His face once again grew dark. “Yesterday? Another half dozen in the hospital, half of them kids.”
Shaw said, “How’s the cleanup coming?”
Harmon scoffed. “Slow, slow, slow... The city and county’re bankrupt. We have to go begging to the state and feds for help. Prying money out of their hands takes forever.”
Nilsson said, “And what is allocated to the cleanup? A lot’s unaccounted for. Millions are missing. And who knows where it went. Contractors, city councilmen, the state capital? Washington?”
Her boss said, “A reporter for a local TV station was investigating and...” He shook his head. “Died in a car crash. I’d do air quotes but I don’t do air quotes.”
“Contract hit?”
“Who knows. Probably. There wasn’t much of an investigation, I heard.” A sour laugh. “Ferrington had a lovely tradition of corruption even before the water issue.”
Nilsson said, “If it doesn’t get cleaned up soon Marty’s going to lose his shirt.”
Harmon, it seemed, was distributing free water to those in the affected part of Ferrington, which was a wide swath of the city.
He made a call on the intercom and a moment later his willowy assistant, Marianne Keller, appeared. “Yes, Marty?”
“Authorize disbursement of cash. Colter and Sonja’ll tell you the amount and denominations.”
“I’ll get the paperwork.” Her eyes took in the trigger and they glowed. “You got it back.”
Family...
“Mr. Shaw pulled a switcheroo...”
She smiled his way.
Harmon and Shaw shook hands, and this time the CEO did come in for a bear hug. He stepped back and frowned. “You really should think about that job offer. Good pay. Pension plan. And all the bottled water you can drink.”
11
The round man, in a navy suit and open shirt, was evenly tanned, a healthy color. His thick, swept-back hair was a shade that nestled between red and blond.
He looked up from his lunch, which was meatloaf or chopped steak, sitting on a solid white plate decorated with blue stripes, concentric, near the rim.
Eyeing Merritt carefully, he said, “Ah, Jon. Sit. Sit down.”
Merritt joined Dominic Ryan at the chrome-trimmed table in a dim corner of the Ferrington City Diner off Manufacturers Row. He looked around the large, dark breezy room. The walls, painted green, bore faded murals of muscled, thick-legged and broad-necked laborers, wearing overalls and fedoras, en route to their jobs.
The diner had been a popular feeding trough for working people when there were working people in this part of town. Then, it had been packed and noisy and boisterous. Men (and only men) in suits and men in overalls talked and gestured and laughed and argued and ate piled-high plates of food before heading back to the office or floor.
Now there were exactly four people inside, in addition to Ryan and Merritt. One was a large man in jeans and a black leather jacket, sitting with his back to the wall. A magazine was before him, but his eyes had been on Merritt as he entered. He now returned to the periodical.
Ryan sent a glance across the room and a waitress walked up to them. She asked, “Can I get you anything?”
“Coffee. Black.”
“Anything else? We got specials.”
“No.”
When she was gone Ryan said, “You okay, Jon?” The brown eyes scanned him closely.
Merritt muttered, “You know County. No sun in the yard. Food’s crap. Who wants to eat?” He absently tapped the inside pocket of his windbreaker, where sat the envelope containing ten thousand dollars he’d just withdrawn from a nearby branch of his bank. It was over the IRS reporting limit, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t a terrorist and he wasn’t a money launderer. Those weren’t things he’d been convicted for. There was more if he needed it. As part of the divorce, his ex had agreed to split their savings account. He wasn’t surprised all the money was there. She was perfectly capable of screwing him but not that way.
A nod of thanks to the waitress as she set down the cup. He took it and sipped. Didn’t really want any. But he was testing his gut. After a moment he concluded: no, it wasn’t going to come up again. He added sugar. Another test. Same result.
Ryan had more of his meal, cutting it with his fork. “I eat meat at lunch. At home, at night, June watches the fat.” He tapped his gut. Round, yes, but Merritt wouldn’t’ve worried about it. “Sometimes it’s just a salad. For dinner. You can believe it? And dressing? Low fat.”
Ryan glanced Merritt’s way, subtly. The rambling meant he was treading lightly. He’d seen Merritt out of control. Blood had spilled.
And this caution was coming from one of the most ruthless mob bosses in Ferrington’s history.
The man’s freckled face concentrated on the plate over the course of several bites, washed down with sips from his half-empty pint glass. Bass ale, Merritt could tell from the aroma.
He looked off again and he was not wholly present. He was thinking of — no, was seeing — the words he’d just read on the last sheet in the second envelope Larkin, the big guard, had given him: letters addressed to the discharge board. Three recommended his release. The last one did not.
My ex-husband is a brutal and sadistic man. Throughout the marriage I was constantly in fear for my and my daughter’s physical safety and emotional health. Our daughter has been in therapy for years. Only through regularly meeting with a psychologist is she able to cope with the trauma she has experienced throughout her life thanks to my husband — thankfully now “ex.”
He puts on a charming façade. Do NOT let him fool you. My therapist said he is a classic sociopath. Friendly when he wants to be, but cruel underneath.
But three to one.
And he was free.
After a couple more bites, Ryan brought him back. “Jon?”
“You ever come here as a kid?”
“Here? Sure. You?”
Merritt didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “With my old man, ten, twelve times.” He was staring at the mural. “Lunch break. He was at Briscow.”
“The tool place?”
A nod.
Those lunches were at a time when Jon was the star on the high school baseball team. He hadn’t wanted to come, never knew what his father might do or say, even in public: bully and insult. But the man had insisted, and if Jon had said no, things definitely would’ve been bad. So he rolled the dice and went. Usually it was okay. A little bullying, a little sarcasm. Not terrible.
When offers from the pro teams, even bush league, never materialized, the lunch invitations from his father stopped. And he didn’t have to worry about it anymore.
Merritt sipped coffee. The waitress came by and refilled the cup. He waited until she was across the room, then eased close to the Irishman. “I need two things, Dom.”
“If I can help you out.” Given who Merritt was, this qualification was required. But appended delicately, so as not to light any fuses.
“A piece. Not fancy. Wheel gun’s fine.”
Ryan didn’t ask if he was sure. Everybody knew that for a con who’d just been released, possession of a firearm was suicide: the fastest way to get processed back inside — the fastest way, short of using it, of course.
“When?”
“Now.”
Ryan’s brow furrowed. He nodded to himself and sent a text. The response was nearly instantaneous. “Twenty minutes. Out back. Expect a frisk for a wire. It’ll be energetic.”