Wait at the local watering hole.
The bar wasn’t crowded when I stepped inside, but the kitchen was of the kind of clatter that promised a good chicken dinner special. I watched a curvy number at the stove work her magic on a pot of potatoes—boiling to be mashed—braising a tray full of birds, and dicing up celery and carrots for some kind of soup simmering on the right burner. The heat, even ten feet across the restaurant was intense, and the back door was open onto a yard. The overgrown green—one part vegetable garden, one part weed, with a few wildflowers tossed in for a slice of idyll on the streets of Brooklyn—was broken up by a little story-and-a-half house, which was starting to disappear against the darkening blue of a winter’s late afternoon. The buxom cook didn’t mind me, and I didn’t mind her as I nursed my Scotch. I wanted to ask her if she knew anything about this Ruby, her sister, or the red-headed husband, but I knew better than to interrupt a woman at her basting. I figured finishing my drink would be a good reason to get her attention, so I made steady progress towards the bottom of the glass.
The first woman came in with an armload of vegetables. She was plain, pretty, and waved hello to the kitchen. The kitchen waved back, but she was already out the door, the screen-door knocking in its frame.
I ordered a bowl of soup, and another Scotch. I was a few sips and spoonfuls into this round when a second woman entered the bar and made a beeline for the back. She had a loaf of bread under her arm, and a rope of red hair running down her back. It’s hard to choke on chicken broth, but for a minute I thought I was a goner. Hearing my conniption, she looked over and gasped.
“What are you doing here?”
I collected myself, and reached out for her wrist. “Someone’s been looking for you.” Before I could explain any further, the front door creaked open. The square of yellow streetlight was quickly blocked out by a frame big enough to fill the door. The big red headed husband stepped up to the woman’s side and set a giant hand on her shoulder.
“He’s bothering you Sarah?”
“Oh, no. It’s nothing. He just, he thought he knew me from somewhere.”
“Huh.” The man’s eyes slitted down to a glower, and I retreated back to my stool. The two of them continued to the back door, and out to the little house, now glowing in the twilight. I’d found my girl.
