Frankie doesn’t say anything when I get down to the car, just smirks at me and raises an eyebrow. I don’t bother to fill him in, giving a coy shrug as I move to the front seat and slide in.
We’re on the road quickly and Frankie fills the ride with chatter, telling me the basics about Lupa, which apparently is a very swankie little bar. I’ll be working the lunch shift today, obviously, but Frankie says I can expect it to be packed.
“It takes a while to get a reservation, apparently,” he says as we turn into the staff parking lot behind the tall building of which Lupa is a part.
“Well, if it’s so popular,” I murmur, frowning at him as we pull into a space. “Why haven’t I heard of it?”
“Because,” Frankie says, giving me a little grin, “it doesn’t precisely advertise itself. It’s not like
