while before I whispered in a serious tone, "So am I." I gestured
for him to join us. "Pretend you're a client, as revolting as that thought is to both of us."
He hesitated, his gaze flitting cautiously around the room. Then he jerked his head
toward Maurice. "Slide your hulk over, White."
Maurice, who had played linebacker for the Broncos in the early 2000s, glowered at
Stone and silently slid his two hundred and thirty-five pounds along the seat toward the wall.
After Stone had eased into the booth, he shifted his attention to me. "What are you two doing
here? It's New Year's Eve. Don't try to convince me you came here to party with all these
twenty-somethings."
"I wouldn't even try. We're here on business."
"I knew it!" He leaned forward aggressively, still speaking in a hushed tone. "Well,
so am I. And your business had better have nothing to do with my business!"
I shrugged. "Odds are, it does. I'm here on behalf of a client. He had a
twenty-year-old daughter who became romantically involved with a drug dealer, although she didn't know
that's what he was. When she found out, she tried to end the relationship. That proved fatal. She
was found dead in an alley in Capitol Hill, of a massive overdose of cocaine. You probably know
the gory details. Apparently, this bastard does things with a vengeance."
"The Collardine girl," Stone acknowledged grimly. "That's not one of my cases."
"Well, it's one of mine," I said. "And I've been hired to deal with her killer."
Stone's eyes narrowed. "Oh yeah? Deal with him how? If you think you can take the
law into your own—"
I raised a palm. "Calm down. I'm not planning anything like that. You know me
better than that."
"Like hell I do," he said. "So what are you planning?"
I took a sip of my drink. "I'm going to collect money damages on behalf of my
client."
His lips curled into a mocking smirk. "You're going to sue a drug dealer for
damages?"
"I didn't say anything about suing anyone."
"Then what are you planning—" He cut if off. "No, I don't even want to know. Get this
straight, Larsen. You two are going to gather up your coats and get your butts out of here, right
now."
When neither of us moved, he growled, "I mean it!"
"I know you do. But that would be a mistake." Calmly, I sipped scotch and water.
"Wouldn't you like to know what we've learned so far?"
He eyed me suspiciously, as though I was trying to lure him into a poker game with a
marked deck. His gaze shifted to Maurice and back to me.
Finally, he demanded warily, "All right, what have you got?"
With a satisfied smile, I casually surveyed the room, to make sure no one was
eavesdropping. The motif at The Bootleggers was that of a 1920s speakeasy. Hanging on the
wall near our table were "Wanted" posters, featuring Al Capone, Bugsy Siegel and Lucky
Luciano. Since it was the holiday season, garland was strung all around the room, and colored
Christmas lights glistened above the dance floor.
"This establishment," I explained, "is owned by three men who, at least to the general
public, appear to have nothing in common. For your information, they're all here tonight."
His eyes widened. "They are?"
I nodded. "I assume you know their names. If you were to turn left through the
doorway along that far wall and head into the so-called Back Room, you'd find Ernest Meeker at
the pool table, happily hustling the customers. In the past, he reportedly had a penchant for
breaking into other people's houses, although he's never been convicted of anything. Some
people refer to him as Second-Story Meeker."
"Go on," Stone urged. He was trying to sound casual, but I knew he was interested.
"I'm listening."
I continued, "In the far corner of this room, the wiry black gentleman sitting with his
back to us is Jackie Grant. He was the WBC middleweight boxing champion for about two years
in the late 1990s. He's known as Lightning Grant. They say you never see his overhand right
coming at you until you're already flat on your
for him to join us. "Pretend you're a client, as revolting as that thought is to both of us."
He hesitated, his gaze flitting cautiously around the room. Then he jerked his head
toward Maurice. "Slide your hulk over, White."
Maurice, who had played linebacker for the Broncos in the early 2000s, glowered at
Stone and silently slid his two hundred and thirty-five pounds along the seat toward the wall.
After Stone had eased into the booth, he shifted his attention to me. "What are you two doing
here? It's New Year's Eve. Don't try to convince me you came here to party with all these
twenty-somethings."
"I wouldn't even try. We're here on business."
"I knew it!" He leaned forward aggressively, still speaking in a hushed tone. "Well,
so am I. And your business had better have nothing to do with my business!"
I shrugged. "Odds are, it does. I'm here on behalf of a client. He had a
twenty-year-old daughter who became romantically involved with a drug dealer, although she didn't know
that's what he was. When she found out, she tried to end the relationship. That proved fatal. She
was found dead in an alley in Capitol Hill, of a massive overdose of cocaine. You probably know
the gory details. Apparently, this bastard does things with a vengeance."
"The Collardine girl," Stone acknowledged grimly. "That's not one of my cases."
"Well, it's one of mine," I said. "And I've been hired to deal with her killer."
Stone's eyes narrowed. "Oh yeah? Deal with him how? If you think you can take the
law into your own—"
I raised a palm. "Calm down. I'm not planning anything like that. You know me
better than that."
"Like hell I do," he said. "So what are you planning?"
I took a sip of my drink. "I'm going to collect money damages on behalf of my
client."
His lips curled into a mocking smirk. "You're going to sue a drug dealer for
damages?"
"I didn't say anything about suing anyone."
"Then what are you planning—" He cut if off. "No, I don't even want to know. Get this
straight, Larsen. You two are going to gather up your coats and get your butts out of here, right
now."
When neither of us moved, he growled, "I mean it!"
"I know you do. But that would be a mistake." Calmly, I sipped scotch and water.
"Wouldn't you like to know what we've learned so far?"
He eyed me suspiciously, as though I was trying to lure him into a poker game with a
marked deck. His gaze shifted to Maurice and back to me.
Finally, he demanded warily, "All right, what have you got?"
With a satisfied smile, I casually surveyed the room, to make sure no one was
eavesdropping. The motif at The Bootleggers was that of a 1920s speakeasy. Hanging on the
wall near our table were "Wanted" posters, featuring Al Capone, Bugsy Siegel and Lucky
Luciano. Since it was the holiday season, garland was strung all around the room, and colored
Christmas lights glistened above the dance floor.
"This establishment," I explained, "is owned by three men who, at least to the general
public, appear to have nothing in common. For your information, they're all here tonight."
His eyes widened. "They are?"
I nodded. "I assume you know their names. If you were to turn left through the
doorway along that far wall and head into the so-called Back Room, you'd find Ernest Meeker at
the pool table, happily hustling the customers. In the past, he reportedly had a penchant for
breaking into other people's houses, although he's never been convicted of anything. Some
people refer to him as Second-Story Meeker."
"Go on," Stone urged. He was trying to sound casual, but I knew he was interested.
"I'm listening."
I continued, "In the far corner of this room, the wiry black gentleman sitting with his
back to us is Jackie Grant. He was the WBC middleweight boxing champion for about two years
in the late 1990s. He's known as Lightning Grant. They say you never see his overhand right
coming at you until you're already flat on your
Similar Books
