No Fortunate Son (Pike Logan, #7)(92)

I said, “Let’s give it a few more minutes. Go get another round to keep the barmaid happy.”

He left, and sure as shit, as soon as he was out of sight, the meeting broke up. An ascetic guy with dark hair, prominent veins on his neck, and a tattoo of a harp below his ear exited, not even glancing our way.

I said, “Looks like showtime.”

Standing up, Brett grinned, saying, “You want me to shock him? A little black magic?”

“No. You’re too damn short to instill fear. You be the mean guy that hovers. Watch the exit to the cubicle.”

He gave me a look that told me what he thought of that description, and I stood, saying, “Grab Retro when he goes past.”

We entered the small space, really only two tables that could hold a couple each, with a fireplace in the rear. The man jerked his head up and squinted. He said, “No unsolicited business. Sorry.”

I sat down and said, “We come highly recommended.”

He heard my accent and began sweeping pieces of paper into his bag, handwritten notations on them. He began to stand, saying, “Doesn’t work that way. Not sure what happens in New York, but not here.”

I clamped my hand over his and said, “It works that way today.”

He made a show of jerking his wrist away, but I held it in an iron grip, making him look weak. He pulled again, and I twisted the joint, causing him to fall into his seat to relieve the pain. He squeaked, “What the f*ck do you want? I don’t bring anything inside. And I don’t pass money here. I got nothing.”

I let go and said, “I don’t want drugs. I want to meet the man known as Clynne. Is that you? Or the guy who left?”

His eyes flicked to the left, and he stammered, “Never heard of him.”

I saw the tell, and he knew I saw it. I said, “You Clynne?”

He tried one last act of bravado. “Who’s asking?”

I smiled. “If you really want to play the badass, you should bring in a little bit of muscle. Not that it would do any good.”

Retro appeared in the door, his clothing making him look like a strung-out hitman. He gave Clynne a glare that scared even me.

I said, “I’m not here for drugs, and I’m not here for you. I’m here for a man called Seamus McKee. I’m going to find him, and when I do, I’m going to kill him.”

I leaned back, pulled out my Glock, and rubbed my temple with the suppressor. I said, “I’ll also kill anyone who stands in my way.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Brett struggling mightily not to smile. I’ll admit, it was over the top, but Clynne didn’t see it that way. He said, “I got nothing to do with him. Jesus, did you follow him to me? I knew I should have never got involved with that f*cker. He’s bonkers.”

I said, “Follow? What do you mean?”

He realized too late his statement gave something away, and I realized—too late as well—what it was. “Was that Seamus with you? Just now?”

He said, “No, no. That wasn’t him. That was somebody else. He—”

My hand snaked out of its own volition, grabbing his neck. I began to squeeze, saying, “No more lies. Your buddy has some friends of mine, and he’s going to hurt them. You tell me what I want to know, or I’ll kill you right here.”

He put both of his hands on my arm, desperately trying to pull away. I let him try for about two seconds, then gave him a straight punch to his forehead, knocking him to the floor. From the doorway, Brett said, “Easy. They heard that.”

I kept my eyes on Clynne. “And?”

“And nothing yet. But we can’t go full retard in here.”

Clynne took strength from the words, sitting up and straightening his shirt. I said, “Then let’s get the shitbag out of here.”

Retro moved to his right and Clynne said, “Wait, wait. Yes, that was Seamus. I have no idea what he’s doing. I have no part of it. All I did was sell him some drugs. Tranquilizers.”

“Where is he? Where’s he staying?”

Too quickly, he said, “I don’t know.”

I smacked his face with an open-hand slap, saying, “Remember the trust factor, shitbag.”

He said, “Okay, okay. I can show you, but it can’t get back to me. I swear, all I did was give him drugs.”

I said, “Fine. Give me your wallet.”

He did so, and I went through it, looking for connections. I found several and laid them out on the table. I said, “Friends of yours?”

He said, “No. Just contacts.”

One card was for a Susan Clynne, florist. I held it to his eyes and saw the recognition. It was family. I said, “Get up. Walk to the front of the bar. You try anything, and I’ll kill you in front of the drunks outside. When I’m done, I’ll kill anyone you’ve ever known.”






65




We exited the bar without any trouble, and I said, “Where’s your car?”

“I don’t have one.”

I smacked him in the back of the head and said, “That’s not what the girl at your place told me. Where is it?”

He muttered something about a traitorous bitch, and I inwardly smiled at my subterfuge. Sometimes a bluff worked. He said, “Down the street.”