The Hair of the Dog had a large outdoor seating area, where patrons sat drinking beer and watching one another or one of the fifteen flat-screen televisions running ESPN. A banner stretched across the front of the bar read SHOTS AND BEER. RED MEAT. THAT’S IT. Charming.
“Most dive bars don’t open up with the intent of being a dive,” I said. “I think that’s the difference.”
Sam picked up the binoculars from between us and trained them on something in the distance. “What I like about this place,” he said, “is that it’s not trying too hard. Tough guys like to go to a place with a lot of flat-screen televisions. Known fact.”
“And the smell of freshly baked bread wafting over from Panera is probably nice, too,” I said.
“Cuts down on that meth rank,” Sam said. “What I don’t get, Mikey, is how the girls on the patio don’t all get chest colds.”
“It’s ninety degrees outside, Sam.”
“Still,” he said. “Whooping cough is going around. I should warn each of them personally.”
“You looking at the girls, Sam, or do you have something else of interest on the other side of the binoculars?”
“Both,” he said. “I think I’ve got our guy.” He handed me the binoculars. “Look at two o’clock. Just to the right of the Apple Store. Down the second spoke. White shirt. Big floppy white hat.”
I looked where Sam told me and saw a man wearing a white shirt and a big floppy white hat sitting on a bench… staring back at me through binoculars, too. “I think we’re made,” I said. I waved and White Shirt waved back.
“Think so?”
“You said he was an expert in game theory warfare,” I said. “You weren’t kidding.”
“He probably thought the kid would bring cops,” Sam said. “Statistically speaking, the odds favored him bringing someone, right?”
“Let’s go tell him we’re someone, then,” I said. “Ease his mind.”
We got out of my Charger and walked across the parking lot toward Big Lumpy, but he didn’t bother to get up and meet us. Either he had guys getting ready to grab us and throw us into the back of a van or he was just rude.
My bet was that he didn’t care much for etiquette. NSA guys tend to think the world revolves around them, perhaps because they tell themselves that every day at work as they issue warnings and edicts about national security. But it was always men like me who ended up doing the dirty work.
When we reached the Hair of the Dog, Big Lumpy finally got up from the bench and made his way over. Sandy blond hair poked out of the bottom of his white hat and I could see that although he’d graduated from college at a young age, the years hadn’t been a friend to him-he had deep lines around his eyes and mouth and red splotches on his nose and cheeks. But as he got closer to me, I realized that those lines and splotches weren’t the weight of time: He had skin cancer. Or was healing from it. For a guy who was supposedly the meanest, most violent man alive, he didn’t look like much.
“You’re early,” Big Lumpy said as a way of introduction. “Where’s the kid? A safe house in Phoenix or something?”
“Something,” I said.
A hostess wearing a name tag that said SANDY! on it greeted us and asked us where we’d like to sit. Another new invention: a dive bar with a perky hostess. “Outside is fine,” Big Lumpy said. “I already have cancer, after all. What’s the worst that could happen?” When the hostess didn’t respond, because she probably hadn’t been prepped for that sort of response in her extensive job training, Big Lumpy turned to me and said, “Unless you two plan to have me shot. You don’t plan to have me shot, do you?”
“Not in broad daylight,” I said.
“Then I’ll be sure we’re out of here by sundown,” he said.
Sandy! showed us to a table on the patio and explained that although the sign said shots and beers only, they did have a few wines to choose from and that a selection of artisan pizzas, as well as chicken sandwiches, was available for lunch alongside the regular menu of red meat. When Sandy! finally left us alone, Big Lumpy let out an exasperated grunt. “She’s not right for this place,” he said.
“She seems too happy,” Sam said. “And not enough tattoos.”
“I’m not as involved as I should be in the day-today operations, clearly,” Big Lumpy said. “Her name tag is ridiculous. That will be addressed.”
“You own this place?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “And the land beneath your feet, too.”
“The bookie business must be very lucrative,” Sam said.
“Let’s not be foolish,” Big Lumpy said. “I wouldn’t dare try to launder my illegal money in property. It’s much easier to buy things with my legitimate earnings. That way no sneaky government agency will try to seize it on an ill-founded whim.”
“I know something about that,” I said.
A waiter came and dropped off waters then and Big Lumpy ordered a bucket of beer for the table to share, along with a dozen limes. Just three buddies having a Sunday afternoon man date at a faux dive bar. Maybe later, we’d go to a strip club and tell each other Chuck Norris jokes. As it was, we’d been sitting with one another for ten minutes and Big Lumpy still hadn’t bothered to ask who we were, which troubled me. It meant either he wasn’t concerned or he already knew. Or both.
“Now, then,” Big Lumpy said, perfectly gracious.
“Where’s my money?”
“You’re not getting any more money,” I said.
“No?” he said.
“Not from Brent Grayson, no,” I said. “Besides, what’s fifteen thousand dollars to a man like you?”
“Same as it is to any businessman who has outstanding debts from his clients. I’m sure you can understand that.”
“It’s not his debt,” I said.
“Do you really think the boy doesn’t know where his father is? He’s been paying off his debts all over the city. You tell me how a college student has the capital to do that.”
“You know of Yuri Drubich?” I asked.
Big Lumpy raised his eyebrows in actual surprise. As best as I could tell, it was his first uncalculated move of the day. He took off his white hat and set it down on the table. His blond hair was thin and nearly translucent and I noticed for the first time that he had only mere wisps for eyebrows. I thought he was either still in chemo or was only a month or so out of it.
“That’s deep water,” he said.
“Deeper than he can swim in, I assure you,” I said.
“I read in the paper this morning that someone blew up Henry Grayson’s office,” he said. “That sounded a bit more extreme than the usual loan sharking and debt collection that goes on in this town.”
“They used a laser-guided shoulder-mounted rocket launcher,” Sam said.
“Really,” Big Lumpy said. “Overkill, don’t you think?”
“I dunno,” Sam said. “I heard about a gentleman in town who cuts off people’s eyelids when they don’t pay their gambling losses.”
Big Lumpy tried to hide a smile, but then just let go and began to laugh. He said, “Don’t believe everything you hear.” Our waiter brought us the bucket of beer, though Big Lumpy didn’t take one. “Please, help yourselves,” he said, and when Sam reached in and grabbed a Corona, he said, “Mr. Axe, don’t be shy. Take two.”
Sam did as he was told. Might as well. It wasn’t like Big Lumpy didn’t know who he was at that point.
“You don’t drink?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I can’t afford to lose any more brain cells.”