KIN (19 page)

-17-

It was a Tuesday night, and McClellan's Bar was mercifully free of the rowdy crowds it entertained on the weekends. There were no businessmen with their ties slung back over their shoulders, shirts unbuttoned as they spoke to each other in roars; no manicured women in short dresses trying not to look desperate as they eyed the men who appeared drunkest, and wealthiest; no underage teens balancing false courage with crippling nerves as they waited to be asked for their fake I.D's; no couples canoodling in the red leather booths beneath veils of smoke, their hands touching as they preserved a blissful moment sure to be destroyed out there in the world where uncontaminated love was a thing of fairytale and film; no loud music as young men and women fed the jukebox in the corner by the restrooms; no girls dancing on tables, cheered on by their equally inebriated girlfriends; no aggravated men looking to start a fight with the first guy unfortunate enough to nudge against them while pushing through the crowd.

Tonight there was only the tired-looking barman polishing glasses that were already clean, a lone woman with long, tousled yellow-gray hair smoking a cigarette and staring at her own unhappy reflection in the mirror behind the bar, and Finch, who sat at the far end of the long narrow counter, away from the door but facing it, so he could see whoever entered. Kara had thought this habit—his refusal to sit with his back to any door in any establishment—a dangerously paranoid one, the behavior of a criminal, or a mafia soldier. He had never disagreed, or tried to explain it, but was glad that they had already broken up by the time he returned from Iraq, because it was much worse now. He had never admitted to her that his caution had been an affected thing, taken from some gangster movie he'd seen once in which one of the characters had professed an unwillingness to sit with his back to the door because one of his friends had been 'clipped' that way. Finch had liked that movie, though he couldn't remember much about it now, and so had secretly justified his wariness as good sense in a world full of unseen danger. Nowadays, the paranoia he'd feigned had mutated, become real. Nowadays he sat facing the door because he was afraid something dangerous might at any moment explode through it.

A woman in an abaya perhaps, a scared smile on her face as her hands moved to her waist, to the wires...

Elbows on the bar, he brought his hands to his face and scrubbed away the memory of blood and smoke. He could still smell it on his skin, all of it mingled with the scent of fear that forever clung to him. And when finally he lowered them, he sensed the woman at the other end of the bar watching him, and there was a presence to his right, standing unsteadily between Finch and the door.

"Whassup?" said the man, and smiled. He had short blonde hair, a tanned youthful face, and was obviously drunk, his eyes bloodshot, Abercrombie & Fitch clothes slightly wrinkled, his shirt untucked. Finch figured him for a sole survivor of a bachelor party, or an escapee from a frat house where the celebrations had been defused, leaving this guy to seek out any excuse to perpetuate his immaturity. An oddly feminine hand with delicate fingers was braced on the bar, and seemed to be the only thing delaying his inevitable appointment with the floor.

Finch nodded, and went back to his drink. There was only the woman in the bar with them, and given the lack of aesthetic appeal she would have in Frat Boy's eyes, he expected more shallow conversation to come. He was not disappointed.

"You look pissed off," the guy said. "Lighten up, man!" He brushed a hand against Finch's elbow. "S'early!"

Finch ignored him.

The barman materialized. "What can I get ya?" he asked the wobbling man.

"You got Sambuca?"

"No."

Finch noticed with amusement the bottle of Sambuca on the shelf behind the barman.

"Shit then, I'll have a beer. Make it cold though, okay, man?" He laughed at this, and turned to Finch. "Three fridges in the goddamn place, and not one cold beer. Ended up drinking vodka instead.
Vodka
. Russian pisswater, my friend."

Again, Finch said nothing, hoping it would be enough to carry a message through the drunken padding in the other man's brain that he was in no mood for company, at least of this kind. But instead, the guy moved close enough that Finch could smell his breath. He'd heard it said that vodka, once ingested, didn't give off a smell, a quality that, along with gin, made it the yuppie drink of choice, but he could smell it on this guy, which pretty much confirmed his theory that saying liquor of any kind didn't come with its own stench was akin to claiming no one would know you pissed yourself if you were wearing rubber trousers.

