survived.” But from the looks of him, the survival had come at a price. Hagan Marsden looked a hell of a lot older than his sixty-odd years. Every fiber and weave covering his body might be the best money could buy, but his hair was a muddy gray, and his face was lined and pale. But his eyes were the same, still feral sharp, and at the moment, gleaming with intent. The intent to what, Gus couldn’t yet figure out.
“Survived and prospered, Hammond. Survived and prospered.” He looked at the knife Gus fooled with on the table. “Still playing with your toys, huh? You’re damn good with those things, as I recall.” He touched a thin, white scar under his ear, a souvenir Gus had left him from the balcony episode.
“Good enough.” Gus set the knife back on the table. “What am I doing here, Hagan?”
“Applying for a job.”
“I don’t think so. You know damn well if I’d known who I was supposed to meet today, I’d have been on the other side of town.” Gus made to stand. To hell with the damn drink—this guy made his skin crawl.
Hagan’s hand shot out and clasped his wrist. “I don’t think so. Not when you hear what I have to say.”
Gus looked at the knuckles whitening from their grip on his arm, then hard into the eyes of the man they belonged to. “Let go. Now.”
Hagan released his grip and lifted his two hands in the air, palms facing Gus. “There, you see how agreeable I am.” He paused, and the lines in his face firmed and set. “Now, if that nice little nun will be half as agreeable, we’ll all be happy. What was her name again? Something Irish sounding, wasn’t it? Oh, yes … Sister Keeley Farrell.”
Gus reined in his shock just as the waiter showed up. “Your vodka, sir?” The server stood over them, tray in hand, his gaze darting between him and Hagan.
“No point in letting a perfectly good drink go to waste,” Hagan said, nodding at the tray, then settling back in his seat. “And bring some menus, will you? I’m hungry as a starved dog.” He glanced at Gus. “Plus we’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”
“How do you know Farrell?”
“I don’t. What I do know is that Dinah has been sending money—my money—to support that house she’s living in for over thirty years.”
“And you know this how?”
“Divorce has a way of exposing things—especially ugly divorces.”
“Then my next question is, so what? It isn’t the only charity Dinah supports.”
Hagan snorted. “It’s the only one she keeps quiet about. All the others are strictly for PR and name-dropping privileges.” He snorted again. “Do you honestly believe Dinah gives a shit about kids starving in some godforsaken African village, whether or not some poor schmuck knows how to read, or some fag somewhere is dying of AIDS?” He shook his head. “No way. All Dinah cares about is Dinah getting lots of good press.”
Gus couldn’t argue with that. “Same question. So?”
“So I want to know why she’s paid out thousands over the years to support a women’s halfway house, or whatever the hell it is, in the middle of nowhere.” He paused. “And why she quit paying the minute Mary Weaver went toes up.”
“For a longtime ex, you’ve got a lot of current information.”
Hagan eyed him coldly. “Dinah is the mother of my son. I make sure I keep up—make sure his interests are protected.”
“Perry’s a grown man, Hagan. He can look out for himself.”
“She’s threatening to cut him out of the will. When every fucking dime she has is mine—and Perry’s. I won’t let her do that.” The feral glint in his pale eyes set diamond hard.
“First off Dinah won’t do that, and you damn well know it. And even if she did, Perry wouldn’t give a damn.” But Gus didn’t put it past Hagan to use Perry as an excuse to get back at Dinah, stir the old resentment pot. Because if ever two people had raised marital discord and outright hatred to high art, Dinah and Hagan Marsden had. No
“Survived and prospered, Hammond. Survived and prospered.” He looked at the knife Gus fooled with on the table. “Still playing with your toys, huh? You’re damn good with those things, as I recall.” He touched a thin, white scar under his ear, a souvenir Gus had left him from the balcony episode.
“Good enough.” Gus set the knife back on the table. “What am I doing here, Hagan?”
“Applying for a job.”
“I don’t think so. You know damn well if I’d known who I was supposed to meet today, I’d have been on the other side of town.” Gus made to stand. To hell with the damn drink—this guy made his skin crawl.
Hagan’s hand shot out and clasped his wrist. “I don’t think so. Not when you hear what I have to say.”
Gus looked at the knuckles whitening from their grip on his arm, then hard into the eyes of the man they belonged to. “Let go. Now.”
Hagan released his grip and lifted his two hands in the air, palms facing Gus. “There, you see how agreeable I am.” He paused, and the lines in his face firmed and set. “Now, if that nice little nun will be half as agreeable, we’ll all be happy. What was her name again? Something Irish sounding, wasn’t it? Oh, yes … Sister Keeley Farrell.”
Gus reined in his shock just as the waiter showed up. “Your vodka, sir?” The server stood over them, tray in hand, his gaze darting between him and Hagan.
“No point in letting a perfectly good drink go to waste,” Hagan said, nodding at the tray, then settling back in his seat. “And bring some menus, will you? I’m hungry as a starved dog.” He glanced at Gus. “Plus we’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”
“How do you know Farrell?”
“I don’t. What I do know is that Dinah has been sending money—my money—to support that house she’s living in for over thirty years.”
“And you know this how?”
“Divorce has a way of exposing things—especially ugly divorces.”
“Then my next question is, so what? It isn’t the only charity Dinah supports.”
Hagan snorted. “It’s the only one she keeps quiet about. All the others are strictly for PR and name-dropping privileges.” He snorted again. “Do you honestly believe Dinah gives a shit about kids starving in some godforsaken African village, whether or not some poor schmuck knows how to read, or some fag somewhere is dying of AIDS?” He shook his head. “No way. All Dinah cares about is Dinah getting lots of good press.”
Gus couldn’t argue with that. “Same question. So?”
“So I want to know why she’s paid out thousands over the years to support a women’s halfway house, or whatever the hell it is, in the middle of nowhere.” He paused. “And why she quit paying the minute Mary Weaver went toes up.”
“For a longtime ex, you’ve got a lot of current information.”
Hagan eyed him coldly. “Dinah is the mother of my son. I make sure I keep up—make sure his interests are protected.”
“Perry’s a grown man, Hagan. He can look out for himself.”
“She’s threatening to cut him out of the will. When every fucking dime she has is mine—and Perry’s. I won’t let her do that.” The feral glint in his pale eyes set diamond hard.
“First off Dinah won’t do that, and you damn well know it. And even if she did, Perry wouldn’t give a damn.” But Gus didn’t put it past Hagan to use Perry as an excuse to get back at Dinah, stir the old resentment pot. Because if ever two people had raised marital discord and outright hatred to high art, Dinah and Hagan Marsden had. No
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