Free Three Minutes to Midnight by A. J Tata Page A

mentioned. He stopped in front of the mirror and studied himself. Disheveled dark blond hair, a week’s beard, blue eyes shot red from lack of sleep, and preppy clothes. He did a rapid change into dungarees, a worn rugby shirt, and work boots. He was looking like something halfway between where he was this morning and where he was an hour ago. He placed Nathan Daniels’s external drive in the safe in his floor but put the small flash drive in the pocket of his dungarees.
    The phone’s map function told him it was eighteen minutes to his destination. He walked down the steps into the barn, dodged a tractor in the darkened space, and climbed into his Cherokee. He quietly navigated his way past his landlords’ large home, its half-lidded, darkened windows showing no signs of life. Mahegan made every stoplight and pulled into the nearly empty parking lot of the pub with three minutes to spare. He noticed a familiar car from the crime scene, a sporty Nissan with a peace sign and a DFT2 sticker on the bumper, and figured it for Grace’s. While he recognized the COEXIST and PEACE bumper stickers, he had no idea what DFT2 stood for.
    Walking into the pub, he smelled stale beer and cooked meat. He saw the usual green shamrocks that came with every Irish pub he had ever frequented. To his three o’clock were restrooms, to his twelve o’clock was the bar, and to his nine o’clock were booths. He went in the nine o’clock direction and found Grace perched on a small stool inside a three-quarters closed-off booth, like an office cubicle, but with dark, lacquered wood.
    â€œHawthorne, my man.” Grace smiled and used quotation marks again.
    Mahegan entered the booth and sat opposite Grace, taking in her lightly scented perfume, something citrusy. They were contrasts. She had showered; he had not. When she changed clothes, she had geared up. He had geared down. She was hyped, and he was reserved. She had three empty beer bottles in front of her; he had none. Staring at her made Mahegan think of a recent friend from the Outer Banks, and for a moment he was fixated. His heart skipped a beat, and then he was back with Grace. He focused on the black top with thin straps hanging off her slender, tanned shoulders.
    â€œSpeechless?”
    â€œSomething like that,” he muttered.
    â€œI ordered you a big, manly beer,” she said as the waiter brought them two beers. His was something dark. Hers was amber. The waiter reminded them that last call would be in thirty minutes, prompting Grace to order two more in case the waiter was slow on his rounds.
    â€œThank you,” Mahegan said.
    â€œYou’re welcome. I was at that frigging crime scene all day, and you’re the most interesting person I’ve met recently. So, cheers.” She lifted her glass and clinked it with Mahegan’s while she stared him directly in the eyes. “Bad luck not to look in the eyes when you toast, you know.”
    â€œHeard that.”
    â€œYou talk like you text.”
    Mahegan gave a hint of a smile. “Let’s just say I’m still taking in the moment. Studying you. Like art.”
    â€œHmm. What do you see?”
    â€œYou’re not unlike me. I’m Native American. You’re Asian American. We both have a permanent tan, shall we say. You’re petite. I’m large. Point being, we’re both uniquely sized. You’re analytical. I think I am, too. And the area where we differ, quite frankly, is that you’re strikingly beautiful.”
    She winked. “Like I said, flattery will get you everywhere.”
    â€œEverywhere?”
    â€œWell, maybe not everywhere,” she whispered, looking away. Mahegan interpreted the change in diction as an indication that he had inadvertently touched on a sensitive area, her love life.
    â€œWhat makes you think Hawthorne is not legitimate?” He tried changing topics.
    â€œYou’re an Indian. Pardon my directness.