Free High-Caliber Concealer by Bethany Maines Page A

hall for at least another hour. A flash of headlights behind
her indicated that she’d taken too much time even by polite
Washington standards. She took a left and headed for the tavern
sign she could see cycling through a pattern of lights that formed
an arrow pointing at a dark building barely visible in the dusk of
day and smoke haze from the nearest forest fire. She could get a
drink and a burger and then go home to her grandmother, who was
almost certain to have pie.
    The bar was called the Kessel Run and it was
decorated in a plethora of twelfth man football flags and kitschy
alien crap.
    She thought about calling Donny.
Theoretically, he would also be in town somewhere. After their
brief rendezvous in LA, she figured they had a lot of catching up
to do. And she really did want to talk to him, but not on the
phone. Phones were never secure these days. Nikki scanned the
parking lot. There was only one car, a boring blue four-door. Nikki
shook her head. She couldn’t understand why anyone would drive a
car so devoid of personality. She couldn’t even tell what kind it
was—Oldsmobile? Buick? It was the equivalent of the high-school
wallflower, going out of its way to not be noticed. Volvos were
like the AV club, full of weird boxy angles that no one understood,
but were beloved by the in-crowd. Sports cars were the popular
kids. SUV’s and trucks were the jocks. This car was so blah, Nikki
wanted to key it just because it would be character building for
the car.
    “That car was me in high-school—totally
forgettable.” Shaking her head again, she went inside. Nikki pushed
aside a cardboard cutout of Harrison Ford, listing into the
doorway, and sat down at the bar. Aside from a trio sitting in the
back near the jukebox, she was the only one in the place.
    “What can I get you?” asked the bartender,
putting down the sports section and placing a menu in front of
her.
    Nikki considered ordering a glass of wine,
but thought that she already stood out enough as it was. She
glanced at the bar menu. It was heavy on the fried substances and
beer. “Um ... How about a gin and tonic and a,” She shifted a
grease spot on the menu with her thumb, “Wookie burger? You know,
as long as it’s ethically farmed Wookie.”
    “Curly fries or wedges?” asked the
bartender, ignoring her attempt at humor.
    “Has to be wedges, doesn’t it? Wedge to Red
Leader and all that?” The bartender stared at her blankly. “Curly
fries are fine,” she said.
    “Back in a second with your drink,” he said,
tucking the pencil behind his ear and then ambled toward the
kitchen. Nikki surveyed the bar in the reflection of the ornate
Budweiser mirror behind the taps. Grimy would have been doing the
place a kindness. Everything seemed slightly sticky, like the
concept of occasionally washing the bar rag that washed everything
else had never been properly explained to the employees. On the
other hand, if the three patrons at the back of the bar were
anything to be judged by, then this place was a fancy night out for
most of the clientele. The first man wore a grubby John Deere hat
without a trace of Ashton Kutcher irony, a scraggly goatee, and a
pair of Carhartt’s so filthy the only clean space was behind the
knees. Which she could see because he had one leg angled out from
his chair and he was bouncing it with the kind of nervous energy
usually seen on those with a severe caffeine addiction. The second
man was clearly in his Sunday best of acid-wash black jeans and a
blue button-up work shirt with a collar that must have been a hair
too tight, because he kept tugging at it after every sip of his
beer. How either of them had managed to scrape up an association
with the girl who perched uncomfortably on the third chair, her
arms crossed over a green cardigan and white blouse, was probably
one of the mysteries of the universe. She looked to be in her early
twenties, Hispanic, with thick, shoulder-length black hair, and big
dark eyes that