The kid scrunched his eyebrows together. “That sucks. Who was it? Maybe I know him.”
That was exactly what I was betting on. “Frankie,” I said, taking a slow sip of my drink. I let the name hang in the air, studied the guy for his reaction. I wasn't disappointed.
“Frankie?” he asked, scooting his chair towards me and lowering his voice. “Frankie the fucking Razor? He sold to you?”
Tapping the base of my glass on the bar, I nodded. “Yeah. He did until he didn't. No clue where the guy is now, guess he left town.”
“No man, no!” His fingers went up by his ears. “How the hell do you not know? It was all over the news, like, months ago and shit!”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, narrowing my eyes suspiciously.
Cupping the side of his mouth, the dealer huddled closer. “Frankie is dead. Shot, right in broad daylight.”
I put the beer down heavily, like this was the worst thing I'd ever heard. “He's dead? How the... that explains why I haven't seen the guy.”
Breathing out sadly, the kid looked me up and down. “I bought from him when I could, too. You're right about the quality. Guy who sells me blow now, it's like baking powder. What's your name?”
“Dennis,” I lied, reaching out to give him a rough handshake.
“I go by Juice.” He waved for the bartender to get him a drink. “Man, I still can't believe you didn't know.”
“It's a shame,” I said, trying to change the direction of the topic. “You said he was shot?”
Lifting two fingers, Juice mimicked a gun firing into his own chest. “Bam. Right in the heart. Word is it was a hit, real professional.”
Kite would have loved hearing that. “Someone wanted him dead. Who?”
“Got me.” Taking his can of beer, he lifted it for a toast. I clinked my bottle on the cheap drink. “Guy could be dangerous, you had to know that if you bought from him.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “In fact, I heard he was involved in some real bloody shakedowns. Insurance runs, big fires, that sort of thing.” I was thinking of Marina's story. Her raspy voice and clenched fists roamed my brain.
Juice was lost in his own thoughts, drinking his beer fast. “That's normal for them mafia families. When I chilled with him and Hecko, he was real friendly. Took us to the best titty bars.”
Mafia? My heart began thumping. “Who's Hecko?”
Burping, he crushed the can. “I haven't seen him in forever. We have no reason to hang out these days, what with Frankie gone. Wonder if he still has the same crazy green hair.”
Green hair? Hecko didn't sound like the man I was searching for, but... “I think I remember him,” I said casually. “Guy used to always hang out with Frankie at that place—that uh, shit...” I snapped my fingers rapidly, screwed up my face. “You know where I mean. I swear the name is right on the tip of my—”
“Tail End!” He clapped his hands once, grinning proudly. “I haven't been there in forever. Bet Hecko does still hang there. It was his regular place, though I preferred the strip clubs, myself—especially when Frankie paid the cover.”
My excitement was buzzing with this new lead. “Listen,” I said, patting Juice on the shoulder. “It sounds like things have been rough.” Glancing deliberately at one of the woman who was lounging nearby, I waved her over. “Let me buy you a dance, kid.”
Juice perked up, wriggling like a puppy as the girl approached. She leaned in to give him a hug, whispering in his ear. Meanwhile, she peered at me over his shoulder.
I slid her a fifty, winking.
Day one had gone well.
****
Tail End was squat, the outside crafted from faded bricks. The place reminded me of the old sea-side bars from decades ago. The kind that crouched on the edge of a dock, swirling with fog.
One bouncer sat in a chair outside. He looked asleep, but I fed him a twenty as I passed and his open palm closed around it.
This place was only slightly cleaner than the strip club had been. I repeated the same cautious steps I had there: find the bouncers, look for anything suspicious.
Hecko wasn't here. Or, if he was, he looked nothing like Juice had described. No one had green hair.
The only thing I could do was stake out the club and wait.
Across the street was a cracked, dirt colored motel. I rented out a urine-smelling room that faced the club's front entrance. I paid in cash, and the man who gave me my key barely looked up from the toaster-size television on the front desk.
Locking the door, I fell back on the stained blankets. Everything smelled like cabbage, but I'd camp out in whatever festering hole I had to.
Am I doing this to keep the plan moving? I wondered. Or am I doing this for her?
Marina.
Just thinking about her had my stomach tightening. When I was done with this mission, I planned to do something... nice for her. And for me.
Mostly for me.
That night, as I had every night since meeting her, I dreamed of Marina Fidel.