"You in the war or something?" he asked now, and surprised at his perceptiveness, Finch looked at him.

"Yeah. I was."

"Figured."

"What gave it away?" he asked.

The other man shrugged. "You're not the first guy I've seen tonight that got himself all messed up over there. The other guy didn't even have legs. Said he got them blown off in..." He struggled to recall the name, but gave up with a wave of his hand. "Over there."

Finch bridled. "What do you mean 'messed up'?"

The barman reappeared and slid a Budweiser before Frat Boy. There were still flecks of ice on the bottle. He nodded approvingly and dropped a ten on the counter.

"Besides," he continued, ignoring Finch's question and the tone with which it had been delivered. "My older bro was there."

"In Iraq?"

"Yep."

Finch pictured the type: Rebellious, conscientious rich kid, eager to prove he was worth more than
Forbes
would estimate in two decades time, eager to show his loveless father that he was his own man and not afraid to step outside the protective bubble his family's wealth afforded him. A casualty of wealth would become a casualty of war, one way or another.

"Can't understand it myself," Frat Boy went on. "No need for him to do that shit, know what I'm sayin'. Plenty other guys out there fighting the good fight. No offense."

"None taken," Finch lied. His perception of how indifferent and selfish society could be had been heightened by his time away from it. The kids coming up these days, and most of their parents, had no idea what the world was waiting to do to their children, no concept of the depth of evil that permeated the world ready to corrupt the naive.

The door squeaked open, and a tall, well-built black man entered. He was dressed in a red OSU sweatshirt, navy sweatpants and sneakers, and though he didn't look big enough to play football, he was too large to be mistaken for a basketball player. His head was shaved, and the gold stud in his ear glinted in the light. In his right hand he held a large manila envelope.

"Huh," Frat Boy said. "Lookit Billy Badass."

Finch grinned. While the wariness in the guy's tone undoubtedly stemmed from his stereotypical view of men bigger than him, it might have cowed him further to know he was right. The man at the door's name wasn't Billy, but "Badass" was right on the money.

Finch leaned back in his seat, so Frat Boy wasn't shielding him from view. The black man spotted him immediately and his lips spread in a winning smile, exposing large perfectly straight white teeth. He jabbed a finger at the booths lining the wall opposite the bar and Finch nodded.

"Friend of yours?" Frat Boy sounded disappointed.

"Yep."

"Huh."

Finch grabbed his beer, and headed for the booth halfway down. It was far enough from the door and Frat Boy to give them a little privacy, unless of course the guy decided to invite himself into the conversation. Finch hoped he wouldn't. It might force Billy Badass to live up to the name he had just been given—a name he might have liked, as it was infinitely better than his unwieldy real name, which was Chester "Beau" Beaumont.

"Orange juice if you got any," Beau told the barman and turned his back on him, leaning against the bar as he appraised Finch, who had just slid into the booth. "Slummin', are we?"

"Hey, I like this place."

"Wasn't talkin' 'bout the place, man." He looked pointedly up the bar at Frat Boy, who quickly looked away and started muttering to his beer.

"Just one of those kids in the middle of a transitional period," Finch said. "Going from idiot to asshole, though someday he'll probably end up owning half the city."

"He's welcome to it," Beau said, and nodded his thanks to the barman, took his drink and joined Finch in the booth. "I swear," he continued, as he settled himself and set the large envelope between them. "Every time I walk these streets I think we made some kinda bet with God and lost. I was down this way over the weekend and you know what I saw?"

Finch shook his head.

"Two guys in the alley, up by that clothes store with the funny name?"

"Deetos?"

