5.
 Next day, Jack skipped lunch for a recon mission. The doorbell tinkled as he entered a hushed atmosphere filled with rare old print books, racks of paperbacks, the latest digital gadgets, and a few customers. He stood in Literary Classics, and hefted James Joyce’s Ulysses, in case he needed props for conversation.
Book Woman recognized him. “Finding what you need?”
“Oh yes,” Jack said, emphatically grinning.
“Thanks for coming in. We remodeled.” No sling today—her left hand was thickly bandaged in fresh, clean white gauze, with a bow over the thumb joint. Her arm was in a navy-blue pressure bandage from hand to above the elbow. “Do you like the color scheme?”
“Nice.” The walls were papered in wheat and autumn colors, and hung with competent watercolors. “Your paintings?”
“Some. It’s cheaper than buying them.”
“You are talented.”
Several women from Jack’s work stood outside the window, beaming at him. When Book Woman saw them, they slowly floated away toward the food court. One waved.
“Friends?”
“My cheering section.”
She grinned. “A man with a female cheering section is either a huge flirt, or a man women approve of. Which are you, Mr.—?”
“Special Agent Jack Martin. Uncle Sam has assigned these ladies to shadow me everywhere.”
“You work for Uncle Sam?” She glanced toward the DVA office building. “I see haircuts coming and going. Got a bulge in your suit?”
“You innocently ask about my bulge.” He raised his coat flap, revealing a dangling Glock and a gold badge.
She blushed and looked away, under long lashes, more tactically than demurely. Her mouth was wry, a faintest shade of glossy pink. “Well, Mr. Martin, if you ever need to clap me in irons, you’ll know where to find me.”
“As a suspect, what would your name be?”
“Rose Fennel. I must look terribly suspicious.”
“A shady character if I ever saw one. You cannot hide your guilt and shame from me. Isn’t fennel an herb?”
“That’s right. Good thing I don’t have a brother named Herb, huh?”
“Herb Fennel, Inc. That would be funny. Is Michael your brother?”
She walked away, thus changing the subject. Her words trailed. “Come in again whenever you like.”
Jack walked out, puzzled, hoping he had not offended. Thankfully, nobody from work was at the food court to interrogate him about Book Woman.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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