Next to the headline was a picture of Jimbo, looking a couple of years younger and more clean-cut than he really was. Jimbo in the picture was smiling, with a full head of normally styled hair and clean-shaven.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing as I strained to read the article through my beer-fogged vision.
The article said that a jogger had been trail running in the woods near Walden Pond when he’d come across a body thrown into a nearby ditch. The police were investigating, but apparently there was enough damage to the body to indicate that it was a homicide. It also mentioned that Jimbo was a professional fighter but didn’t say anything about The Slaughterhouse gym.
I stared at Jimbo’s picture and thought about the first time I’d met him, being forced to fight him in that sweaty, blood soaked cage of Quarry’s gym. Since that day, we’d become friends, and I thought of him as someone that I’d know for the rest of our lives. As it turned out, that had been true—but not in the way I’d imagined.
Suddenly, a retching sickness overcame me and I ran to the small bathroom of the bar, pushing my way into a stall and falling to my knees, sick as I’d ever been.
After I was done, I sat there on the floor of the stall, dazed and dizzy.
Someone murdered Jimbo and now the FBI wanted to talk to me about it.
Could things possibly get any worse?
The answer was obvious: yes. They could get worse, and based on how my life seemed to be going, they would get worse. It was only a matter of time.
I got off the floor and slowly left the bathroom. Everything around me was spinning, blurry and unfocused. My mind was swirling and thoughts were scattered.
For some reason, I decided to call Agent Driscoll back. I knew I was in no condition to have an important conversation, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. Besides, I needed to find out what he knew about Jimbo’s murder.
I found myself outside the bar with the cell phone pressed to my ear.
He answered on the first ring. “Where are you right now?” he asked, a tension in his voice that was unmistakable.
“Don’t worry about me,” I slurred.
“Are you intoxicated, Justin?”
“Tell me what the fuck is going on.”
He sighed. “I think you should come and speak to me in person. I’m in D.C. but we can get you a flight out first thing in the morning.”
“I’m not going to D.C. to talk to you,” I said, swaying a little, pressing my back against the cold brick wall of the building. A punk couple with piercings, tattoos and combat boots strode by me, holding hands.
“You’re not safe on the street anymore,” Driscoll said. “Do you understand that?”
“Do you know who killed Jimbo?” I asked him.
There was a long pause. “No,” he said, finally. “But we have our suspicions.”
“I don’t see why I’m in so much danger. You think whoever killed him wants to kill me, too?”
Another long pause. “I can’t be sure. But we need to be very cautious.”
I shook my head as the whole thing started to click into place. “Jimbo was working with you, wasn’t he?” I asked, my voice shaking with rage and frustration and…a cold sliver of fear.
“Yes,” Agent Driscoll said. “We can’t be sure, but it’s possible that someone found out he was cooperating with our investigation of Quarry Davenport.”
“Jesus, you must think I’m a fucking idiot,” I whispered.
“Justin, listen to me.”
“No, fuck that. You listen to me, Driscoll,” I spit. “You screwed up and got my friend killed and now you want to screw around with my life too?” My voice was getting louder and louder. A bouncer glanced at me from nearby.
“Calm down and let’s talk about this.”
“You probably don’t even know if there’s someone leaking shit to Quarry from inside the FBI, do you?”
“It’s far more likely that James told somebody who told Quarry.”
“You don’t know that, though. Do you?”
He didn’t say anything.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Listen to me, Justin. You are not safe anymore. The biggest mistake we made was underestimating Quarry and the best chance is for you to come to D.C. and meet with us so we can establish a plan for your safety.”
“I’m not going to do that. And don’t contact me again unless you plan on arresting me.” I hung up the phone and put it in my pocket. No more phone calls, I decided. That one had been bad enough to last me awhile.
The bouncer was giving me a cautious sidelong glance. I stared back at him.
“Something bothering you?” I challenged him.
“Nope,” he said, looking away and shaking his head.
“Good,” I said, my hands still shaking. “Now let me back in. I’ve got some drinking to do.”
A minute later, I was back in the bar and the beer was flowing again. There was no thought involved, nothing except my decision to get as blasted and fucked up as I’d ever been in my life.
I wasn’t talking to anybody, I wasn’t socializing or partying.