the shop, closed the door behind her, and followed him up to the fifth floor. Someone had strung fairy lights across the entire ceiling in the hallway, which ended in a window at the back of the building. The latch hadn’t been locked, or perhaps it was broken, for the window hung slightly out of true. Many things in the building seemed broken, little things like door knobs, the stair railing, the moldings. Lila supposed that Tristan’s people fixed things as they had time, but clearly, Tristan did not give them enough of it.
Perhaps she should speak to Shirley. The woman had proven time and time again that she knew how to handle her business. The whole shop might fall around their ears otherwise.
Lila sprinted forward to catch up.
Tristan ducked into an apartment at the end of the hall. Thick black drapes had been placed over the grand windows to trap in the heat, darkening the interior. He flipped on the lights, though it didn’t help much. The front room looked like a cocktail lounge for frugal moonshiners, with most of the kitchen ripped out and styled like a bar. Two wine barrels supported a darkly stained countertop, and four black barstools stretched along one side. Several tables and old black couches lined the sides of the room, couches that had once belonged in the lobby of the old hotel. The room smelled slightly of wine.
Lila pulled off her hood and tossed it on the counter. Pacing from one side of the room to other, she eyed everything like a cat might explore her new surroundings. “Nice apartment,” she said at last, falling into the couch.
“It’s not an apartment. It’s more of a meeting room, though I do sleep here.”
Lila peeked through the two doors in the back. A string of bottle caps hung in the window inside one bedroom, while the second was a world of color. Strips of flags hung from the walls as well as posters of bands and sales and festivals, only right side up half the time. They seemed to be collected for color only. Purple, blue, and green took center stage.
“Dixon, the resident magpie, sleeps in that one.”
Lila stifled a laugh and crossed her legs on an ottoman. It had been made from a smaller wine barrel, chopped in half and covered with a blue faux-leather cushion. Several like it had been placed around the room. Three coffee tables had been made in much the same way as the counters. The wine barrels had been cut a bit higher than the ottomans, then attached on either end to a stained slab of wood. “What’s with the barrels? Did you rob a winery?”
“No, we didn’t rob a winery,” he muttered.
“Then where did the barrels come from?”
“Here and there.” Tristan flipped on a heater abandoned in the middle of the room.
Lila could not find a label or a brand. It was likely that it had been etched into the top of the barrels and cut away by Tristan’s people or covered up. “Tell me more about this deal, then.”
Tristan opened a free-standing locker in the back of the room and withdrew a bottle of whiskey. “You want a drink?”
“No, I don’t want a drink. I don’t drink whiskey, and it’s far too early for it. I need to get home, Tristan. It’s almost nine. I’ll be missed.”
The whiskey disappeared back into the locker, and Tristan found a bottle of wine. Delicate calligraphy hovered over an orchid on the label.
La Sangre de las Flores.
“Y
ou sure?”
“Sangre?” Lila asked, impressed. “I suppose you liberated this as well?”
“I’m always liberating people and things that need it.” He poured the wine into two black coffee mugs adorned with the Jolly Roger. “A housewarming gift from Dixon. They suit me, don’t you think?”