Читать книгу Question of Trust - Laura Caldwell, Leslie S. Klinger - Страница 15

Twin Anchors was known for its ribs, but neither person who sat at the middle of the bar was hungry. The restaurant was also known for its love of Frank Sinatra and the fact that Old Blue Eyes had been in that very joint on more than one occasion.

A guy who called himself Freddie (he’d all but forgotten his real name) ordered a glass of Scotch.

His partner asked the bartender if he knew how to make something called a Michelada.

The bartender not only looked stumped, but he also said, “Huh,” then again, “huh.” He looked behind him, as if for backup. “I just took bartending school. I don’t remember that.”

“Don’t worry about it.” A Tecate beer was ordered instead.

They took a few sips, companionably sitting next to each other, not needing to speak right away.

The bartender returned. Apparently, someone at bartending school must have told him that chatting with the customers, whether they wanted to or not, would bring hundreds in tips. The guy pointed at some photos and articles pasted and shellacked behind the bar. “Those are all about Sinatra,” he said. “And the guy from Chicago who wrote a book about him.”

“So fucking what?” Freddie said, taking a sip of his Scotch. The guy had no idea that in Freddie’s past, he had waited in alleys and cut people for reasons much less serious than bugging the fuck out of him.

“It’s true,” his partner said, who was apparently smart enough to sense his menace. “The Chairman of the Board used to hang out here. On occasion. We all know that. Thanks.”

Freddie made a single motion with his hand, shooing away the bartender.

The bartender gulped and had the sense to turn around and start rearranging a wine refrigerator.

A moment passed. “So you think they’re freaked out?”

“Hope so,” Freddie said.

“Do you think they’ll get it?”

“Yeah, I think they’ll get it. Left the downstairs entry system enabled. Let ‘em know it’s not so hard to find out their little code.” That was true, for him; he’d worked for the National Fire Alarm & Burglar Association and the Electronic Security Association just to learn how to master every kind of alarm. “Then messed up the panel by her door. Tells ‘em we can get in, easy. They’ll get that. They’re smart. She’s a lawyer, and he handles his own company.”

“The company that can’t get itself together.”

“Yeah. But even with all those moving boxes, they’re gonna know someone was in that house. And even though we didn’t find anything pointing our way, it’s a little message that says ‘be careful.’ Really fucking careful.” Freddie had taken another sip of his Scotch, when the dipshit bartender returned, nodding at the pictures of Sinatra.

“Man, I wanna hang out with Sinatra,” the bartender said. “Or at least just have him at the bar here.”

“He’s dead,” Freddie said. And you will be, too.

“Hey, I’m just saying, somebody like him.”

Freddie pushed his glass away. “There is no one like the Chairman of the Board.”

“I know, but I’m saying someone—”

“There is no one. That’s the point.” He looked at his partner. “I gotta get the fuck out of here before I hurt him.” There was no way he was going back to Stateville prison. He was hanging on, hoping to keep his natural violent flair pushed down inside. He was hanging on. Just barely.