Things We Do in the Dark(32)

The woman frowns again. “Her stage name was Ruby.”

Jesus Christ. Joey had used her mother’s name to dance here? Dr. Phil would have a field day with that one.

“She’s the one who died in the fire, right?” the woman asks.

Drew nods. “I was her roommate. And her best friend.”

“Come closer so I can see you better.”

As he approaches the bar, he can see that she’s not as young as he initially thought. He had guessed maybe early fifties, but up close, she looks to be in her mid-sixties, platinum hair, slim but busty, with freckled skin that’s seen a bit too much sun. He puts a business card on the counter and gives her a moment to read it.

She holds the card at arm’s length, squinting at the small print. Her nails and lips are both painted the same vibrant red as her pantsuit. “Drew Malcolm of … The Things We Do in the Dark podcast. Sounds ominous.”

Drew offers her his hand. “I’m sorry if I scared you, ma’am. The front door was unlocked.”

“Two things.” Her grip is firm to match her voice. “One, we’ve been having issues with the lock not catching, so that’s not your fault. And two, never call me ma’am. It hurts my feelings.”

“Then I apologize for that, too.” Drew smiles. “What do I call you?”

“You can call me what everybody else does.” She returns the smile. “Cherry.”

“Cherry?” Drew is delighted. “As in, Cherry of the Golden Cherry?”

“The one and only,” she says. “And if you’re here to talk about Ruby, we’re going to need a drink. Have a seat. I’ll make you the best old-fashioned you’ve ever had.”

Cherry places two cocktail glasses on the bar as Drew slides onto a stool. He watches as she drops a cube of sugar into each, then adds a dash of bitters and a tiny bit of water. She muddles the sugar until it dissolves, then adds ice cubes, a generous pour of rye, and two maraschino cherries per glass. It seems like a lot of work for one drink. But she’s not done.

She plucks an orange out of the fridge behind her and deftly shaves off a thin section of peel. Using a lighter, she burns the rind for about five seconds while squeezing it, which creates a fairly decent flame. Then she rubs the burnt peel around the rim of the glass and drops that in, too. She slides his drink over. The aroma is out of this world, a citrusy, smoky caramel.

“Taste it,” Cherry says. “And then tell me it’s the best old-fashioned you’ve ever had.”

Drew takes a sip. “It’s the best cocktail I’ve ever had.”

She lifts her glass. “To Ruby.”

Fuck, no. “To Joey.”

They clink, and they drink.

Somewhere nearby, a phone vibrates. Drew pats his pocket, but it’s not his. He watches as Cherry reaches into her ample cleavage and pulls out a small gold iPhone.

“Yeah, I know what you’re thinking,” Cherry says, catching his expression. “I’m not supposed to keep my phone in my bra because it might cause cancer, blah blah blah. But trust me, honey, there’s so much silicone in here, ain’t no room for anything else to grow.”

Drew laughs. That wasn’t what he was thinking. At all.

“I’m having an issue with a delivery.” She frowns at her screen. “This might take a few minutes. You okay to wait?”

Drew lifts his glass again. “I’m good.”

But he isn’t good. Not really.

Everything here at the Cherry reminds him of Joey. Because before today, the only time he’d ever been in here was the night Joey died. It was New Year’s Eve, in the hours before 1998 turned into 1999.

It was also the night of his stupid bachelor party. Nearly two decades later, it remains the worst night of his life. Nothing before, or after, has even come close.



* * *



A New Year’s Day wedding wouldn’t have been Drew’s choice, but there aren’t a lot of options when it’s a shotgun wedding. Drew was back in Toronto after a year in Vancouver, and though he had explicitly said he had no desire for a bachelor party, his friends surprised him with one anyway. They booked a VIP table at the Golden Cherry, which turned out to be a hell of a way to discover that Joey was a stripper.

Had it been any other female friend, it might have been comedy fodder, a funny bachelor party story that would be told and retold for years to come. But it was Joey. There she was, one of maybe fifty girls working at the Cherry on New Year’s Eve, wearing high heels and her necklace and nothing else. There was nothing funny about it, and when Drew saw her, it was all he could do not to rip her out of his buddy’s lap and carry her the hell out of there.

But he didn’t. He’d pretended not to know her, and she had done the same. It wasn’t entirely untrue. The Joey he knew was shy and modest, who shrank if people looked at her too long. This Joey was a confident, alluring stranger with false eyelashes, red lips, and a brand-new tattoo inked across her thigh.

It was a butterfly. A symbol of transformation. Was that what this was?

Maybe he’d know the answer if he and Simone hadn’t lost touch with her not long after they moved to the west coast the year before. Or a more accurate way to put it would be that Drew had simply stopped returning Joey’s calls. By the time he returned to Toronto for the holidays and the wedding, it seemed awkward to reach out. Too much had happened since he’d left for Vancouver.