Free Baltimore Noir by Laura Lippman Page A

magnet.”
    “You’re here,” she says. She is not being mean.
    I go to take a leak in the industrial-strength urinals, where a lumpy tourist in an oversized Black Do sweatshirt says out of the corner of his mouth: “I don’t know why they put ice in the urinals, but it’s fun to make it melt.” One day there won’t be a place in Fell’s Point where you can melt ice—the bubble machine is gone, after all—and I appreciate these facts, but I need to think about changing jobs, think about, I don’t know, doing something. My fellow pisser introduces himself as Albert. I have never met an Albert, but he makes a perfect Albert and he seems perfectly happy melting ice. He’s back from the Duck Tour and visibly disappointed his group didn’t see a homicide.
    “Don’t feel bad. It’s just not a good time of year,” I say to Albert. “When the weather gets warmer you might get lucky. And if you can be exceptionally patient, you might see one of the city’s garbage skimmers scoop up a body with the rest of the floating trash.”
    Albert stops melting ice.
    “You mean those funny-looking boats with the conveyor belt and wings? They drag up bodies? What’s a good time to that?
    “Low tide is good, trash heads in at low tide.”
    Albert’s spirits improve, and I can’t help hoping that one day the Duck Tour won’t let him down. Listen, the man passionately wants a CSI: Baltimore; he believes that much in Charm City.
    Albert leaves Casey’s. I don’t.
    “So, Lori, you going to sell?”
    “Over my dead body,” she says, planting a Bass Ale for
    New Yorker cartoon coaster. She bought a dozen, mostly dog cartoons. She just has the one coaster out, reserved for me.
    “Pretty upscale, ma’am.”
    “Don’t tell anyone,” she says. “So, what are you going to do, Michael?”
    “Do?”
    “Yeah, what are you going to about your porno job? What are you going to do about Mel? Or that boyfriend? He knocked you on your ass, and he wants Casey’s, he wants my bar. What are you going to do? What are going to do? … Speak up, Michael.”
    I have to work Independence Day, but it will be my last day at The Love Joint. “Mr. Grimes, I resign my position effective immediately,” I announce, as he tapes a sign to the side of the cash register: “We cannot sell waterpipes anymore. You must ask for tobacco pipes.” Quitting is my strongest career decision yet; two years—where does the time go?—is long enough in the adult store business. A pristine shipment of new Pamela videos has put Grimes in a docile, nostalgic mood. He’s even adopted four white kittens from somewhere. He’s wearing his blue tennis shoes.
    “You talking to yourself again, son?” Grimes says.
    “I said I resign immediately.”
    “Then we should discuss your severance.”
    One of the white kittens tumbles into the Pamela Anderson video box display, detonating the man’s pyramid. It’s a staggering architectural loss, but Grimes just smiles, quite the foreign expression on him. The front door opens and it’s no customer. I don’t understand the presence of Carpenter Hands nor do I appreciate this unsettling interruption. Hadn’t I just officially resigned?
    “Hey, Mikey.”
    “It’s Michael.”
    “I’m sure it is,” Carpenter Hands says, moving behind the counter. “Mikey, you need to talk to your friend at Casey’s. You need, as an objective newsletter reporter, to explain to Ms. Montgomery the practical benefits of selling her bar. I’ve tried but, frankly, she does not trust me.”
    “Fuck yourself.”
    “Well-spoken, and it’s not an entirely unattractive suggestion,” he says. “But, as you well know, I’m fucking Mel.”
    Grimes burps a laugh (coughing something up), then starts to rebuild the Pamela pyramid to far greater heights. He says something about wanting to expand the operation, make a move to Thames Street.
    “You’re not going to interfere, are you, son?” Grimes asks.
    I scoop up ten copies of Rear