'Hey, Javi! Usual for my favourite cop?'

'Thanks Cecil.'

'Coming up.'

Esposito loosened his tie, fought the urge to thump his forehead against the polished oak bar of Cecil's Tavern. It was a friendly neighbourhood hang-out spot, the kind where the after-school crowd slugged down Coke and Fresca while studying, the girls could have a relaxing night out and the boys could go to shoot the shit over a pint and the game of the night. No one ever bothered with fake IDs or rough housing because they all knew the owner Cecil Marquis, a tough-faced Haitian, kept a Louisville slugger mounted behind the bar as a visual deterrent. Not that it was needed, though, as Cecil looked more like a spine-twister for the Mob than a bartender - he was roughly six-foot-five with hands the size of Esposito's head, skin the colour of good coffee and sharp black eagle eyes. The popular rumour was that no security cameras were needed at Cecil's because nothing happened without him seeing it first.

Cecil came back with a frosted pint of Coke and a roll of cutlery. 'Chilli fries are on their way. You missed one hell of a first period. Where you at?'

'Blind date from hell. You know the weather girl Rachel, on channel six?'

'The tiny one with the juicy, juicy mangoes in her dress?'

'Turns out she's just as blank as her weather screens. But I suppose I can't complain I mean, I asked my friend to fix me up, and in a weird way, he came through.'

Cecil laughed, tilted his head to size up a group of college kids who'd sat down at a booth. If they were old enough to drink, he was losing his touch, which meant the fake IDs would be confiscated and torched tonight. 'I'll be back in a moment.'

Esposito turned his attention to his Coke - it was juvenile but he couldn't help it. His grandmother, a Chicago native, had always served Coke whenever the hockey game was on and he'd carried on the tradition whenever the Black-hawks played. He watched as Toews elbowed his opponent into the boards, cheering quietly when he avoided the penalty. By the time his second period ended, the Hawks were up by two over the Rangers and he'd almost forgotten about the hell of Rachel Shepard.

He barely registered that someone had sat down two seats over from him until he heard her voice and immediately felt a warming sensation in his chest.

'Cecil, hit me and I don't mean a drink, I mean take that big ol' bat of yours and use my skull for target practice.'

Esposito turned, saw the woman pulled long fingers through her honey-caramel hair. The fact she was a white girl had him pausing a moment; the husky alto voice was one he'd have pegged immediately as Portuguese or Italian. She was a sturdy build, wearing jeans, sandals and a grey zipped-up hoodie, and dropped a black leather hand bag the size of Texas at her feet. He lifted an eyebrow when Cecil poured her a shot of tequila and she pounded it straight back with no lemon or salt; the other one went up with it when she nudge the shot glass toward him and he refilled it for her.

'You got boy problems or work problems tonight, cherie?'

'A little of both. The boy causing the problems is my boss and he's been an absolute asshole ever since that big-titted blonde in Publicity started banging him. Apparently it doesn't matter her cup-size is also the same digits as her IQ when she gives it away like M&M's on the fourth-floor photocopier.'

Before he could help himself, Esposito laughed, making the caramel-haired woman turn and slice him in two with what Esposito now saw were laser blue eyes. 'Something funny, Pablo?'

'I was just thinking how we both had nights ruined by vapidly stupid people.'

'Really.' She turned toward him, all innocent smiles. 'Do tell.'

Esposito got up, moved the one chair over. When he sat down, he caught a whiff of some vaguely European scent that made his blood swim a little faster. 'A friend of mine fixed me up with what had to be the dippiest woman I've ever met. Not only did she manage to broadly insult French cuisine and the entire Hispanic community of New York, but also called bullshit on the fashion sense of the NPYD Kevlar vests.'

'Five bucks says you broke the sound barrier getting the hell out of there.'

'I think I might have left a vapor-trail. I don't know, I didn't look back so I can't be sure. And to boot, I'm still hungry.'

She laughed, a low throaty musical sound. 'Okay, you win. That is much worse than your boss getting pissy about being sixteen words over limit on your latest article. Funny how he never had problems when I was two hundred over and he was a lonely pathetic gino whose only sexual relationship was with a washcloth and a stained Playboy photo of Vitani Boulder-Shaun.'

'You're a sassy one, aren't you?'

'Javi, your fries.' Cecil hated to interrupt between two of his favourite regulars, who had surprisingly never met, but he also knew to delay his favourite cop his chilli fries was to risk certain death. 'You want another fork?'

'I don't know, are you hungry...' Esposito trailed off, waited a beat. 'This is the part where you say your name.'

'Oh, sorry, I'm Meredeth. Meredeth Coleman.'

'Javier Esposito. Nice to meet you, Meredeth. Chilli fry?'


R&R&Enjoy.