Tanked Page

“You look like someone who lost a fight with a ceiling fan,” Karma said, not looking up.

“Actually,” said a new voice, “we heard about the kidnapping.”

“He calls himself a chef,” Karma muttered, her voice echoing. “He uses squeeze cheese as a binder.” Tanked

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.

Chet went pale. “Karma? This doesn’t concern you.” “You look like someone who lost a fight

They emerged through a rusty grate into the basement of The Gilded Grouper. It was a fluorescent-lit horror show of canned goods and dust. And there, in the corner, was the tank.

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. Then she reached under the counter and pulled

Chet Marlin stepped out from behind a pile of napkin dispensers. He was a small, sweaty man in a too-tight chef’s coat. He was holding a aquarium net like a sword. “I knew you’d come, Barn. Your emotional attachment to a decapod is your greatest weakness!”

Karma leaned against the counter, holding a mug of terrible coffee. “You know,” she said, “most people would have just paid the ransom.”

“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.

Chet scrambled to his feet. “The police will hear about this! Breaking and entering! Shrimp theft!”