In The Absence Of Light (7 page)

“I haven’t even told you why I’m here.”

“Maybe I don’t give a shit.”

“I think you will.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been wrong. The door is that way.” I pointed just in case he’d forgotten.

Jeff stood and pushed in his chair. “Two minutes.”

“Two minutes too long.”

“I’m only asking for two minutes of your time. Just hear me out.”

“Why?”

“Because you owe me.”

How quick a man could forget someone taking a bullet for him. I dug my fingers into the counter to keep my fist from flying out and connecting with his face. Last thing I needed was to assault an FBI agent.  No matter how bad he deserved it.

“Start talking.”

“Carson Lorado has been in touch with a lot of your clients.”

“It’s a free country.”

“He’s up to something.”

“Probably looking for business.”

“We don’t think so.”

“Then what else could it be?”

“No clue. But what we do know, is that he made trips to Egypt, Russia, and Cuba.”

“That’s an odd combination.”

“Exactly. His movements don’t make a bit of sense. We were hoping you might have a way to find out what he’s up to.”

I crossed my arms. “You’re the guys with the millions in surveillance equipment.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

No, he wanted my contacts. The nonexistent little black book, at least outside my head. “Discretion, Jeff. It’s the number one rule. Right up there next to trust. Which I realize is a difficult concept for you to grasp.”

“Damn it, Grant.” He knocked his chair into the table. “This is serious. Carson is up to something and whatever it is it’s huge. So big that Ruford and Zada closed up shop and got out of town.”

Old-timers, but they’d evolved with the current market, moving from money laundering to drugs and guns.

They were men who shot first but made sure to aim for the knees. Then they’d pick your bullet holes while they asked questions. You lie, you died slow and painful. You told the truth and they’d make it a clean shot to the head.

They were not men who scared easily, and they were not men who gave up their business without bloodshed and a body count.

“Now do you understand?” Jeff said.

“Your two minutes are up. Should I walk you out?”

Jeff smoothed out his tie. I never imagined he’d look so good in a suit. And he did look good. “It’s okay, I know the way.”

“Jeff.”

He stopped in the doorway.

“Do me a favor. Next time you want to talk to me, call me on the phone. No need to waste the taxpayer’s dollars so we can yell at each other in person.”

He smiled, but it wasn’t happy. “Tax payers didn’t pay for my plane ticket. I did.”

With that, he left.

********

I blame my trip to Toolies on Jeff showing up at my door. Or maybe I just really needed a beer. Either way, I went, and Jessie had a glass from the tap on the counter before I made it across the room.

I’d waited until late in the evening, hoping since it was a Thursday, the place would be dead. It wasn’t crawling, but there were more liquored-up people than I’d expected.

A group of young guys took up a line of tables. Their shouts and laughter drowned out whatever broken heart song leaked from the jukebox.

I sat at the bar.

“Bachelor Party.” Jessie propped an elbow on the counter. “Preacher’s daughter is getting hitched.”

“Congrats.”

“For the third time.”

I choked on a mouthful of beer.

“Go easy on that. You drown on your beer and you’ll make me look bad.”

I wiped up the droplets with a napkin. “Can’t have that.”

“Nope. Sure can’t. So, where you been? I thought you and me hit it off and you’d be a regular.”

“Been working on my house.”

“Fall in on you yet?”

The grin on my face made my cheeks hurt. “It hasn’t fallen in, but I have gone through the floor a few times.”

“Just as bad.”

“Ruined two pairs of jeans.”

“Wear them anyways.”

“They look like Swiss cheese.”

“Don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but ragged out is back in style.”

I couldn’t help but think of Morgan. People moved around the bar, and others watched TV.

“He’ll be out in a bit,” Jessie said.

“Who?”

He raised an eyebrow at me, and I picked at a spot on the counter.

“I think it’s a good thing, myself,” he said.

This was not a conversation I wanted to have right then. “Business good?”

“Steady. Especially this time a year with all the truck drivers coming through. When it gets close to Christmas, it’ll get rough, then go dead until after New Year’s. I’d take a vacation in February, but the regulars would probably break in and raid the tap while I was gone.”

“Gotta love dedicated customers.”

“Want me to get you a burger?”

“No thanks. Wait. I thought the kitchen closed at nine.”

“Usually does. But with a bunch of drunk guys, I figured to keep them fed and they can buy more beer. A win-win situation.”

Someone at the other end yelled for a drink. Jessie knocked on the counter. “If you change your mind, holler and I’ll get you a plate.”

“You got it.”

He grabbed liquor bottles from the shelf and went to refill shot glasses.

Another tune came on the jukebox, sounding like the one before. Someone laughed high and loud, and the bachelor crowd let out a cheer. There wasn’t a game on so there was no telling what they were happy about.

Considering it was twelve twenty-something year olds doing all the yelling, it could have been anything.

They passed vulgar hand gestures back and forth. I bet none of them had ever built a house by the time they were twenty-two. It wouldn’t have surprised me if a few of them had never even held a job. I was also willing to bet every single one of those guys would fall for a certain toothpick prank.

“Hey, you.”

I turned on reflex. So did several other people sitting at the counter. But the trucker and his girlfriend weren’t talking to any of us.

Morgan cleared at the neighboring booth.

The trucker snapped his beefy fingers like he was calling a dog to heel. “Boy, I’m talking to you.”

I wondered how Morgan could ignore the loudmouth, until I noticed the two white strands leading from his ears to the iPod hooked to his belt.

