“Very kind of you,” I say, my eyes following him as he struts away, his walk screaming cop.
“Oh.” He stops just shy of the door, his index finger pointing skyward, as if he’s just had a lightbulb moment. That award he’s talking about? If there was one for cops . . . “I nearly forgot,” he muses, turning back to face us. Liar. He didn’t nearly forget at all. This will simply be another little nudge. Higham needs to know I don’t like nudges. “Heard of a man named Kenny Spittle?”
“Nope.”
“Thought not.” A sarcastic smile, and he’s gone.
“Still don’t like him,” I mutter, turning to James. “What are you thinking?” Ironically, Higham gave us these two pictures as a sweetener. He’s happy for us to kill these men, because he knows their deaths will lead to a bigger catch. Problem is, he wants The Bear, and so do we.
“I’m thinking he’s trying to make the same arrangement with me as Beau’s mother did.” James stares at the pictures on the table, his eyes narrowed to slits, his lip getting a punishing chew. “I killed them before she got them in front of a judge.”
If James and I were women, I’d be giving his hand a reassuring rub about now. “Difference is,” I say, thoughtful. “Higham knows who we are. Jaz Hayley—”
“Knew who I was,” James reminds me, also reminding me that Beau’s mother also knew who The Bear was. Jesus, this story, the connections, the mysteries.
“I can’t die until we figure this out,” I say, swiping up my cigarettes and lighting one, offering them to James. He takes one. I knew he would. I draw and exhale thoughtfully. What I really meant is, I can’t live until we figure this out.
None of us can.
Which means we need to do what it takes to figure this shit out. “Are we putting Kenny back in the bank?”
“I’ll have Goldie arrange his sunbeds,” James says, relaxing back too, looking out at the cove. “I’m not interested in helping Higham hit government targets.” He takes us back to business and away from Beau. Fair enough.
“Me neither, but I am interested in making our lives as easy as possible.” I stub my barely-smoked cigarette out. “Ready to head to Hiatus?” I ask, looking at his phone on the table when it rings. “Beth? Who’s Beth?”
James makes a pretty speedy job of rejecting the call. “No one.” Standing, he strides back to the changing room, and I follow, my eyes lasers on his brutalized back. He yanks his locker open and pulls his clothes out, stripping out of his wetsuit. James is never particularly light and breezy, it’s not in his DNA, but he’s especially deadly looking right now, as he wrenches and pulls at his clothes. Even when he’s quite funny, there’s still an edge of deadliness laced through his words.
No one.
Interesting.
By the time we get to Hiatus, the place is booming, the bar packed, and the stage is adorned with five sets of boobs, all different shapes and sizes.
“Don’t ever let it be said that Hiatus doesn’t cater for all tastes,” Brad says, motioning to the office, obviously knowing what I’m thinking. “Somewhere quieter?”
Yes, my head’s fucking ringing. I wander across the club, acutely aware of the hushed whispers, people staring but trying not to stare. The Brit is back. A-fucking-gain. And this time, he really isn’t going anywhere. I walk through the staged office, open the bookcase, and look back to make sure everyone’s in the holding room before punching in the code on the wall mounted panel that releases the iron door on the other side of the room. It creeps open, I pass through, climb the stairs, and find Otto, Ringo, and Goldie huddled around a laptop. “Something going on?” I ask.
“Just checking The Chameleon and The Leprechaun against facial recognition,” Otto says, not looking up. He’s wearing a baseball cap. Otto hit his head. How?
“Who?” Brad asks, closing the door behind him.
“How do you know about The Chameleon and The Leprechaun?”
“Who’s The Chameleon and The Leprechaun?” Brad pours himself a drink.
“James sent me the images.” Otto remains devoted to the screen of his laptop.
“What images?” Brad asks.
“Very prompt of him,” I mutter, giving James the eye as I help myself to a Scotch too. “Vodka?”
He shakes his head. “And you’ve found nothing,” James says, joining them and taking a peek.
“Actually . . .” Otto fades off, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
“Actually what?”
“Where’s the original image?” he asks, looking between me and James. I point my drink to James, who dips into his back pocket and pulls out the pictures, handing them to Otto, who’s accepts while stroking his beard with his other hand, concentrating.
“Who the fuck is The Chameleon and The Leprechaun?” Brad yells.
“Two new members of The Bear’s zoo,” I answer. “Polish and Irish. Replacing Roake and The Hound.”
“Great. What the fuck is this, a breeding program?” Brad swigs his drink and refills, while I return my attention to Otto, wondering what the fuck he’s looking at in that picture with such interest.
“Are you going to enlighten us?” I ask, impatient.
“I see it,” James takes the picture from Otto and unbends his body.
For fuck’s sake. “Well?” I press.
“There’s a reflection on his shades.” James squints and looks closer. “Part of a neon bar sign.”
“Which one?” I ask.
“Irish.”
Everyone, including me, crowds James, trying to get in on the picture. I see the glimmer of pink lighting, squinting too. “Don’t tell me the FBI missed that.” Ringo grunts, his fat nose wrinkling. “It’s obviously the Pink Flamingo Lounge Bar Downtown.”
“They didn’t miss it.” I move away and sip my drink, going to the window and looking down on the busy club. “These two men are a gift.”
“What?” Brad asks, confused.
“Higham wants The Bear. He knows we’re the best way to achieve that, whether he uses us as bait or our skills as hunters.” I pout at the window. “Drive everyone else out of town so there is only us, and we bob along quite nicely on our own, don’t we?” I face the room. “I can’t deny it, it would be quite peaceful with only us.”
Brad laughs. “Are you joking? We’re like magnets for the rookie crime lords. And the non-rookie ones, for that matter. Russians, Polish, and Irish case in point. And is everyone forgetting Beau’s dad is running for mayor? That prick is not going to make our lives easy as long as he”—he points a finger at James—“is dating his precious daughter.”
“Precious?” James coughs, on the verge of knocking Brad out. “She wasn’t so precious when he left her in a hospital.”
I step in before all hell breaks loose. Or, at least, I delay it. “Who’s running against him?” I ask.
“Monroe Metcalfe,” Otto answers. How the fuck does he have the answer to everything? And what the fuck is with that baseball cap? It doesn’t suit him. “Lawyer.,” he continues. “Moved in from Boston in 2020. Wife, two daughters, and a shining reputation. Charity work, upstanding citizen, pro-bono work.”