truth, we’re going to have to take action.”
She could not go back into that room. She crept to the front door.
“There’s this man from Chicago I told you about,” Bill continued. “Someone who knows the appropriate methods and procedures.”
Leonora appeared. “Arlene.”
“Leonora, I’m sorry. I’m not feeling the best. Please pass on my apologies.”
Leonora was flushed. In spite of her sympathy for Arlene, the meeting excited her. “They want to hire a private detective.”
“Do they? Well, I don’t care what they want. I shouldn’t have come here.”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.”
Arlene trembled. “I have to go.”
“Are you all right?”
“I just need to get home.”
“Of course. You go on home. Come by tomorrow. When Cal’s at work.”
Jones’s booming voice filled the hallway. “A detective? A white detective?”
She hurried out the door. As she left, Bill said, “Call him what you will, Lucious. But we need someone on our side.”
10.
Friday was payday in West Bottoms, and the saloons were jammed from four o’clock. By the time Emmett got to Billy Christie’s it was well after midnight, and the place was a pool of sweat and whiskey, a roaring party with a pall of smoke as thick as London fog. He elbowed his way through the din and found Mickey in a back-room booth with Jem Boyle and Fat Jack Harte. Not the boys he would choose to meet on a night like tonight, especially with a few drinks on them. At least Emmett’s dad wasn’t with them.
“The counselor,” Fat Jack said, sticking out his lower lip. He sat squat and pear-shaped in the booth, a raw, nicked hand around his pint.
“Mr. Harte.”
“Don’t Mister Harte me, Sonny Boy. Man of your station needn’t stand on ceremony.”
He took a long slow pull of his stout and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Boyle smirked at Emmett’s old neighborhood nickname. Sitting beside him, Mickey watched carefully.
“How’s Jem?” Emmett said.
He got back the barest of nods.
“Burning the midnight oil?” Fat Jack asked.
Emmett was aware of the cut of himself: dark suit, silk tie, red-leather briefcase. Aware, too, that Jem was a street cop and reputed bagman for George Rayen, head of the car theft bureau. Word was, you wanted a deal on a second-hand Packard, you went to Jem.
“Doing what I have to,” Emmett said.
“Hard work keeping the county clean.”
“Hard enough.”
A lot harder than drinking and bullshitting all day, Emmett wanted to say. Or shaking down gas station owners and tow truck companies at twenty bucks a pop.
“Young Mickey here has been regaling us with details of your storied success,” Fat Jack said with old-country sarcasm. “Your climb up the social ladder. Your palatial workplace.”
Mickey looked like he had swallowed a worm.
“A soft chair doesn’t make the work any easier,” Emmett said.
Boyle laughed out loud. He and Emmett had been rivals since high school, on the football field, with the girls, in the classroom. He had dropped out of law school and entered the police academy on the rebound. Out-distanced Emmett as a drinker only and carried his resentment like a shillelagh.
“Soft chair makes for a soft arse,” Fat Jack said.
“All the better for taking a swift kick,” Boyle added.
“Jesus, Boyle, I was beginning to think you were doing us all a favor and keeping your dirty gob shut.”
“Fuck you, Whelan.”
“And as for a soft arse,” Emmett said to Fat Jack, “that leather you’re sitting on is fucking groaning .”
Boyle had his hands on the table and was trying to get up. Mickey, on the outside, kept him pinned. Fat Jack laughed. “Ah, don’t be like that young Whelan. What would your old man think?” He cleared his throat and spat into a dirty handkerchief. “He was in earlier. As it happens.”
“My dad?”
Fat Jack took another long pull of the pint. As if he knew Emmett hadn’t seen his dad in nearly a month. “Always
She could not go back into that room. She crept to the front door.
“There’s this man from Chicago I told you about,” Bill continued. “Someone who knows the appropriate methods and procedures.”
Leonora appeared. “Arlene.”
“Leonora, I’m sorry. I’m not feeling the best. Please pass on my apologies.”
Leonora was flushed. In spite of her sympathy for Arlene, the meeting excited her. “They want to hire a private detective.”
“Do they? Well, I don’t care what they want. I shouldn’t have come here.”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry.”
Arlene trembled. “I have to go.”
“Are you all right?”
“I just need to get home.”
“Of course. You go on home. Come by tomorrow. When Cal’s at work.”
Jones’s booming voice filled the hallway. “A detective? A white detective?”
She hurried out the door. As she left, Bill said, “Call him what you will, Lucious. But we need someone on our side.”
10.
Friday was payday in West Bottoms, and the saloons were jammed from four o’clock. By the time Emmett got to Billy Christie’s it was well after midnight, and the place was a pool of sweat and whiskey, a roaring party with a pall of smoke as thick as London fog. He elbowed his way through the din and found Mickey in a back-room booth with Jem Boyle and Fat Jack Harte. Not the boys he would choose to meet on a night like tonight, especially with a few drinks on them. At least Emmett’s dad wasn’t with them.
“The counselor,” Fat Jack said, sticking out his lower lip. He sat squat and pear-shaped in the booth, a raw, nicked hand around his pint.
“Mr. Harte.”
“Don’t Mister Harte me, Sonny Boy. Man of your station needn’t stand on ceremony.”
He took a long slow pull of his stout and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Boyle smirked at Emmett’s old neighborhood nickname. Sitting beside him, Mickey watched carefully.
“How’s Jem?” Emmett said.
He got back the barest of nods.
“Burning the midnight oil?” Fat Jack asked.
Emmett was aware of the cut of himself: dark suit, silk tie, red-leather briefcase. Aware, too, that Jem was a street cop and reputed bagman for George Rayen, head of the car theft bureau. Word was, you wanted a deal on a second-hand Packard, you went to Jem.
“Doing what I have to,” Emmett said.
“Hard work keeping the county clean.”
“Hard enough.”
A lot harder than drinking and bullshitting all day, Emmett wanted to say. Or shaking down gas station owners and tow truck companies at twenty bucks a pop.
“Young Mickey here has been regaling us with details of your storied success,” Fat Jack said with old-country sarcasm. “Your climb up the social ladder. Your palatial workplace.”
Mickey looked like he had swallowed a worm.
“A soft chair doesn’t make the work any easier,” Emmett said.
Boyle laughed out loud. He and Emmett had been rivals since high school, on the football field, with the girls, in the classroom. He had dropped out of law school and entered the police academy on the rebound. Out-distanced Emmett as a drinker only and carried his resentment like a shillelagh.
“Soft chair makes for a soft arse,” Fat Jack said.
“All the better for taking a swift kick,” Boyle added.
“Jesus, Boyle, I was beginning to think you were doing us all a favor and keeping your dirty gob shut.”
“Fuck you, Whelan.”
“And as for a soft arse,” Emmett said to Fat Jack, “that leather you’re sitting on is fucking groaning .”
Boyle had his hands on the table and was trying to get up. Mickey, on the outside, kept him pinned. Fat Jack laughed. “Ah, don’t be like that young Whelan. What would your old man think?” He cleared his throat and spat into a dirty handkerchief. “He was in earlier. As it happens.”
“My dad?”
Fat Jack took another long pull of the pint. As if he knew Emmett hadn’t seen his dad in nearly a month. “Always
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