JENNA
“Are you Tabitha?” the perky woman in a stylish outfit asks.
Jenna hesitates, then remembers that she’s using her Tabitha credentials—and credit card—at Saks Fifth Avenue. She called ahead, asked for an appointment with a stylist.
“Nice to meet you,” Jenna says, shaking hands. The woman wears a name tag that says: BLUE.
“Your name’s ‘Blue’？ How pretty,” Jenna says.
“Do not get me started. My last name is Flowers. I’m Blue Flowers. My mom was into gardening.”
Jenna smiles.
Blue Flowers continues, “I’m lucky she wasn’t into astronomy. Probably would’ve named me Uranus.” She offers a bright smile and says, “Follow me.”
The store has a strange configuration, like it used to be something else, a three-story old-time bank. Nestled in the Friendship Heights neighborhood that straddles the D.C.-Maryland border, it’s the only high-end store in the area. The area used to be synonymous with luxury retail—the Mazza Gallerie shops, Neiman Marcus, Dior, Louis Vuitton—but somewhere along the way, there was an exodus. Except for Saks.
On the walk, Blue says, “Sounds like you’ve had a day. In town for a big party in Kalorama and the airline lost all your luggage, I mean, girl…”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Well, don’t worry, you’re going to be the talk of that party when I’m done with you.”
And for the next two hours, Jenna is Vivian Ward in Pretty Woman. Trying on expensive dresses, having drinks brought to her, flattery abounding.
Blue Flowers is right. Jenna, or Tabitha, looks stunning in the Elie Saab bead-embellished silk gown, the Rene Caovilla satin heels, and the Saint Laurent leather clutch.
At the register, Jenna tries not to wince at the $8,498.32 price tag. The cards have high limits.
And it’s no time to be frugal. As Sabine taught her all those years ago: Beauty is a skeleton key that opens almost any door. Don’t take my word for it. Studies show beautiful people make more money than smarter people, get better jobs and promotions than more qualified people, and get lighter sentences than other criminals. Throw in some confidence and manners and there’s no place you can’t go—invited or not.
Tonight, Jenna will test that theory on Sabine herself.
With the Saks garment bag hanging in the rental car, Jenna drives up Wisconsin and into Bethesda. There she stops at Lululemon, where she buys some athletic wear. Black leggings, black tank, and black hooded jacket. A cat burglar couldn’t find a better outfit to disappear into the night.
She then walks over to Bethesda Sports on Elm and buys some running shoes. She’s been there many times （Willow runs track）。 The manager is a notorious crank, but today he’s distracted by his phone.
She’s ready now. She’ll go back to the District Inn, take an afternoon nap, get her hair and makeup done at Inari, then get dressed for what promises to be an interesting night out.
CHAPTER THIRTY
NICO
By early afternoon, Nico arrives at O’Leary’s Tavern on Erie Avenue in Nicetown, Philadelphia. The bartender, a beefy man in his forties with dark crescents under his eyes, and undoubtedly a baseball bat under the counter, is in deep conversation with a couple of younger guys at the bar. They appear to be discussing cancel culture.
“Your generation is so sensitive,” the barman says. “Someone says anything that offends you, and you’ve got to go to your safe space; then all these keyboard twits, overeducated white ladies, the lot of ’em, try to get you fired from your job.”
The young guys—a stylishly dressed Black man and a white guy with orange stubble that looks like a chin strap—exchange a glance. It’s unclear to Nico if they work for O’Leary or are customers.
“It’s a little more complicated,” the stylish guy says. He obviously disagrees with the bartender, but his tone is cautious, respectful. Yeah, these are O’Leary’s boys.
The bartender goes on with his monologue. “Everybody’s talking about discrimination, but they never mention the Irish and how we get treated.” The guy notices Nico, narrows his eyes, but finishes the thought. “If you miss a day at work ’cause you’re hungover they call it the Irish Flu. If you put booze in your coffee, it’s an Irish Coffee. You have kids close in age, it’s Irish Twins. Can you imagine if we said stuff like that for your people?” He looks at the customers, who both appear to be suppressing eye rolls.
“Don’t forget the Irish Goodbye,” Nico chimes in, referring to the practice of slipping out of a party without saying goodbye, something Nico’s mastered himself.
The bartender eyes Nico. “What can I get you, friend?”
“I was hoping to talk with Shane. He used to take meetings on Fridays.” Nico points to the back room.
Shane O’Leary, having watched The Godfather too many times, scheduled Fridays to deal with neighborhood or internal organizational problems. Late with payments? Get in line. Trouble with somebody in the neighborhood? Take a number. Don Corleone he’s not, but there’s an efficiency about his operation.
The bartender regards Nico like he recognizes him but isn’t sure.
“Who do I say is asking?”
“Nico Adakai.”
“Adakai? Why do I know that name?”
Nico shrugs. Back in the day, Nico’s father worked for Shane O’Leary’s father running book, but Nico wasn’t going to get into it with this buffoon. The Adakai name may also be familiar because Nico’s father disappeared under mysterious circumstances when Nico was a kid. Rumors were he got sideways with O’Leary Sr., which didn’t lend itself to an extended life span.
“Interesting name,” the bartender says, not taking the hint. “What is that, Mexican or something?”
Nico’s mother told him his grandfather was Native American, but his father didn’t give one shit about his ancestry, so who knows? Besides, that’s what everybody seems to tell their kids. You’ve got Native American blood. Nico knows nothing of Native Americans other than that they got royally fucked.
He shrugs again.
The bartender frowns, like he doesn’t like Nico’s attitude, but he nods at the redheaded guy with the stupid beard, who saunters off to the back room.
The barkeep starts up about cancel culture again, and Nico escapes being drawn in to the conversation as the redheaded guy reemerges and gestures for Nico to come back.
Straight out of a B movie, O’Leary sits at a table draped in white linen eating his lunch—
shepherd’s pie by the looks of it, as if to complete the cliché—and there’s a line ahead of Nico. The man standing at the table in front of O’Leary is thanking him profusely and O’Leary’s looking bored and waving him away. One of the toughs sitting on stools nearby shows the guy out. The next guy approaches.
He’s wearing a leather jacket and looks like one of the toughs himself.
“You know why you’re here?” O’Leary asks him. The kid is in his twenties and has large biceps, a gold chain hanging outside his tight T-shirt.
“My dad said you want to see me about the weeklies.”