Alright, thanks for prompt mate. Here is "Worst birthday ever" inspired by my story "Last case, I swear"
I should've known something was wrong when Yeslana called about "urgent business" at Zachary's.
That kid's about as subtle as a neon sign in nepo-monastery.
Twenty years on homicide, and here I am, walking into the most obvious trap since Eve offered Adam that apple.
The minute I push through the door, my worst fears are confirmed. The place looks like a unicorn threw up all over it. Pink and yellow streamers hanging where the usual cigarette smoke should be.
Balloons.
Jesus, they brought balloons to a bar.
"SURPRISE!" Five faces grinning at me like they just solved the Madison case. Martinez, Thompson, Rogers, Chen, and of course, Yeslana – standing front and center with a party hat that makes her look even younger than her twenty-eight years.
"You shouldn't have," I growl. And I mean it. They really, really shouldn't have.
"Oh, come on, Kraslov!" Yeslana bounces over – actually bounces, like some kind of sugar-high kangaroo. "You can't turn sixty-five without a proper celebration!"
I can think of about fifty ways I could, but before I can list them, they're shoving presents at me like evidence at a crime scene.
Martinez goes first, hands me a package wrapped in what looks like yesterday's sports section. It's a coffee mug with "World's Grumpiest Detective" printed on it.
Real funny.
I already have three just like it.
Thompson's next – a bottle of scotch. At least someone here knows me. Rogers gives me a tie that looks like it was designed by a color-blind peacock. Chen presents a leather notebook, "for all those brilliant deductions."
Like I haven't been using the same notepad since '95.
Then Yeslana steps up, practically vibrating with excitement. Her gift is the smallest, wrapped in paper that probably cost more than my first car. Inside is a framed photo – me and the team from last month's big bust.
We're all there, even me, almost smiling.
"Because you pretend not to care," she says, "but we know better."
I grunt something that might be thanks, might be indigestion. They're all beaming like they just watched a Christmas miracle. The cake comes out next – chocolate with buttercream frosting.
No candles, thank God. Small mercies. I sit there, surrounded by pink streamers and genuine affection, drinking Thompson's scotch from Martinez's stupid mug.
"Worst birthday ever," I mutter, but my traitor face keeps trying to smile. Yeslana catches it and winks at me. Damn kid's too perceptive for her own good.
Maybe next year I'll call in sick. But knowing Yeslana, she'd probably bring the whole circus to my apartment. Sometimes there's no escaping the people who decide you're family, no matter how hard a man tries.
At least the scotch is good.
