Chapter Forty-Four

 

RYAN

 

The guy, Donaldsen, looks at me like he's expecting some kind of response. I don't know what he wants me to look like. I don't make much of any response at all.

His goon's smirking in the corner like I've stepped on something funny. I almost like him. He seems like the sort of guy I could have a beer with. Hell, like plenty of guys I have had beers with.

All muscle and no brains. Just riding someone else's coat-tails up the ladder. It's a career path I could have been on myself, for a while there. Before I came down here.

They wait longer. I wait longer. Nobody's really saying anything, and they're not making much move to get me out of the room, which is how I like it, I suppose. I'd rather be here than on a plane.

Finally, the old guy opens his mouth, deciding that I would apparently wait all day. I would.

"Have you been read your rights?"

"Sure," I say. They did it all right and proper back in my brother's apartment. All while I screamed my head off that they were letting whoever had him go free. I can imagine, now, that they knew that at the time.

"And do you understand them?"

"Sure."

"How's Jada doing?"

I recognize the test about as soon as the words come out of his mouth. I'm not sure who's being tested—me or her.

"Who?"

I was hot when the other guy left, but this old man gave me plenty of time to get my head on straight. Plenty of time to remember that keeping my God damn mouth shut has always been the right way to go.

I've never heard anyone call her Jada. But this guy says it like it's not unusual. I wonder what that could be about, but I'm not figuring on finding out.

"Agent Davis? You'll remember if you've seen her—tall, black hair, attractive. I believe she was responsible for apprehending you a couple of days ago?"

"Sure, I remember her. What about her?"

"We've received some disturbing reports that she was working with you."

"I'm a bartender. I haven't hired anyone in years. It's a small place, my brother or I are always available."

"Ah, yes. Which brother would that be? Is that Logan, or…"

"We all own a part, but Brian mostly stays out of it. Logan takes most of the time that I'm not there."

"Is he there now?"

I chew on my response for a second. I'm not sure what he's fishing for, but I know he already knows everything. Now it's just a matter of not saying the wrong thing.

If he could pin anything on me without a confession, then he would have already done it. He wouldn't be in the room here gloating. So I'm going to have to choose my words real careful.

"We're closed."

I can't help but notice that the old man isn't taking notes. Nor is the goon, his suit gray stripes on black. The pattern's subtle. I like it.

"So your brother definitely isn't there?"

"Not unless something's changed and he didn't tell me about it."

The guy nods as if I've just given away the farm. Very grave, and he looks over at the guy behind him. It doesn't take a rocket-scientist to know that they've got Logan. They had him before they ever came into this room.

So why are they playing up the act like I'm giving information up?

I don't know. The truth is, I don't want to know. I don't need to know. All I need to know is that they're trying to play mind games, and I can't afford to fall for it.

He takes a minute, then pulls out a cigarette. As he stretches to reach into his jacket, I can see the nicotine patch on his neck. He bumps the cigarette out of the box, doesn't offer me one.

His friend doesn't look like he expects to be offered one. Doesn't look especially envious, either, which is probably smart. Those things will kill you, after all. I don't bother pointing out the 'no smoking' sign on the wall.

After all, I'm only dubiously certain of how legal any of this is at all. They're playing on very thin ice already. If they're willing to do things as fast-and-loose as this, then a little smoke isn't going to bring the hammer down on this guy.

"She's fucking you, isn't she?"

I don't have a response to it. I'm not about to say that she is. I've been a bad man for a long time now, but I don't generally make it a habit to kiss and tell—even bad men have standards.

"Yeah, I'd say that look says you are."

I hadn't given him a look. He seems pleased with his own deduction, though, and I can't take it away from him that he's right. It doesn't much matter that I didn't give it away if he's convinced.

"She's sweet, isn't she? Ohh, she thinks she's tough. She thinks she's so very independent. Then you get her on her back, and…"

I've had trouble with keeping my temper in check my whole life, and I'm feeling it now. Luckily, for me at least, it's been a problem my whole life.

It's not as if this is the first time someone's tried to goad me into a fight, and it won't be the last. Truth be told, it usually works. It might have worked now, except that I know I can't get out of this seat.

I take a deep breath in. The room already has the heavy stink of smoke, but I try to ignore it. I need to get my head clear, and I need to keep myself in check. I can't afford to go flying off the handle.

"What do you want, Agent Donaldsen?"

"I told you, we're here to take you into custody, Mr. Beauchamp. I just thought we could take a few minutes to talk."

"Can we have a conversation we can both be involved in? How do you think the Diamondbacks are going to do this year?"

His face sours. "I'm more of a Sox man, myself."

"That's fine, if that's the way you feel about it, but I don't know what tree you're barking up with this girl Davis. I met her one time, and she was pulling an act a hell of a lot like this one."

"So why'd she let you go? We had you dead to rights, son."

"Not enough evidence, I guess. I'm just a bartender. She comes in, she confirms my name, I pour her a drink, and a hundred guys come swarming in."

He's getting frustrated. I can see it in his eyes. But then again, so am I. I'm getting damn sick of these questions, and most of all, I'm getting sick of this son of a bitch. Now it's a question of who can last longer, and how long I can keep this up before he decides that play-time is over.

"Sir, do you think—"

The old man turns to look at his big friend, and from the glimpse I get of his face as he turns, I wouldn't finish the thought either.

By the time he looks back at me, he's managed to put the frustration behind him again. Like he never even lost his temper, but I know better than that. More over, he knows I know better. But it doesn't matter, not as long as I'm wearing these chains.

"So, you're a bartender. Tell me about the Ravens."