Karma leaned against the counter, holding a mug of terrible coffee. “You know,” she said, “most people would have just paid the ransom.”
Barn watched Reginald perform a perfect, slow-motion backflip off the plastic arch. “Most people don’t have a shrimp with a better agent than they do.”
“Tanked” was the only bar in a three-block radius that opened before 10 a.m. It was a dim, sticky-floored haven for off-duty carnies and day-drinking plumbers. Behind the bar, wiping a glass with a rag that was dirtier than the glass, was Karma.
It wasn’t a lobster tank. It was a ten-gallon terrarium. Inside, looking profoundly unimpressed, was Reginald. He was fine. He was munching on an algae wafer. A tiny velvet rope had been strung around his castle. Tanked
Karma laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “You’re weird, Barn.”
“And your over-reliance on sysco frozen scallops is yours,” Karma said, stepping into the light.
He scooped the shrimp into the Tupperware with a smooth, practiced motion. Reginald didn’t even flinch. He simply shifted his weight, adjusted his antennae, and gave Chet a look that could only be described as smug. Karma leaned against the counter, holding a mug
“You look like someone who lost a fight with a ceiling fan,” Karma said, not looking up.
“And you’re here, in Tanked, at 9:47 in the morning, because…?”
“You’re holding a beloved aquatic performer for ransom,” she said. “That concerns every small business owner in this zip code.” It was a dim, sticky-floored haven for off-duty
“Actually,” said a new voice, “we heard about the kidnapping.”
“My shrimp has been kidnapped,” Barn blurted.
The rain was a steady, miserable drumbeat on the corrugated roof of the “Crustacean Sensation,” a food truck that smelled of stale fryer oil and regret. Inside, Barnaby “Barn” Finch was having a crisis.
Two actual police officers were standing at the top of the basement stairs, flashlights in hand. One of them was holding the ransom napkin in an evidence bag.
Karma stared at him for a long, slow ten seconds. Then she reached under the counter and pulled out a ring of rusted keys that looked like medieval torture devices. “I’m not letting you in,” she said. “I’m coming with you. I’ve been waiting six years for a reason to ruin Chet Marlin’s day.” The storm drain was cold, wet, and smelled like old secrets. Karma moved with a surprising grace, her boots splashing quietly. Barn followed, clutching a butterfly net and a Tupperware container.