Morgan picked up his tub of dishes and walked past the trucker to the table behind him.  His face reddened, and he turned as far around as the space between the bench and the table would allow. “You. Hey, you.” He moved to the end of the bench. “You listening to me?”

I gritted my teeth. According to everyone who knew Morgan, he was capable of taking care of himself, but it didn’t stop my pulse from hitting the top of my skull.

One dish after another, Morgan set them in the tub. Then he lifted a dirty glass up to the light and turned it back and forth.

The trucker got out of the booth and shoved Morgan hard enough to make him stumble back. The glass tumbled out of his fingers and the tub of dishes slid off the edge of the table. Silverware, broken plates, and food were tossed all over the truck driver’s boots.

“You mother fucker, you did that on purpose.” The man shook his foot in an attempt to dislodge the clumps of slaw clinging to the leather. “I oughta make you lick’em clean. You hear me? Boy?” He made a grab for Morgan.

Head down, shoulders slumped, and as far as I could tell, he wasn’t even looking at the man, yet he swung his arm in a downward arc with the kind of precision you rarely saw outside of choreographed fights scenes in movies, and knocked the man’s hand away.

Just as quickly, Morgan went back to standing like a ghost. The only change was his wayward hand going to his temple to toss thoughts. His usually controlled hand opened and closed over and over at his side.

The truck driver laughed. “What the hell is this?” He imitated Morgan’s tic.

I got up.

“Don’t.” I didn’t even notice Jessie beside me until he put his hand on my shoulder. “He’ll handle it.”

“Well, he’s not handling it.”

The truck driver brayed like a mule.

For the first time in a long time, I itched to have a gun in my hand. “Either do something, Jessie, or I will.”

Jessie curled his bottom lip and let loose with one of those ear-splitting whistles. The truck driver looked up. “Quit antagonizing my help.”

“Your help? You call this help? No wonder I can’t get another beer. You got retards working for you.”

No one deserved to be talked to that way. Definitely not Morgan. I started to walk over, and Morgan raised a hand at me.

The truck driver jerked his head at Morgan, and to me, he said, “This your girlfriend.”

By now, all eyes were on Morgan and the trucker, but no one said anything. No one stood up to help.

“Fuck this.” I shook free of Jessie’s hold.

Morgan lifted his chin, and his bangs slid back. In my line of business, I’ve worked with all kinds of people and I’ve met more than my share of stone-cold killers. Not because I wanted to but because it was business.

Only on rare occasions was I ever in their sights since most of them were there to pick up a package or accompany a large money exchange and nothing more. But once you’ve been in the presence of walking, talking violence, you’re forced to realize some monsters are real.

In that moment, that flavor of savagery rolled up at me from the depths of Morgan’s dark brown eyes. It was only a flicker, but it was enough to stop me in my tracks.

He knelt down and began cleaning up the broken plates.

The truck driver scuffed his boots across the mess, slopping food and bits of porcelain across Morgan’s apron. He moved on to picking up the silverware.

Patrons went back to staring into their glasses or watching TV. When Morgan had the last large shard tossed into the bin, he picked it up.

I’m not sure if the truck driver was looking to pick on someone the size of one of his legs or trying to show off. I don’t think it was to impress his girlfriend; she was slumped over her mixed drink and hamburger.

Either way, the trucker grabbed Morgan’s arm.

“All hell,” Jessie hissed.

Before I could get a foot off the ground, before I could shout out a threat to the son of a bitch truck driver, Morgan snatched up a shard of broken plate from the bin. The crash of broken dishes brought the room to another standstill, leaving the sad song of some lost love to serenade the trucker as he stared at the length of plate jutting out of his palm.

Jessie waved at one of the waitresses. “Call an ambulance.”

A high-pitched keen broke through the pause. Morgan balled up both fists close to his head. He turned like he wanted to run only to rock back. A tight grimace marred his face, and he shut his eyes so tight it made creases at the corners.

I ran over.

Jessie nodded at the trucker, still staring at his hand. “Make him sit before he faints.”

I didn’t give a rat’s ass if he fainted. As far as I was concerned, someone needed to push his ass into a ditch. I did as Jessie asked.

“He stabbed me. The little retard stabbed me.” The trucker showed me his hand. A trickle of blood cut a path down his arm and soaked the cuff of his flannel shirt.

“Yeah, well, you deserved it.” I never claimed to have good bedside manners. I lifted his arm. “Hold it up.”

“I’m gonna sue the little shit. I’m gonna sue this whole fucking place.”

“And shut your piehole before I stuff the napkin dispenser down your throat.”

“Look at me, Morgan.” Jessie made an attempt to cup Morgan’s face. “C’mon, son, look at me.”

Morgan jerked away.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Jessie pulled him back. “You hear me, this was not your fault.”

Now there was more blood and drama here than on TV, the patrons inched closer.

Jessie waved them back. “Please, go sit down.”

And just like you’d expect drunk people to act, none of them listened.

“Take him to the office. It’s behind the kitchen.” Jessie pushed Morgan toward me.

I tried to guide Morgan with a hand on his back, and he twirled to the side. His chest pumped with every breath, and saliva made white flecks on his lips.

“You’ll have to make him,” Jessie said.

The truck driver yelled at his girlfriend to call his lawyer.

“He won’t hurt you, Grant.” Jessie nodded at the kitchen. “Go.”

I touched Morgan’s shoulders, and he yanked away.

“Fine, you stay with him.” Jessie nodded at the truck driver.