By the time I made it to Shakespeare’s Pub, I’d calmed down a little. Brian was already there, flirting with one of the waitresses. She stuck around just long enough for me to order a Guinness, then hurried off to check on her other tables.
Brian stared at her as she left. “Man, those British accents. They make any girl sexier, don’t they?”
I snorted. “Whatever you say, man.”
He turned back to me. “Hey, what’s wrong with you? Why’d you need a drink in the middle of the day?”
I told him everything I’d learned that morning: how my neighbor Emily had died in her sleep sometime last night, how her husband Dave had called it in, how the cops had grilled me about it.
Brian let out a low whistle when I was done. “That’s fucked up, man. Do they think Dave did it?”
I shook my head. “Dunno. They’re probably just getting all the information they can. I didn’t see them arrest him or anything.”
He nodded. “Right.” He tilted his head. “Was Emily the blonde in 405, or the brunette in 410?”
“Damn. Always wanted to fuck that one.”
I set down my drink. “Dude, too soon.”
He glanced at me. “Right. Sorry.”
We both took a sip of our beers.
He sighed. “It’s just – she was a little older, right? But still in great shape.”
He held up his hands. “Hey, I know. I’m just saying, how does a healthy chick like that just go in her sleep?”
I shrugged. “That’s what’s so fucked up about the whole thing. No warning.”
Brian lifted his glass. “Well, we’re still kicking, and I’m grateful for that. L’chaim!”
I raised my own glass, tapped his, and drank. “L’chaim.”