Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(66)

“Are there any lights behind the bar? Glowing signs?”

“Amber. Um … Abita Amber, glowing in orange and red.”

“How’s the popcorn?”

“Good! God, I’m hungry.”

“Look around the room. What do you see?”

“I can’t. Eyes straight ahead. Or Fake-Everett will get mad and I don’t want him to be mad. Not till I’ve gotten to eat more popcorn.”

“What about beside you? Can you see anyone beside you?”

“A man. He sits down. He looks at Fake-Everett and nods. Fake-Everett nods back. The man comments that I’m skinny. Fake-Everett says it’s my own fault. I eat more popcorn. I don’t look at either of them, but I’m confused that Fake-Everett is talking to a stranger. He never talks to anyone.”

“Can you describe the man to me?”

“Umm, younger. Early thirties, maybe? Fit. Not tall, but muscular. Dark hair, smooth shaven. He’s wearing a blue T-shirt and jeans and I can smell him—soap and aftershave. Fake-Everett only ever smells like sweat and dirty clothes. The man stares at my chest. I pull up the top of my dress again. I hate the dress. Fake-Everett tells me I should be grateful when he gives me clothes. I’m not.”

“What happens next?”

“A tray of nachos goes by. All chips and melted cheese piled with salsa and sour cream. Oh my God, they smell so good! The man sees me eyeing them and asks the bartender to bring us some. I’m pretty sure to share, but I don’t dare ask. Fake-Everett has a hand on my shoulder. He’s squeezing very hard. He’s on something. His eyes are too bright. In this mood, Fake-Everett is very dangerous. I don’t feel so good anymore. I’m nervous. Very nervous.”

“Are the man and Fake-Everett talking?”

“The man is tapping the bar.” My fingers move. There is a pattern. Same rhythm, over and over again. I can hear it in my mind. My fingers play it out on the table. Tap, tap, tap, tappity tap. “I think he’s nervous, too,” I whisper. “But I don’t know why. He keeps staring at me. I just wish he’d look away.”

“And then?”

“Nachos. They arrive. The man says we can share. I look at Fake-Everett. I’m trying to understand. He never talks to others, he never shares. He tells me to show the man some respect, be more appreciative. I don’t understand that. Something is wrong. This whole … scenario. Something is going on. The strange man, Fake-Everett, it’s like they know one another. And the man keeps tapping, tapping, tapping. I wish he would go away.”

“What does Fake-Everett do next?”

“Eats nachos. Scoops up big mouthfuls. Smears sour cream and salsa on his face. He doesn’t care. He’s a pig.”

“What do you do?”

“I eat, too. Quickly. Drink more beer. Something is going to happen. I don’t know what.”

“And the man?”

“He doesn’t eat. He ordered the nachos but takes only a single chip. He just keeps looking at me, and fidgeting. He orders more food, but again, for Fake-Everett and me, not for himself.”

“What do you hear, Molly?”

The change in focus startles me. I return to tapping the table. The man’s restless beat. Then, I’m humming, too. A Kenny Chesney song playing from the jukebox behind us. Clink, clink of pool balls.

And voices. Fake-Everett and the man. Heads closer together, murmuring while I grab another chicken wing and hastily gnaw away. I have a suspicion now. A growing feeling of dread over what’s going to happen next. Must eat. Must eat as much as possible as fast as possible.

“Conner. Fake-Everett calls the man Conner.”

“Told you she was pretty,” Fake-Everett says.

“Too skinny,” Conner says.

“Not at the rate she’s eating now. Trust me, trained her myself.”

“You’re sure?”

“Course. Deal’s a deal.”

“And the return?”

“Same place tomorrow night. Parking lot. Don’t want to make too big an impression, hanging out at the same bar twice.”

“And she’s agreed?”

“Course. Girl knows better than to make fuss. You’ll see.”

“The bar lights flicker.” Seeing it abruptly in my mind, I report the memory out loud. “Closing time. We have to leave.” My hand presses against my stomach. “I’m scared.”

“What happens next, Molly?”

“The man, Conner, he pays the bill. Throws down a hundred without even blinking. When the man turns away, Fake-Everett grabs the money for himself. So fast, like a snake. I don’t feel good. I stumble, walking out. The beer, the food, what I’m now sure is going to happen next.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“Fake-Everett … he sold me. Or rented me? But what they were whispering … Fake-Everett is going to tell me to go home with this man. I should be grateful. He’s cleaner, younger, better-looking. But I think that’s the problem. I know Fake-Everett. He doesn’t share his toys. And I can already tell you, he doesn’t like this guy. He doesn’t like any man better-looking than him. He’s playing some game. This Conner, myself, we’ll both pay for it in the end.”