The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(32)

And even if you’d somehow made it home alive and relatively intact, you still carried it around with you, that powerful mix of pride and shame.

For who you were. For what you’d done.

Peter finished his beer while the static crackled in his head.

The bartender reappeared and filled a few drinks for the thirsty old guys down the way. Then he poured two fresh drafts, came back, set one in front of Peter and one on the rail for himself. “Stick around.” He had a tattoo on his forearm, a big blue anchor, but faded with years.

Peter put a twenty on the bar, drank some beer. “You worked with Jimmy, right?” The bartender didn’t answer. But he didn’t pick up the twenty, either. “We served together,” said Peter. “He was my friend.”

The bartender looked at him.

“That tattoo,” said Peter. “Navy, right?” The bartender nodded. “Well, you know what those survivor benefits are like, right? Not enough.” Peter drank some beer. At least the bartender wasn’t walking away. “Jimmy was helping his family, doing what he could. But now he’s dead. I’m just trying to help, too.”

The bartender said, “Talk to Lewis first.”

Peter nodded. “I talked to Lewis. I talked to Nino and Ray. I know what they are. They know I’m looking. But they didn’t work with Jimmy. I just want to know what he was like before he killed himself.”

The bartender shrugged. “He was just a guy.”

“He did the work? No fucking the dog?”

That got a little smile. “No, he did the work. I tell him to change a keg, man got right to it.”

Peter nodded. Jimmy was never one to stand around when there was work to be done. “Sounds like you liked him.”

Another shrug. “Sure.”

“When he killed himself. Did he say anything to you, before?”

The bartender shook his head. “No.” Then pushed his mouth to one side, then the other, thinking. “But we got another part-time guy, showed up for Jimmy’s shift one day. Said he was covering. Said Jimmy told him he’d be gone for a while. Next thing I know, Jimmy’s killed himself. Weird.”

No more weird than Jimmy cleaning out his fridge, thought Peter. Or paying his landlady in advance. More evidence of the polite suicide.

Maybe he wanted the part-time guy to get the work. Or maybe just not bail on the job. Peter could see Jimmy doing that. He took his responsibilities seriously.

“Then this cop shows up,” said the bartender. “Wants Jimmy’s things.”

“What did they take?”

The barman shook his head. “Ain’t nothing to take. House rules, nobody leaves nothing. Lewis wants this place so clean it squeaks.” He scratched his ear thoughtfully. “Jimmy did try to leave this ratty old suitcase here. Wanted me to lock it up in the liquor storage. Told him hell, no. Lewis would have my ass.”

The suitcase got Peter’s attention. He was willing to bet it was a black Samsonite. “Do you remember when that was? How long before he died?”

“Not that long.”

So under Dinah’s porch wasn’t Jimmy’s first choice.

“Did anyone else come looking for him, after he left? Maybe a big guy missing an earlobe, with scars on his face?” Peter drew the scars with his fingertips.

The bartender shook his head.

“What about before he left? Did he have visitors, maybe do a little business on the side?”

“Hell, no. Nobody runs anything out of here. Lewis owns the joint. Jimmy knew how it was.”

“But he came up with Lewis, right? Maybe he had a pass.”

A flat look. “Nobody gets a pass. Nobody.”

Then his eyes flicked past Peter, and in a single smooth motion he plucked up his glass and walked away.

Peter turned and saw Lewis coming in the side door, a black suede jacket over his crisp white shirt, trailing Nino and Oklahoma Ray.

Watching, Peter couldn’t think why Lewis needed them. The man moved with no visible effort, and in the dim light of the bar, he seemed almost to float across the floor. Stopping at the bar, his weight was balanced, his knees slightly bent. He was out of Peter’s reach but ready to change that. Ready for anything.

He looked Peter up and down. Calm, quiet, his voice just audible over the music. “You don’t seem no worse for wear.”

“The accident happened to somebody else.”

Lewis didn’t even blink. “And I give a shit why?”

“Because you’re going to have to call his mama. And tell her why her boy got shot in the head.”

Lewis turned to go. Over his shoulder, he said, “We’ll talk about this outside.” He said something to Nino, who led the way through the door, his right hand rooting in the pocket of his Packers jacket.

Peter went last, the taste of copper in his mouth, wishing he hadn’t left his .45 in pieces strewn all over town.





17



As he stepped outside, Nino was already throwing a looping overhead right at his head. Brass knuckles gleamed slightly on the leading edge.

Peter smiled. The fresh air felt good in his lungs. The oxygen charged into his bloodstream and into his muscles.

Nino was very fast for a guy shaped like a beer keg.

But he was overeager, maybe overconfident, and started out too far away from his target, Peter’s head. And Peter had known something was coming.