The man pointed a shaking finger at each of them. “Stay on your side of the bar. I don’t give a fuck who you are.”
“Why, Driscol.” Austin laid a hand on his chest. “He’s a rhyming poet.”
Connor came up between both of them. “Problem here?”
“Nah.” Bowen turned his back on the group of officers, an outright slight he clearly enjoyed delivering. “Who’s up next on the dartboard?”
“You are,” Connor answered.
Bowen nodded. “Come on, Shaw. I’ll practice my technique on your face.”
And just like that, they were back to enemies. Thank God.
Austin ordered a pint of Boddingtons from the indifferent bartender before following Bowen and Connor to the dartboard toward the rear of the establishment. He leaned back against the far wall, giving himself the best view of the entrance. It didn’t escape his notice that Connor did the same thing. Bowen, being the reckless one of the group, might as well have had a middle finger embroidered on the back of his leather jacket, facing it toward the door.
Austin sipped his ale, watching as Bowen threw a handful of darts. “A free afternoon, eh? What are the womenfolk getting up to without their bodyguards in tow?”
Connor sent him an annoyed look, shifting against the wall. “My mother took Erin and Sera shopping,” he grumbled. “Something about a boot sale.”
“You two would still rather be shopping than watching your beloved baseball. Wouldn’t you?” Neither of the men answered, drawing a chuckle from Austin. For the first time, the two lovesick fools didn’t seem quite so pathetic. Wouldn’t he rather be in disguise, watching Polly’s back? Christ, yes. “They’ll probably come home with those tidy packs of men’s briefs for you. Maybe some argyle socks…a sweater with room for your guts to expand. God help you both, you’ve been domesticated.”
“You’re goddamn right,” Bowen said, taking a slug of his Budweiser. “Sera knows better than to bring home underwear for me, though. I like to make it as easy as possible for my wife to jump me, so I don’t usually bother with them anymore.”
“Jesus,” Connor muttered. “We’re clearly spending too much time together.”
“Amen to that,” Austin said, contradicting the fact that he was actually sort of enjoying himself, too much information notwithstanding. He opened his mouth to needle Bowen further, but a hush fell over the bar, distracting him. All three men turned their attention toward the entrance where their newest squad member, Henrik Vance, had just walked into a sea of stony disapproval.
“No heartwarming reunions today, apparently,” Austin observed. Henrik’s ex-coworkers had obviously lumped him in with their band of convicts, likely thinking he should be in jail instead of on the Chicago PD payroll. To Henrik’s credit, he didn’t look the least bit concerned by the death glares being sent his way from every corner of the cop-filled bar. His smile was unconcerned as he swaggered toward the dart section, hands in his trench coat pockets. When Henrik reached them, Austin arched an eyebrow. “Right. It would appear, by your lack of fuck-giving, that you might be more suitable for the dark side.”
Henrik put his back up against the wall, his stance that of a man who wanted to be prepared for anything. “Both sides are the dark side, man.”
“Truer words…” Not for the first time, Austin pondered what the ex-cop had done to have his badge stripped. Now was the perfect opportunity to find out. Remaining in the dark about someone who worked closely with Polly was so far outside his wheelhouse, he could hardly glimpse it. Anyway, it had been far too long since he’d shown off. “What would you say, Henrik, if I told you I could have that group of cops buying us all drinks within ten minutes?”
“I’d say, great, I’m thirsty. But I want to know the catch up front.”
Austin split a look between Connor and Bowen. “I don’t detest him. Is that crazy? Tell me if I’m being crazy.”
Both former Brooklynites shrugged.
“Simpletons, the pair of you.” Austin straightened the collar of his shirt. “Fortunately, the same thing can be said about these particular cops. The Hoboken Bottle Cap bet should do quite nicely and it won’t take much time.”
Connor set his beer down with a clunk. “The Hoboken what?”
“Watch and learn, my not-so-eager pupils. This is your chance to observe a master at work. Or play, as it were.” Austin scooped a bottle cap off a nearby table. “All I ask is that you don’t dummy up the mark.”
Henrik scratched the dark stubble on his chin. “I was led to believe the entire squad was fluent in English. What’re you speaking?”
Austin strove to maintain his patience. “When you dummy up the mark, you tell a man—with or without words—that he’s about to be taken. You won’t be doing him any favors acting the hero, trust me. Humans detest the truth tellers over liars every day of the week. It’s proven in every election.”