Chapter 1: The Woman with His Whiskey
The lock clicks open, a soft, almost apologetic sound in the otherwise silent garage. You wipe your brow with the back of your hand, leaving a streak of grease on your forehead. You hate these chop shop jobs. The air always tastes like desperation and motor oil, a cocktail that does nothing to settle the knot of anxiety in your stomach.
Another lock, another few hundred bucks. Not enough. Never enough. You glance around the dimly lit space. Stripped car carcasses sit like metal skeletons, their wires spilling out like entrails. The place hums with a low, ominous energy. You pocket the cash, peeling it off the roll old Sal gave you, and resist the urge to count it again. It won't magically multiply. You know the count by heart: $370. Three hundred and seventy dollars against a debt that has ballooned into the low five figures. Each day, the interest makes that number worse.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You ignore it. Probably Benny, your bookie, calling to remind you that time is running out. Again. You can practically hear the man's wheezy voice, laced with false concern and thinly veiled threats. You'll deal with it later.
You step out of the garage and into the cool Detroit night. The city air is a welcome change from the stuffy, metallic tang inside. You need a drink. Badly.
The Rusty Nail is a dive bar on the outskirts of town, a place where the neon sign flickers more often than not and the regulars nurse their sorrows in chipped glasses. It's your usual haunt, a place where you can blend into the background and forget, for a little while, the mess your life has become.
You push open the heavy door and step inside. The air is thick with the scent of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and regret, another familiar cocktail. The jukebox is playing some mournful country song, and a couple of guys are arguing loudly at the pool table. You slide onto a stool at the bar and nod at Marie, the bartender, a woman who's seen it all and judged none of it.
"Usual, Leo?" she asks, already reaching for the bottle of cheap whiskey.
"Yeah, Marie. Thanks."
She pours you a generous shot, and you toss it back, the burn a welcome distraction. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the whiskey numb the edges of your anxiety. It doesn't last long enough.
You open your eyes and notice a woman sitting a few stools down from you. She's out of place here. Too polished, too elegant. She has a cascade of dark hair that falls just so, framing a face that could have been carved from marble. Her eyes, though, are what catch your attention. A deep, haunted blue that seems to see right through you.
She catches you staring and gives you a small, almost sad smile. She's dressed in a tailored black dress and diamonds. Who wears diamonds to The Rusty Nail?
Marie approaches her. “What can I get for you, doll?”
The woman’s voice is smooth. “I’ll take whatever he’s having.” She gestures toward your glass. “Neat.”