Lea could feel the room pressurizing, and normally, she would worry for four strangers in a bar full of hostile regulars, but something about the four men’s bearing made her think that it was the regulars who would regret starting anything. The regulars felt it too and milled about, unsure what to do about the situation. The accustomed ebb and flow of the Toproll had been disrupted. The established hierarchy, so critical to the peaceful coexistence of a bar full of alcoholics, was under threat. Nothing was in its assigned place.
Earlier, Old Charlie had stuck his head in the door just far enough to see his stool was occupied, turned tail, and fled into the night. Might be the only wise thing that she’d ever seen him do. The men in Old Charlie’s space were actually wearing suits. The first two suits she’d ever seen in the Toproll. One of them had ordered, and was actually drinking, a glass of white wine. His companion kept playing songs on the jukebox that Lea had never heard in here before, which was amazing because Margo hadn’t put in a new CD the entire time Lea had worked there. He’d played about twenty dollars of music so far, and no one else’s stuff was getting played. A small thing, but in the delicate, alcohol-fueled hothouse of a bar, way over the line.
The two waitresses stood at the service bar and traded war stories while Lea made drinks for their tables. One had served a group of three men who’d ordered in faint Russian accents, then waited in eerie silence. The waitress was spooked. “They don’t say nothing. They just stare at each other like telepathy, you know? Weird.”
Down the bar, Margo was watching her crowded bar with a smile borrowed from Jimmy Temple. The place was busier than it had been in a year, and they were on the way to their best night in a long time. Anger had a way of making people thirsty.
“Did I miss where we became a tourist trap?” Lea asked when they bumped into each other at the cash register.
“Hey, their money spends.”
“’Nother beer, darling,” Tommy Hillwicky drawled over the din, enjoying having Lea fetch him things.
Margo winked at her. “Make nice. Money is money.”
Lea brought Hillwicky his beer as the door opened and more new faces entered. It was the two men who’d arrived at the hotel this morning. They were an odd pair, and given a hundred guesses, she’d never have put them together. The little one—with the trash bag for a suitcase—looked like he’d been drinking in the Toproll since birth. He studied the crowd as if he were sizing up tonight’s first fight. Tattoos sprawled from his collar and sleeves, and she’d give odds that everything he wore came from Walmart. His partner, on the other hand, didn’t belong, but she couldn’t say why. He just didn’t fit in, and she would have been hard-pressed to say where he would. He was a decent-looking guy with a neatly trimmed beard, melancholy eyes, and the blueprint of a cocky, just-read-your-diary smile. He met her gaze and held it. A flicker of something passed across his face that made her stomach flutter unpleasantly. Knock that shit off, she warned herself. Next thing she knew, she’d be clutching her pearls and fanning herself. She put her head down and got back to work. When she glanced up, the two had disappeared into the back room, looking for a table.
Over the next couple of hours, the bar picked up yet another notch. Lea and Margo poured beers steadily, and neither had time to worry about Tommy Hillwicky or any of the unfamiliar faces in the bar.
“What’ll you have?” Lea asked, moving blindly to the next customer.
“Whatever. Beer.”
Lea looked up, recognizing the voice. Parker stood there in his uniform. She poured him a fast beer, and he hooked his head toward the back. It wasn’t their scheduled day, and Parker wasn’t in the habit of going the extra mile, so whatever had dragged him away from his movies must be important.
Lea waited ten minutes before telling Margo she was taking her break. She dropped a fresh bowl of bar mix in front of Parker and slid into the booth opposite him. The poker game was finally under way, and tension had eased a little. Across the room, the mismatched men were locked in animated conversation. Lea would have loved to know about what. Instead, she turned her attention to Parker.
“Your cable out?”
“Slaski.”
Lea felt her breath catch. “You’re sure?”
Parker nodded. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
He told her about Slaski clearing the library for Merrick so Merrick could use Slaski’s phone. The only reason an inmate would need the library, he explained, was that it offered the best cell signal in the prison. Lea felt jubilation but hid it with a subdued fist pump under the table. Her mind raced ahead. How to get her hands on that phone, see who he’d been calling. Might be enough to give her back the edge. She would need to move quickly, but she felt optimistic for the first time since reading the interview.
“What?” Parker asked.
“Nothing. Surprised he was so careless.”
“Had something to do with the visit he had yesterday.”
“Not his lawyer again? Henry Susman?”
Parker shook his head. “Some fella named Lee Wulff. Didn’t see him, but he rattled your boy good.”
“Okay,” she said. “Tell me everything you know about Slaski.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
A pall of animosity more toxic than the haze of cigarette smoke hung over the bar. It took more than an hour to get food. The bar was busy but not so busy that it should take fifteen minutes before someone even dropped menus at the table. In the same time, Gibson watched the middle-aged waitress make three trips to the poker table and the group of Niobe Prison guards shooting pool. When she finally dropped off their menus, Gibson ordered a pitcher of beer in case she took her time coming back to take their order—Swonger was thirsty work.
“This is discrimination,” Swonger groused.
“Don’t start.” But Swonger had a point; it was not the friendliest bar.
Gibson looked over each of the prison guards, all still in uniform. Scrutinized how they carried themselves and interacted with each other. He would need a set of eyes inside the prison, and guards’ salaries should make them susceptible to a well-aimed bribe. Still, none of them felt right to him. Fortunately, the place was thick with off-duty prison guards, and there were a few more options in the front room. He’d take a closer look after he ate. Where was that waitress?
When the food finally came, they ate in hungry silence. Swonger drowned his burger in ketchup and mayo and ate it with an ex-con’s wariness, head down and fast, like someone bigger and stronger might try to take it from him. Ignoring the French fries until he’d devoured the protein. When his plate was clean, Swonger pushed it away and fished around in a pocket for paper and a pencil. It was a list, and beside each item was a number. Swonger went over his columns, lips moving as he added the sums, making adjustments and additions as he went. An unfamiliar smile crept over his face as he worked.
“What are you working on?”
“Nothing,” Swonger said, then, “You know. Just what I’m going to do with my share. Of the money.”