The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(61)

“Call it what you want,” said Peter. “I don’t care.”

Lewis nodded again. “Tell me.”

“It’s a little hard to explain,” said Peter. “But the pay is an eighty-twenty split after expenses. And it doesn’t count the money I found at Dinah’s, that’s hers regardless.”

“Twenty percent ain’t enough for a guy with my résumé.”

Peter snorted. “You don’t have a résumé. But your end is eighty. Twenty goes to Dinah and the boys.”

Lewis drank more beer without expression. “So what’s your end?”

“Jimmy,” said Peter. “I get the guy who killed Jimmy. And Dinah stays safe.”

That was the most important part. Dinah. Dinah and the boys.

Lewis pointed the bottle at him. “You an idealist. I don’t like idealists. They dangerous.”

Peter shrugged. “Jimmy was my friend.”

Lewis looked at him steadily. “You don’t want money?”

“Past putting gas in that truck, I don’t much care. Most of what I want, money can’t buy.”

Lewis watched Peter’s face for another moment. Then nodded. “How much is the payout?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t know yet. So far, it’s all on spec. I have all these pieces, but I don’t know what they add up to. It already turned up serious money at Dinah’s. Maybe that’s all there is. But there could be more. A lot more.”

“But I might be workin’ for nothin’.”

Peter looked at him. He figured Lewis for a career criminal who made his living with his brain, his nerve, and a shotgun. The only paycheck Lewis had ever gotten was from his time in the Army, and that was for killing people. He’d probably never had a straight job in his life.

Peter said, “Think of it as pro bono, with a possible upside. Good for your image. You can put it on your résumé.”

Lewis snorted and stared out into the darkness of the park. But he didn’t say no.

Peter let him think. The wind came up, whispering through the tree branches and underbrush. It carried the fermented smell of the river and the cold flavor of the coming winter. Beer always tasted better in the wind.

Lewis turned to face him. His tilted smile wide. “What the hell,” he said. “I’m in. Where we start?”

“Nothing heavy,” said Peter. “At least not yet. Right now, we need to find a guy. All I have is a license plate. You know any cops?”

“I know a guy can run me a plate.”

Peter told him the number. “I got a pen in the truck, you want to write it down.”

“Don’t need to,” said Lewis.

Peter nodded. He hadn’t needed to write it down, either.

“It’s the Ford Excursion,” he said. “The guy with the scars.”

“That same guy from outside Dinah’s house? Followed you to my place?”

“Same guy. Black, late thirties to mid-forties. Big but not huge. Scars on his cheeks, here.” Peter put his fingers on his face. “Missing his right earlobe. Wears a Kangol cap and a black leather car coat, thinks he’s Samuel L. Jackson.”

“That ain’t right, man. I’m Samuel L. Jackson.”

“In your dreams. Anyway, the Ford’s all torn up on the driver’s side now. You might check the body shops.”

“Why we want him?”

“I think he’s the one who sent that kid to shoot me. And I think he’s probably an explosives guy.”

Lewis raised his eyebrows. “And why the fuck is that?”

“The scars, for one thing. And with the money under Dinah’s porch? I found four chunks of C-4.”

The tilted smile got as wide as Peter had yet seen it. “This ain’t gonna be boring, I can tell already.”

Peter clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s why I need a guy with your résumé.”

“Yeah, yeah. So tell me the rest of it.”

“Jimmy didn’t kill himself.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. I think Jimmy took the money and the C-4 and hid it under Dinah’s porch, and someone killed him for it. Made it look like suicide. Jimmy was looking for a young Marine gone missing. There’s our explosives guy with the scars. And also the head of a hedge fund, but I don’t know how he connects to anything.”

“You just making this up as you go,” said Lewis.

“Absolutely,” said Peter. “But the scarred man keeps showing up. Somebody already tried to kill me once. I’m getting closer. Maybe someone else will take a run at me and we’ll find a crack in this thing.”

“You know that a seriously fucked-up thing to say, right?”

“Like you’re so goddamn normal,” said Peter. “Anyway, I’m hoping you can find this guy with the scars. Maybe he can help us connect the dots.”

—

Peter went to the cooler for two more beers, then broached the next topic of conversation. “What about Nino and Ray? Are they gunning for me?”

Lewis shook his head. “They won’t sign on to this thing, if that what you asking. Especially not for no pro fucking bono. But I don’t think you got anything to worry about. Neither one of them got an ass-whipping in five years of crime like they got from you the other night, and they still hurting. Ray’s balls are swollen up like grapefruit to hear him tell it, and Nino probably gonna need surgery on his trachea.”