Dreadlocks looked at Ben and frowned. Ben thought of something one of his instructors had once taught him, something he’d already known from innumerable street fights as a kid. But he liked his instructor’s formulation anyway:
When faced with violence, make sure you hit first, soon, early, and often.
Didn’t look like Dreadlocks had received that particular memo. Well, it was never too late to learn.
Dreadlocks uncrossed his arms and stepped in closer. Ben knew the stance was supposed to look confident, and he supposed it did. But it was also extremely stupid. It left the guy’s whole body open to attack.
“I’m gonna ask you-”
Ben didn’t wait for the rest of the question. He threw a hand forward like a guy pitching a softball. There was a nice, satisfying impact as his palm connected with Dreadlocks’s package. Dreadlocks made an oomph sound and doubled forward, his eyes bulging. Ben spread his fingers, raked in everything in the neighborhood, and squeezed extremely hard. The sound Dreadlocks was making changed to huuunnnnhh, and his face turned as scarlet and stricken as that of a man having a coronary. He wrapped his hands around Ben’s wrist but Ben didn’t let up for a second.
Ben looked around to make sure Dreadlocks didn’t have plain-clothes backup and that they hadn’t drawn the attention of any of the uniformed security up front. He didn’t see anyone. They were lucky the bar was relatively quiet at this hour, the security posture accordingly relaxed.
“I’m sorry, what did you want to ask me?”
“Hnnnnuuuunnnnnhhhhh,” Dreadlocks said, grimacing.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak hnuh. But let me ask you something. Answer in English, okay? Is Taibbi here?”
“He’s… here…,” Dreadlocks said, sounding like a human steam kettle.
“Good, I thought so. Now, in a second, I’m going to let you go. You try asking me any more questions after that, I’m not going to be so easy on you. Okay?”
“Okay,” Dreadlocks wheezed.
Ben let go and Dreadlocks dropped to his knees, clutching himself and making retching noises. Ben stepped past him through the curtain. Paula caught up and said, “What the hell was that?”
Ben glanced at her. “Just trying to break the cycle of violence.”
“You call that breaking the cycle of violence?”
“Well, there’s no more violence, is there?”
“How are we going to get any cooperation after that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t usually think that far ahead.”
Ben swung open the door and stepped into a small, rectangular room, only slightly better lit than the bar outside, Paula just behind him. A man was sitting in an enormous leather chair facing the door, leaning back, his legs up on a wooden desk, tooled-up cowboy boots crossed at the ankles. He had a head of shaggy gray hair and small, strikingly blue eyes set back deeply under a craggy, protruding brow. He didn’t flinch when Ben and Paula walked in. Instead, he pulled a few leaves off a plug of chewing tobacco in a pouch and casually eased them up between his gums and cheek. He closed the pouch and tossed it onto the desk. Then he slowly worked the wad into place with his tongue, watching them silently.
Taibbi, Ben thought. In his experience, any man who could be as relaxed as this one when two strangers barged into his office had a weapon within arm’s reach. If the guy’s hands went under the desk or into a drawer or anywhere else, Ben was ready to upend the desk and dump it on him.
“Who are you?” Taibbi said after a moment, in a deep Texas drawl.
Ben looked at him. “Friends of Harry McGlade.”
“Harry McGlade doesn’t have friends.”
Ben realized that was probably true. “Acquaintances might be a better word.”
Taibbi squinted. “All right, Harry McGlade’s acquaintances. What the fuck do you want?”
Ben said, “Information.”
Taibbi cocked his head and regarded them for a long moment, as though trying to figure out how two people this stupid could also draw breath. “Well, sure, absolutely, just ask whatever you want, I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Paula said, “We were hoping if we ask nicely, Mr. Taibbi.”
Taibbi spit a wad of tobacco juice into a cup. “The way you asked my bouncer?”
Either Taibbi was just coming to the logical conclusion, or he’d overheard the confrontation. Either way, it didn’t matter. Ben said, “He started it.”
Paula looked at him disgustedly, like he was the world’s biggest child. Ben looked back and shrugged.
Taibbi said, “He’s supposed to start it. He’s the bouncer.”
Paula was still looking at him, and Ben could almost see fumes coming out of her ears. He thought, all right, all right.
He glanced at Taibbi. “Well… I regret the misunderstanding.”
Taibbi smiled. “No, you don’t regret it. But you will.”
Ben was about to kick the desk over and straighten the clown out, but Paula said, “We really do apologize for what happened. My name is Special Agent Paula Lanier, FBI. We’re investigating a homicide, and have reason to believe you may be a material witness.”
Ben saw Taibbi’s pupils dilate from a little adrenaline dump. Either the guy had reason to be generally antsy about the FBI, or he was specifically nervous about what Paula had asked him. Or both.
Taibbi looked at Paula, then Ben, then back. He squirted tobacco juice into his cup. “Show me your credentials.”
Paula reached into her purse, pulled out her ID, and put it on Taibbi’s desk. He put his feet down, picked it up, squinted at it wordlessly, then handed it back. He looked at Ben. “And you?” he said.
Ben would have preferred to refuse, but he could tell from Taibbi’s demeanor that if the guy got the idea he was faced with other than legitimate law enforcement, he wasn’t going to tell them shit. He hadn’t said anything when examining Paula’s ID. It was a good bet that he’d read and return Ben’s silently, as well.
Ben handed him the Dan Froomkin ID. Paula glanced at it as it changed hands. Whatever she saw, she said nothing. The main thing now was that Taibbi feel a little cooperation would be in his interest.
The bet paid off. Taibbi looked, squinted, and handed it back. Ben slipped the ID into his pocket and said, “Now, what were you saying, about how we might regret something?”
There were footsteps behind them. Ben spun, ready to draw down. It was Dreadlocks, still somewhat hunched over, and two other guys in black T-shirts.
“It’s fine, Bobby,” Taibbi said. “We’re fine. All of you, go on back out to the bar.”
Dreadlocks Bobby gave Ben what he must have thought was a menacing look and turned to go.
Ben said, “Hnnnnunnnh.”
Dreadlocks’s face reddened. “Motherfucker,” he growled.
“Thanks, Bobby,” Taibbi said. “We’ll talk later.”
Dreadlocks limped out, the other two security guys just behind him. Taibbi said, “Okay, apology accepted. Now, what’s this about a murder?”
Ben was about to respond, but Paula beat him to it. “Our acquaintance, Mr. McGlade, explained to us how he retained you to follow the subject of an investigation of his, one Daniel Larison, whom Mr. McGlade had traced to San Jose. Mr. McGlade informs us that Mr. Larison murdered an associate of yours. We’d like to learn more about that.”
Taibbi was silent for a long moment. He drummed his fingers along the desk. Ben watched his hands.
He looked at Ben, then back to Paula. “Mr. McGlade told you that, did he?”
Paula nodded. “Yes, he did.”