34
I pulled up to L Street’s front door. “Wait here,” I told Conor. “I’ll be right back.”
“Ya don’t want me to come in with ya?”
“Izzie’s not too fond of men in her bar.” I shrugged. “Besides, I think I can handle a drunk. You can cuff her once we get outside, if you like.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I walked inside past a rack of queer-friendly magazines by the door. The Pink Trinket’s “Singing Mammogram” played on the sound system, and the hoppy scent of beer filled the air.
Izzie stood behind the bar with a blond mullet haircut showing darker roots, particularly on the shaved sides. Her black cutoff T-shirt read I Kiss Girls in lavender letters. I figured she was in her mid-to-late forties.
“’Sup?” she asked.
“Someone called for an Uber ride?”
Izzie grinned. We’d played this game before. Sh
