Sally's Story (1.5-6): Double Life

youtu.be/5dE9Ttvm46Y

	Sally nervously stared at the oily glue globbed on her fingertip, a tiny microcosmos of lint and accrued dust to pore over before her eyes. The gray smear had a sheen to it, an imperceptible reflection atop the barely acidic, acrid touch of vinegar. Staring at the little mess she already knew what the answer was, whatever dense chemical stirring was inside was proof enough.
	“All gummed up?”
	“Yeah,” Sally flushed, “just don’t say it like that…” She stared at the menacing smear on her finger, afraid it would end up staining the underlying composite somehow.
	“Right, uh- let’s hop to it then.” Ascending the creaking wooden staircase the pair returned to the floor, the man expectantly wiping down the worn, pitted bar. He eyed them up, suspicious of any bulging pockets and reminding himself to check for anything missing. Trusting cops was one thing, but the pale saucer that he caught blinking and smiling at him was another. He half expected her to whip out the little blue notebook she’d had and jot down a number of notes, the man not noticing her hidden hand as he wiped and wore the bar with his washcloth.
	“Mister Banaszewski?”
	“Did you find anything helpful, detectives?”
	“No, we don’t believe so. We looked at your bottling press, very nice operation down there.”
	“Of course,” he grumbled, not sure whether it was a compliment or a light provocation. Better a compliment. “We’ve been doing this for a long time, as I said.”
	“And was it always you bottling down there? Or always Brian?”
	“Well,” the man gulped. “Brian liked it, yes? He said it was his favorite job, that and delivering, so of course he did most of it. It helped that he was very good at it, of course.”
	“Of course…”
	“Of course I let him do it, he was often the only one down there, pressing bottles and delivering the ready ones. Up and down and up and down those stairs, heh.” There was a warmth to his cheeks, a fond memory of the teenaged boy tumbling down the stairs *that* time, and the months’ worth of ants nibbling at the drying honey puddle at the bottom of the stairwell.
	“So Brian was pretty much responsible for deliveries *and* bottling? Just to be clear.” Sally readied her notebook. The man nodded, shrugging.
	“Sure, but I don’t see why that’s important here. I doubt he-”
	“Would you happen to keep track of where your deliveries were going, and how often?”
	“Officer, what you’re asking for you- you would need a warrant-”
	“I’m aware,” Vince pressed, “but the reality of things is that those take time, time we don’t have.”
	“I’m sorry, but I cannot help you.” Vince wrinkled his brow, moustache wiggling like a little larva in consternation. Having employed every *reasonable* line of discussion their little plan would have to work, or they’d be trapped in a legal limbo for a few days’ time. Warrants were speedy when someone died, or there was concrete enough evidence to suggest as much. Roping a young adult in for party shenanigans was another thing, regardless of charges. No self-respecting judge could hand down a warrant for that- the two needed something solid, or they had to resort to some trickery. Vince fidgeted a hand at his side, fingers bending into a little V-shape at his side. The two had swapped a bit, Vince’s zippo nestled lightly in the shallow pockets of Sally’s pantsuit, waiting for the right time as he stood there, thinking. The owner of the establishment, now crossing his arms and leaning backwards on the bar, had given Vince a *look*.
	Getting looks was no big deal, Vince knew, it was part of the job to get looks. Everybody would look at a cop, and a cop dressed like him was no exception. But bringing up the man’s daughter, risky as it was, pulled out a *look* from him. A blinking, nervous expression that lapsed away like a brief, feverish episode before being covered up in gruff, defensive remarks. The man clearly didn’t like the association of drugs with his family, Vince reconstructing scenes in his head as the nandroid’s eyes drifted to meet his. His moustache was locked in thought, slack and frowning in the instant he put together their little ruse downstairs.
	“Hey Sal,” he started, pulling a pack of cigarettes from an internal pocket, “could I get a light? Oh, are you alright with smoking?” Vince turned to the man, a shrug and a nod pulling Vince’s head back. Sally clicked the zippo in her narrow fingers, a little sequence of sparks roaring to life in her hands. Hands precariously close to the flame she edged her aching finger into the tickling fire, blue eyes fixing on the retreating, oily mass swabbed up there. An itch at her nose turned into one on the man’s heavy face, a familiar smell lingering up and into his nostrils like that night, save for the fact it wafted up not from a heated spoon but the nandroid’s finger.
	“Hey, you pickling something?”
	“I- I’m sorry,” the man fumbled, an image in his head of a length of rubber cord and a narrow, girly arm seizing him. “What?”
	“Smells like vinegar- no, a bit more kick.”
	“Yes, I smell it too,” Sally added, wagging her finger cool and slipping the lighter away. “A bit familiar Vince?”
	“Alright, what are you playing? Huh? I swear if you-”
	“We didn’t bring anything in, we’re not those kinds of cops,” Vince sniffed. ‘Those’ Sally noted quietly- she was in on their little game, full bore. Were they dirty cops? She didn’t know, the man’s face reddening and plump with anger and regret- with a father’s failure. “But if you recognize the smell…”
	“I’m not stupid, cop.” The man snorted, blinking his heavy eyes. “I don’t care what you did, just-”
	“Look, we’re sorry, but you’re getting the same idea here, right? Full disclosure?” He nodded slowly, Sally’s eyes narrowing- what was Vince *doing*?. “Well, on that bottle press there was a lot of adhesive, something for keeping *something else* in place- and what you smelled was that burning just now.”
	“So you’re saying-”
	“*Suggesting*, Mister Banaszewski, is that Brian was not just using the press for bottling. Proof’s in however much was just burnt up on my partner’s finger there. Now, we asked about a delivery ledger, records, anything you have earlier.” The deep brown eyes blinked once, then twice. Doubling over internally the man was trying desperately to make sense of what he’d been told. Case sensitive, perhaps, but damning that he’d let that kid, that criminal, now, into his home and business for so long.
	“...Right, right,” he mumbled. Retreating he ascended up the stairs, ruffling around in some cramped home office and poring through papers. Hand seizing on a thick leather-bound book he brought it back downstairs. “Here, have a look.” He sighed, wiping his face with the cloth before sitting in some removed corner of the restaurant, a hand thrown up to the officers in wan acknowledgement.
	“Well, here it is,” Vince sighed, plopping the book down on the bar. Hopping up into one of the seats Sally joined him quietly, head trying to peer around and check on the man. “Should be pretty straightforward, look for places in or around the docks and make a list of those, alright Sal? Sal?” The little nandroid stilled had her head craned around, blinking sadly.
	“Wha- oh! Yes, I’ll get to work taking notes.”
	“Then let’s see what we’ve got.”