If your best friend is a cat named Stella and you’re a crime reporter who’s looking for love…anything can happen.

Chapter Five

I wondered  if being a bouncer was a good job for someone with a criminal record.  Maybe Doyle’s doesn’t know.  Maybe they don’t care as long as unruly customers are efficiently hustled quickly and quietly out the door.

No one likes to go to a club where troublesome patrons are not controlled.  One thing I did know for sure…the bouncers didn’t last very long at Doyle’s.

Just so you know…aside from last night…bouncers for the most part do not need to keep an “eye” on me.  However…my dear, sweet, friend Hannah was another story.

She was your “typical happy drinker”.  And sometimes after her 3rd or 4th margarita she became everyone’s best friend…whether they wanted a new best friend or not.

And that is when a friendly bouncer would come over to help…since at this point Hannah would refuse to listen to me when I suggested it may be time to leave.

However, an understanding and sympathetic bouncer gently guiding her out the door worked every time.  They all knew Hannah and loved her.  Everyone loved the beautiful and charming Hannah.

They all liked me…I was the good friend and for the bouncers who were single, I was their link to Hannah and possibly her phone number.  I was not above being bribed.

So on many weekend nights…the last thing Hannah heard was “That’s it Karla, time for you to go home.”

Chapter Six

Don’t worry.  I haven’t lost my mind.  I know you’re probably thinking, “I thought we were talking about someone named Hannah.”  And you’re right…we are.

The names Karla and Hannah refer to the same person.  Also.  I am called “Teddy” when in fact…my real name is…Charlie.  Let me explain.

Hannah and I are both reporters at the Minneapolis Journal.  Currently, we are assigned to cover the  crime beat in  Minneapolis and surrounding suburbs.  Once in a great while we get a by-line for writing an extraordinary story.

In the past couple of years,  both of us have had a few sketchy encounters with readers of the Journal who were pretty angry or upset with the way we had covered a story or…believe it or not…with the general philosophy of the Journal.

These encounters had always taken place in a “bar-like” setting and in all times the ‘upset’ people had downed a few too many ‘bottles of beer’…or whatever…

So last year, my long-time, very good friend Abby,…who is quite absolutely brilliant and devious came up with the idea of what she cleverly called a “protective cloak of anonymity” for Hannah and me…to be used at our discretion.

We both still worked for the Journal but…

“Karla” (Hannah) worked in circulation and “Teddy” (Charlie…me) worked in accounting.  Throw on a title of “Assistant Manager” to these jobs and BINGO…two very boring jobs that did not encourage any further questions other than an occasional complaint to “Karla” about a late delivery.  IKR…

So if “Karla” was asked to leave Doyle’s after one or two more margaritas than was prudent…she would do so…gliding peacefully out the door, into the night and down the block to the Minnehaha Grill.

It was our go-to late night restaurant on the weekends.  Black coffee, pancakes, eggs and bacon…with an occasional side order of hash browns…was our standard order.

And so that is where we had gone last night…because we both knew how bad I would feel the next morning if we did not.

We pretty much had the drinking/partying ritual down to a science.  I know what you’re thinking…not good at all…and…maybe you’re right.

But…regardless…last night was rubbish.

Chapter Seven

I sighed and flipped the notebook back on the night stand.

“I miss you mom,” I whispered.   I closed my eyes but not quite fast enough to stop hot tears from running down my cheeks.  I reached over to grab a Kleenex.  When would this horrible pain go away?

Last year…after a couple of halfhearted attempts…I had finally decided to get my own place.

I had lived at home while I was going to the University of Minnesota in order to save money…and since my mom and I were such good friends…living with her was a pleasure and just pure joy.

But I knew that after I had been working for a while that it was time to get my own house…and…it would be a smart investment for me.

We had had so much fun looking around for places in the Hawthorne area of Minneapolis…the neighborhood where I lived now…where in fact I had been born.

I wanted to get a house close by so I would be able to walk to the same shops and favorite restaurants that I did now…or even walk to mom’s house if I wanted.  Why venture too far away from the nest, right?

But then she had been senselessly killed and my life had been shattered.

I simply could not move.  Dad had died when I was 7 and even though I had only vague memories of him, they were all connected to this house.

I saw a man raking leaves or shoveling snow or walking up the back steps.   But then that  quick puff of memory would float away.

My mom had been a passionate gardener and the yard and boulevard were filled with trees, bushes and flowers that she had raised from little sprouts…just like me.

No.  I wasn’t moving…not for a long time.  Maybe not ever…

Chapter Eight

So…let me properly introduce my best friend Abby…last name Jones…who has been my best friend since kindergarten.

Abby decided (and there would be absolutely no argument) that it was not a good idea for me to be living alone in this big house.

So…she told her mom and dad that it was time for her to leave the family nest.  And she did.

She moved three doors down the block to my second bedroom…the one that overlooks the front yard…and an amazing crab apple tree.

Abby Jones.  Everyone should be so lucky to have a friend like Abby…

One day in fourth grade…during recess…two really mean girls pushed me down into a pile of dirty snow.  My brand-new, beautiful, red winter coat was ruined; stained with salt and wet sludge from the street.

Now when you’re in 3rd grade, you just don’t go crying to the teacher if someone pushes you down.  Right?  Right.  So I told my mom (who most certainly would have gone to see the teacher) that I had slipped on some ice and fallen.

But Abby Jones was my very best friend and she wasn’t just mad at those bullies.  She was fuming.

A couple of days later, she somehow managed to get those two girls alone in the bathroom before school began.  I was the “look-out”…standing just inside the door so I wouldn’t attract attention.

I’m not exactly sure what she said…I couldn’t hear everything…she was talking very quietly.

But I heard the words “mob”, “not really Jones”, “call in a favor”, “not very pretty” and “you’ll be sorry”.

I looked back over my shoulder and the two girls were standing there with their mouths hanging open.  Abby was a pretty awesome storyteller…she watched a lot of TV.

Then she did the classic “I’ll be watching you” bit and put two fingers to her eyes and then pointed them back at the girls…who were frozen in place.

Then…to my horror…I looked closer and saw that Abby had her father’s antique “Wild West” six shooter pistol strapped to her waist under her jacket.  I had seen it hanging on the wall in their den for years…next to an autographed photo of John Wayne.

She pulled the gun out of its holster and did the classic gunslinger twirl…and a real bullet fell out and bounced on the floor.  After one second…both girls threw up.  Hell…I almost threw up.

Abby calmly bent down, picked up the errant bullet, turned on her little Mary Jane patent leather shoes, grabbed my arm and we walked out into the hall just as the bell rang for classes to begin.

“I thought it was empty!” she whispered in my ear…while  grinning from ear to ear.

Introduction of best friend Abby Jones…complete.