The Third Time
The third time it happens, Karen is basking in the sunlight of a gorgeous day. It's mid-afternoon and she's chasing down a lead in the west-village. Well… she was chasing down a lead, but a rumbling in her stomach and a faint sheen of perspiration have declared that it's time for a break, and really, who is she to argue?
A Cuban restaurant calls her name, half a dozen little wrought iron tables on the sidewalk, festively striped umbrellas, peppy music filtering out into the street; the perfect antidote for the disappointment she feels brewing. She's pounded the pavement for hours, but no one’s giving her anything she can use. A spate of disappearances has everyone shaking in their boots, too afraid to talk to a persistent blonde asking too many questions.
She takes a seat and unfolds the newspaper tucked under her arm. Reading the crime reports out of habit, her eyes unconsciously scan for signs of Frank. He's been incredibly under the radar lately, so much so that Karen feels a little shiver of panic when she thinks about it too much.
It's been over a month since his impromptu shooting range adventure, and she hasn't heard his moniker whispered in hushed tones recently, and a few brazen criminals have taken to claiming they took out the punisher. Worrying about him has become a constant background noise, and she isn't really sure how to deal with it.
Just as she's about to give up, she finds a tiny blurb about two suspected arms dealers found lying dead in the street, a single bullet in each of their heads. She lets out a sigh of relief, folding the newspaper carefully.
“Anything interesting?”
The softly spoken question catches her by surprise, and she twists in her chair to see if it's really him casting a menacing shadow over the little table.
Her mouth drops open. She can't believe what she's seeing. He's wearing a tailored suit, charcoal gray. The black button down underneath is open at the collar, a bronze patch of skin peeking out. She blinks, willing the obvious hallucination to dissipate.
Instead of disappearing, Frank circles the table and sits down across from her, frowning mightily. He waves two fingers to get the attention of a waiter, and continues to ignore Karen’s agape expression.
“Dos cortaditos, por favor.”
Karen watches the waiter slip back into the restaurant, turning back to Frank the second the other man disappears. “What are you doing here? Someone’s gonna recognize you!” Her eyes dart back and forth, scanning the other patrons. Everyone seems to be minding their own business.
“In this getup? Not a chance.” He plucks at the lapel of his suit in disgust. “What are you doing here? You've walked into three separate locations I was scoping out this week. Are you trying to get kidnapped again?”
“What?”
“You've been sticking your nose into some pretty unsavory dealings, Miss Page. You could be more discreet.”
He's angry with her, it seems. It's an interesting development, especially since that anger seems to come from a place of concern. She can't help but smile at him. “Are you worried about me?”
“Those men…”
Her interest is piqued, previous worry floating away like smoke in wind. “Do you know who’s behind the disappearances? Are they drug related? Human trafficking? Mob hits?”
He shakes his head at her tenacity, nostrils flaring. “Let's just say it wouldn't be good for your health if they knew what you were up to.”
Disappointed, Karen frowns at him. “Fine, don't tell me, but I'm not going to stop doing my job.”
Their waiter returns, setting two tiny cups of coffee on the little table. Karen picks hers up first, savoring the rich aroma before taking a small sip. “Oh, God, I love Cuban coffee.” A little noise of pleasure escapes her involuntarily.
Frank’s jaw ticks at the sound. He picks up his own cup and tosses the entire thing back. “Promise me, you’ll be careful.”
His stare is intense, waiting for her to answer. Words fail her, the need in his gaze as surprising as it is disarming. She’s never seen him like this, clean shaven, hair sharp like he's just gotten a cut. It seems he has more than one friend in this city. She reaches across the tiny table, fingertips finding a fresh cut just below his eye. The wound probably needs stitches, but he's made due with medical grade adhesive. She traces it, nodding to reassure him. “You be careful too, Frank.”
She doesn't get an answer, not even a nod, but she's not bothered. He has a way of communicating things to her with his eyes. She's not even sure he realizes how much he telegraphs when he stares so intently.
He slips away from her, and she can tell he's not quite happy with her. Watching him walk away, Karen wonders what it would take to get him to say the things she sees inside of him.