Free Broken Shadows by AJ Larrieu Page A

Asian features wearing a black leather jacket and carrying a motorcycle helmet. He greeted Malik and set the helmet on the bar.
    “You must be my new bartender.” Tenor, California accent, very clear. He held out his hand.
    I almost took it. Then I remembered draining your boss’s supernatural powers was probably not the best way to make a first impression. I wasn’t going to bank on being temporarily safe to touch. “Uh...” I began, trying to come up with a quick way to explain.
    “Oh, right.” He let his hand fall. “I forgot. Simon Lee.”
    “Mina Tanner.”
    “So.” He straddled a stool and sat down. “Malik says you’re an accountant.”
    “I am. But the job market’s not exactly booming right now.”
    “So I hear. Well, if you want to pick up a handful of extra hours, you can help me out with this.” He reached down and hauled a dirty white binder up from somewhere below the bar. It bristled with unaligned printer paper and carbon copy receipts. He dropped it on the bar with a
thunk.
    I looked at it out of the corner of my eye. It was stained, and the cover still had the factory issue insert describing its virtues.
Two Inch, Three Ring, Sturdy Plastic.
    “Haven’t bothered keeping the books,” Simon said. “Not exactly your typical business, here.”
    Even my Uncle Lionel, who had been an almost criminally negligent bookkeeper, had done a better job than this. The thing looked as if it hadn’t been touched in years. I lifted one edge gingerly.
    “If you want me to make sense out of this,” I said, half-joking, “you aren’t paying me enough.” The speakeasy was strictly cash, and we recorded tabs on a white board behind the bar. The cash register was ancient, more like a glorified calculator with a drawer. It didn’t even print receipts. I knew everything had to be under the table, but I was pretty sure I could do better.
    Simon took me seriously. “Twice the minimum wage isn’t enough?”
    I saw an opening, a wider crack in the door out of Jackson’s awkward condo, and I took it. “If I’m going to be your illegal CPA, I should be paid like one.” I named an hourly rate at the low end of current scale—but much higher than what he paid for bartending.
    “Illegal CPAs get paid under the table. Strictly cash—tax free.” He fired back with a figure in the middle.
    “Strictly cash means no health insurance, no benefits. Not to mention the risk of arrest.” He laughed at that. I named another figure, halfway again toward my original.
    Simon rolled his beer bottle back and forth on the bar. There was a glint in his dark eyes, and the barest of smiles on his full lips. He was enjoying this. “Bar wages when you bartend, CPA wages when you work on the books.”
    “Done,” I said.
    “Good.” He picked up his helmet and walked to the back. “Might as well open up,” he called over his shoulder. “You’re both here, aren’t you?” His footsteps faded into the maze behind the bar.
    “Wow,” Malik said. “I’m sending you in next time I ask him for a raise.”
    “You’re just lucky I didn’t negotiate with you.”
    “Damn straight.” He wiped his hands on a bar towel. I gasped as every candle in the place ignited.
    “Whoa.” I stepped back. “Nice.” The gold glow of candlelight was softer than the electric lights we’d been using to prep. It was harder to make out some of the graffiti on the walls, but that only added to the mysterious feel of the place, as though you could keep looking for years and never discover every detail.
    “How did this even start?” I looked at the sketch of a butterfly on the wall beside the fold-out.
    “I don’t know. Before my time.”
    “I think that’s my favorite.” I pointed to the huge black-and-red angel above the bar.
    “Yeah. That’s been there the longest, I think.” He flipped a switch behind the bar. Nothing happened. I cocked an eyebrow at him.
    “Lights up the neon sparrow upstairs. Lets people know we’re