"Yeah. Reminds me of chips. Well, here were these two guys right? One's down on his knees with the other guy's dick in his mouth. Nothin' funny 'bout that if that's your thing, but get this...the guy gettin' lubed is slappin' the other guy in the side of his head.
Hard
. Over and over again. Now, maybe I'm gettin' old or somethin', but if I got some babe workin' me down there, I ain't doin' shit to break her concentration, know m'sayin'?"

Finch grinned. "Yeah."

"Damn, I don't know if it's some shit I missed in all those porno's growin' up but I can't understand it. And hey, let's just say for argument's sake I'm the one doin' the lubin.
Strictly
for argument's sake, right?"

"Right."

"Well, I ain't lettin' the guy
privileged
enough to have me down there in the first place smack on my skull. One time is all it'd take and I'd have that motherfucker mulched."

Though enjoying the camaraderie and Beau's banter, Finch was eager to get down to business. He looked down at the envelope. "That what you got in there? Pictures of the one time you experimented?"

Beau smiled. "Naw. Any mother took pictures of my dick, they'd need a tapestry, not a camera."

Finch nodded. "I'm sure there's a whole wall in the Metropolitan reserved for it."

Beau slid the envelope to him. "I figure everythin' you need is in there. Sorry it took so long. Hard to find shit out if no one talkin'. You may as well be askin' what happened to a white supremacist in Compton."

Fingers trembling slightly, and aware that Beau's eyes were on him, Finch turned the envelope over. It wasn't sealed. He opened it and withdrew a sheaf of paper.

The barman, apparently bored of listening to Frat Boy complaining and the inaudible conversation from their booth, ducked down behind the bar. A moment later, soft bluesy music rose up and danced with the smoke.

"Looks like a lot of info," Finch said, examining the papers. He nodded appreciatively. "Hell of a lot more than I was able to find on my own."

"Yeah, there's some readin', but I don't think you gonna find everythin' you need to know. Lot more about the victims than the villains. Got names for them, but no faces and that was hard enough. They're like ghosts, man."

"Well, thanks. I know what you're risking here."

Beau looked around the bar. "I ain't riskin' nothin'. I'm a good liar if it comes to it. You, on the other hand, lookin' to get into a whole world of hurt if you're plannin' any Charles Bronson shit."

"My gun's a lot smaller."

"Yeah, and Chuck was a whole lot better lookin' but you get what I'm sayin' right?"

"Sure, and it's duly noted, but I can look after myself."

Beau gave a rueful shake of his head. "Wish I had a dollar for every time some dumb white boy said that to me. I'd be drivin' a Cutlass Supreme with Lexani alloys by now instead of a piece a' shit Toyota." He leaned forward. "And if I remember correctly, you were damn glad to have my ass coverin' yours back in the desert."

Finch didn't look at him. "I can handle it."

"Not what I'm sayin'."

"Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying ain't no man tough enough to fight a war on his own, especially if it's a personal one and he's outnumbered. You need my help, you ask."

"I did ask." Finch tapped a forefinger on the stack of paper.

"Don't play dumb with me, man. This ain't the first time I been sittin' across from a guy who looked ready to jump headfirst into Hell without an asbestos swimsuit. I knew when I was puttin' that file together what you were gonna use it for. Think I'm dumb? And I also knew what would happen if I gave it to you."

"But you gave it to me anyway."

"Wouldn't have if I didn't think you'd just find some other guy to dig it up for you, or go and dig it up yourself. Might have taken a while longer, but the end result would've been the same. Besides, like I always said, we look out for each other, and I guess I should be grateful you trusted me with this." He sighed. "Though somethin' tells me you callin' me up has less to do with trust and more to do with convenience."

Finch shrugged. "Told you in the desert if you went through with the crazy idea of trying to become a P.I. I'd drum up some work for you."

"Yeah, but I didn't think it'd be this kinda work. Work that could get your ass killed. Shit, if I'd known you had a death wish, I'd have let you die over there and saved us all a lot of trouble."