Free Monday's Lie by Jamie Mason Page A

“Hey.”
    â€œHi.” I tucked my bag under the table and worked a horrible metal scream out of getting the chair, and myself in it, wedged under the table. “Simon is on his way. Hope that’s okay. He was supposed to be out of town for something, but he got back early. It’s his birthday. I thought we could buy him dinner.”
    â€œYeah. Okay. That’s good.”
    Simon didn’t keep us waiting long.
    The waitress set down a basket of bread and a plate of dipping oil in the center of the table.
    Simon caught my eye as she moved out of our street view and back into the restaurant. “Are you seeing this?”
    â€œYep,” I answered.
    â€œSeeing what?” asked Patrick.
    â€œThose two people, across the street.” I nodded that way, but didn’t look over. “They’re trying to get into that apartment building.” I dragged a hunk of bread through the oil and kept my voice low to corral the information to just our table.
    â€œSo?” asked Patrick.
    â€œDo they look like they belong in that particular apartment building to you?” said Simon.
    I was glad Simon had gone there and not me.
    Patrick replied, a step friendlier to Simon than what I would likely have got, “That’s kind of harsh, don’t you think?”
    The young guy looked like a composite, like in one of those children’s books that flipped in thirds to show you a tyrannosaur swinging a bat in a baseball jersey and cowboy boots. Turn the top segment and T. rex was an otter or a duck in the same getup.
    The result here had a baseball theme, too, but only up top. The guy wore a billed cap with a team logo I didn’t recognize, and his too-large golf shirt had a vivid newness. A dark block of tattooed letters to the left of his Adam’s apple glowered against the prim baby blue of the collar, which sported a starchy perk that wouldn’t stand up to even one laundering. I looked for dangling tags, but didn’t find any. His pleated work pants weren’t his own. The cuffs backed up in a short fabric jam at his ankles, and the worn bends in the knees were clearly from a taller set of joints than this guy boasted. His ragged high-tops suited him just fine, though.
    The young girl with him was pale, with chapped lips and dark circles under her eyes, but at least her clothes were her own.
    The front entrance of the building was around the corner and had a desk just inside an elaborately etched glass door with something more than a doorman and less than a security guard manning it. The deep portico rested on granite-tiled columns that projected out into the sidewalk to serve as both decoration and as a notice that this was where the money went when it didn’t feel like driving to the suburbs for grass and fireflies.
    The side entry that faced our vantage point from the bistro’s outdoor dining tables had a call-up access intercom and a code entry panel for residents. This pair of ragged not-quite-twentysomethings had parked themselves against the wall, fifteen feet from this side door directly across from us.
    â€œMaybe they’re waiting for someone who lives there,” Patrick offered with a stubborn shrug. “Or maybe they live there.”
    â€œShe’s carrying stuff in a Walmart bag,” I said into my plate.
    Patrick’s annoyance dialed up a notch for me. “Even rich people go shopping, Dee. Sometimes even at Walmart.”
    â€œIt’s not a new bag.”
    The bottom of the girl’s plastic bag sagged and the sides bulged, but the total weight didn’t strain overmuch against the loop handles. Clothing, unfolded, was my guess. The logo and printed slogan were heat-faded as if the bags had been closed up in a hot car for a time.
    â€œAnd they’re both jumpy as hell,” Simon added.
    Their tandem stiffness thrummed a sour note over the entire corner. They were blaring their attempt at invisibility. The boy in the