We drank some more while sneaking glances at both the monkey and a group of tough-looking men in the corner. They were all beefy, scarred, and tattooed, the kind of guys who could either be corrupt jail officers or actual criminals, if my years of casual true-crime research were correct.
“Tell me something interesting about yourself,” I said.
Jack took a sip and swallowed. “I’ve been struck by lightning and bitten by a shark.”
I laughed. “No, really? That’s like a Florida Man cliché. You get the trifecta if you’ve been bitten by an alligator.”
“It’s true.”
“I need the details.”
“Both were actually pretty mundane. I was on a golf course in Fort Lauderdale with my dad when I was ten. A bolt hit a tree about fifty feet away, and I was knocked off my feet. I have a scar on my shoulder.”
“Wow. No aftereffects? What did it feel like?”
“Like I was inside a giant bass speaker. But no, no heart attack, brain fry, nothing. It was weird. Just a minor lightning strike. But I still thought I’d become a superhero.”
“Maybe you did, and you just haven’t had to use the powers yet.” I winked at him. “What about the shark?”
“Oh, that was even less dramatic. I was surfing off New Smyrna Beach. I jumped off my board and onto a blacktip shark. It bit me on the foot. Thought I was going to lose my little toe but didn’t. Had to go to the hospital.”
“Oh!” I cried. “That’s why you have the tattoos.”
He grinned and nodded. “How about you? Tell me something interesting about you.”
I nodded, impressed. “Well, I once caught a gator and a python in the same day. I was seventeen.”
His eyes widened. “Whoa, that is badass,” he whispered.
Before I could launch into my story about how Dad and I trapped both reptiles that day, Farah returned.
“What do you think of the local beer? I’m hearing it’s up for some national awards,” she said.
“Very hoppy,” I said. “But I don’t know anything about beer.”
“It has notes of chocolate and espresso,” Jack said. “With a hint of toffee.”
Her eyes lit up. She went on to explain how the local brewer used flaked oats in the recipe. Farah sure knew her stuff with beer, and I was impressed. I was also amazed at Jack’s palate. To me the beer tasted like thick...beer.
“You know, I have a question for you, Farah.” I scooted closer, so my midsection pressed into the bar.
“Shoot,” she said.
“Do you know a guy named Gene Robinson?”
All of the warmth and friendliness on her pretty face disappeared. “Why do you want to know?”
“We’d heard he was a regular here. We were curious about his murder.” Jack smiled cockily.
Probably most women would be charmed by him. Farah was not. “You’re obviously not cops. What are you, one of those true-crime podcasters?”
“Well,” I blurted.
Jack glanced at me, his eyes flashing in surprise for a millisecond. “Yes, we’re starting a podcast and Gene’s case is our first episode.”
Way to roll with the situation.
Farah didn’t seem to buy our explanation. She narrowed her eyes. “What’s the name?”