Chapter 1.14
“Exotic,” Sadie pronounced the Vietnamese take-out. She provided a few more details from the night of the murder.
“Shit.” Dagger looked at his watch: 6:30.
He had two hours and twenty-five minutes according to the local meteorologist’s report. Not a lot of time to work with, but perhaps worth a try.
It was a strip club on Folsom Street, with a twenty-dollar cover charge that left him only a twenty in his wallet. The neon was pink and purple, twisting like spaghetti along the ceiling and above the small stage. Three women undulated on it, two of them human, one of them a slight green fey with gossamer butterfly wings that sparkled like glitter, a looker and a half, he thought. The trio had gotten rid of whatever they’d been wearing before Dagger had come in.
A waitress with a few too many pounds for her G-string toddled over and pointed to a table. Dagger shook his head and said something. She shrugged, not hearing him over the new age music that blasted from speakers in the bar.
He leaned close, his keen senses picking up her cologne—cheap, along with the scent of cigarettes on her breath, perspiration, and deodorant that was failing her. “Sly Redmond. I’m looking for Sly.”
She pouted, and waved to a booth at the very back by an emergency exit sign. “You a friend of his?”
“No.” Dagger brushed by her. He could feel the beat of the bass coming up through the soles of his shoes; it was that loud. Already he had a headache from this place. The odors of beer and whiskey were nearly strong enough to choke him. Keen senses were hell sometimes.
Only half the tables were occupied, but it was early for a place like this, especially on a Friday night.
He sat opposite a man that weighed more than three hundred pounds, barrel chest wedged against the table in the booth so that some of the fat spilled over on the surface. He was Latino, with a tattoo like the men in the restroom at the biker bar, a similar scar on his face marking some sort of prison rite of passage. Dagger glanced at his watch.
“Do I know you?” The man’s words had a roundness to them; he’d been drinking.
“No.”
He leaned forward, as much as the table allowed him. There was a meanness to his dark eyes. Dagger met his stare.
“Sly, you own a car I’m interested in.”
“I don’t think so.”
The waitress came by and set a beer in front of the big man then looked to Dagger.
“Nothing right now.”
She shrugged and jiggled away.
“A Buick. A rusted-to-shit Buick.”
The big man gripped the edge of the table and started to squeeze out of the booth. Dagger was fast. He was up and out of his side and into the other wedged against Sly. In the same motion he’d pulled a gun and pressed it against the man’s stomach.
“It wasn’t you driving the Buick last night,” Dagger said. With his free hand he picked up the beer and took a drink. Nothing special, he pushed it away. “That was a man with your height but not your girth. Your brother. Brother-in-law.”
“He’s not here.” The man’s eyes flitted toward the bar. “He’s not—”
“That’s the problem with taking a booth like this, eh? Too far from the action. Nobody to see the Berretta.” He pushed it harder.
“My brother-in-law—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. He’s not here. He’s the one who told me where I could find you.”
The big man moved, using his bulk to shove Dagger out of the booth. He pushed off on the table, tipping it and spilling the beer, drawing the attention of a passing waitress, who gave them a look and then rushed toward the bar, waving her empty tray to get someone’s attention.
Dagger shoved the Berretta in the waistband of his jeans and spun behind the man, reached up and grabbed his collar and a handful of the back of his shirt and propelled him toward the back door, conveniently located only a few feet away. Behind him the club was buzzing with “what’s going ons?”
“That’s the problem with a booth like that, makes it tougher to get help,” Dagger told him. An alarm sounded; it was some sort of a fire door, the alarm also serving as a warning that maybe customers were leaving without paying their bills.
The alley behind the club was cluttered with overflowing trash bins. Garbage pickup must be tomorrow, Dagger thought, given the sheer amount of accumulation.
“I figure I don’t have a lot of time to do this civilized,” Dagger said, pushing Sly farther from the club. The man struggled against him, but he was bulk without muscle, and he’d apparently had enough to drink that he was uncoordinated.
“They’ll come after you,” Sly said, his words still round from alcohol. “You can’t get away from this.”
“You better hope they don’t come out here.” The last time Dagger had glanced at his watch it had read 8:45. “And you better talk very fast, or unfortunately for the both of us, I’m going to tear into you.”
The fire door opened behind them, and Dagger heard men tromp out, two or three; he wasn’t going to turn around and look.
“This isn’t your concern!” he called to them. He gave Sly another shove and dug his fingers into the back of his neck. “Tell them to leave it.” Dagger’s voice had changed, sounding gravelly. He growled for emphasis.
“It’s okay,” Sly shouted. “Go back inside.”
There was some shuffling, and then the door closed. It sounded like they were alone again, but Dagger suspected there would be more company soon. Muscles bunched in Dagger’s neck. This was the second time today he’d not been especially smart—following the guy into the bathroom in the biker bar and working tonight. He’d told Evey he wouldn’t. He should have stuck to that.
Dagger threw the guy down and rolled him over, dropped to his knees on his stomach and grabbed the man’s thick throat. Sly struggled, and in the light from a bare bulb hanging over a business’s back door Dagger saw the man’s eyes bug out. He quit wiggling and Dagger eased up.
“You need to talk fast,” Dagger growled. He felt veins rising in the sides of his neck, felt his heart hammering in his chest. “You sent your brother-in-law after Thomas Brock.”
“Wh-wh-who?” Sly managed.
“The young attorney.”
Sly’s eyes glimmered with understanding.
“Why did you want him dead?”
“Following orders,” Sly said. “Paying a debt.”
“I get that.” Dagger pressed in again and watched the eyes bug wider. “Who’s holding your leash, Sly? And why did they want Thomas Brock dead?”
“Not just Brock. The woman, too. The redhead too. Everyone in that office. All of them dead.”
Sly told him a little more before Dagger pushed off him, his blood running hot and hurtful.
Dagger loped out of the alley.