“I can guarantee you he’ll be more pissed if I have a black eye and I’m limping.”
“Jesus.” Fatty looks around, presumably to see if anyone’s watching our exchange. He scowls at me, and then lifts the bar hatch, allowing me to skirt around him and into the back. It’s dark and dingy in the stock room, the tight space crammed full of liquor bottles and snack food, as well as the dry store ingredients used to make breakfast, lunch and dinner each day for whomever happens to be kicking around. To the far right, in the shadows, the large steel door Jamie showed me stands, sealed shut, impenetrable. Except he gave me the code to get in if there was ever an emergency, so it doesn’t pose a problem for long. I punch in the numbers he told me months ago. He made me repeat them back to him so I would remember—one seven six three. The heavy door swings back, yawning open, allowing me inside. I don’t know why I’ve come. I just know that I want to piss Jamie off, and this is one sure fire way of accomplishing that.
Last time I was here, the desk to the left was stacked high with papers and all kinds of files, some of which were so full they were bulging open, splitting apart at the seams. The desk on the right was flanked by two huge computer screens, and a bank of tall servers sat behind it, humming quietly, lights flashing on and off at random intervals. The servers are still there, as are the computers, but now the desk on the left is tidy, a small stack of papers neatly lined up close to the edge of the polished wood. In the very center of the desk, a single file sits, the dark blue cover flipped open, and inside a picture of a tall, frightening looking guy in dark clothes sits on top of a few pieces of paper. He’s not looking at the camera. It’s clear this black and white image was shot from a distance without the man’s knowledge. He looks like he’s angry, about to climb into a car parked outside a huge warehouse—I think it’s a Camaro. I flip the image over and there’s another photograph underneath it, this time a close up of the guy’s face.
People always say that Jamie’s eyes are startling because of their stark color. This guy’s eyes are disturbing too, but they’re so dark they’re almost black. They’re full of rage and violence, as if he’s quietly simmering, fury flooding his veins, and any second he’s about to explode. There’s no doubt about it; this man, whoever he is, is a dark, dangerous individual, and I’d be happy if I lived a long, healthy life and never had cause to run into him.
The third picture underneath the close up is a mug shot. The guy’s holding up a black board with a string of numbers on it, and underneath it says, MAYFAIR, ZETH. The name rings a bell, but I can’t think where I’ve heard it before. The way he stares down the lens of the camera in this picture, his expression flat and lifeless, is even more worrying than the image previous. He looks like he’s hollow, dead inside. I find myself wondering what he did to end up with his mug shot being taken. Probably murdered someone, cut their head off and wore it like a goddamn hat or something.
I don’t know why I carry on flicking through the file, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I’m intrigued by the kind of information Jamie gathers about people, and to what end? What does he want with this guy? Admittedly there isn’t much to the file. Just a few printed out sheets of paper with very few details on them—the name Charlie Holsan. A Seattle address that makes my head thump. I know exactly where the address is, on the other side of the city from the hospital. An up and coming area where an apartment in a decent building will set you back a couple of million dollars. Is that where this guy lives? It doesn’t seem like his style.
More photographs at the back of the file. One of him talking to a tall, handsome black guy in a sleek, obviously expensive suit. Another of him sitting behind the wheel of the black Camaro again. The third and final picture makes my throat constrict. It’s a picture of the same guy, this Zeth Mayfair, and he’s dressed in bright orange overalls—the kind you’re issued in prison, which is clearly where he is given the chain link fence and the scary looking tattooed people in the background of the picture. He’s not alone. My throat has tightened, making it difficult to breathe, because he’s talking to someone in the picture, someone I recognize, and I’m finding it hard to believe what I’m seeing right now. It’s Cade.