Mr. Refrigerator looks at me for a long moment.
Then he snorts. “You’re a moron,” he states.
“You walk in here, looking like that, talking like that, asking strangers for… s**t, lady. You don’t even know what you’re asking for.” He picks up his drink and stands. “Go home. Before someone here takes your money and gives you nothing back but a problem.”
Then he thumps away. That’s it. Conversation over.
Unfortunately for me, he’s right. I don’t know what I’m doing. I thought I could just waltz in here and flash some cash and some lucky fellow would jump at the opportunity. That’s how it works in the movies, right?
But this isn’t a movie. This is a real bar full of real criminals who think I’m either a cop, a prostitute, or a moron. Possibly all three.
I take a sip of my martini. Good Go
