First Thrills - Lee Child [83]
She sags back in her chair. “You’re law.”
“Royal Witness Protectorate, temporarily seconded undercover to the Crabs to help clean up the Dale Dingus fiasco. But after tonight, with your help, that’ll be done.” And not a minute too soon. Crabs were born with a rod up their ass. But considering the way Dingus burned them I guess I can understand why they’re tetchy.
She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “So what’s in the back of my truck?”
It’s sinking in. “A little meth, actually. Same as the first batch, cooked up in the Crab lab. I didn’t want to confuse your alchemist.” I smirk, head canted to the side. “But mostly what you got is powdered laxative cut with kosher salt. You know, for body.”
She’s not amused.
“Now that I got your attention, Dahl, what say you and me have us a little chat?”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
They never do. Not at first. Not until I play my hole card, which I don’t waste time doing with Dahlia. I’m tired and I want this finished.
“You’re not pregnant.”
That throws her. I can see the confusion in her big blues. “But the doctor said—”
“What we told him to say, after he spilled Frank’s juice down the lab sink. Ciconi has been ours ever since he got busted trading his script pad for blow jobs. When you go in each week for those vitamin shots he’s pumping you fulla hormones and other crap to make you bloat up. It wouldn’t fool you for too much longer, but it was enough to keep you puking in the morning and regretting your lax enforcement of no glove, no love.”
The news has the effect I expect. The air goes out of her. Hell, it almost looks like her silicone boobs deflate along with her imperious demeanor.
After a long moment, she says, “You never actually shivved Frank, did you?”
“Not me. We got the Bandito that did on ice out in the forest. He’ll be available when the time comes, same as I expect you to be.”
“You’re a bastard.”
I can’t argue with that. It’s part of my job description. “Here are your options, Dahl. You help us, we’ll take care of you. Relocation, protection, the works. All you hafta do is roll on Frank, your dad, and your crystal buyer, help us tie them all to the Sufa-Dream boost and the meth traffic round about Newcastle. And not just them. I expect you to name names up and down the organization.” We had the shattered remains of a banditry case to clean up, after all. Plus my own broken meth sting, the one I pretended I went to Little Liver for.
“And if I say no?”
I shrug and signal the waiter for a to go bucket. “Your choice, Dahl.” I’m not worried. Between the kingpin, the old man, and the scheming dwarf, we both know which one offers the shot at happily ever after.
*
BILL CAMERON is the critically acclaimed author of the dark, gritty Portland-based mysteries Lost Dog, Chasing Smoke, and Day One. His stories have appeared in Spinetingler, Killer Year, and Portland Noir.
STEPHEN COONTS
Adam Solo wedged himself into the chair at the navigator’s table in the small shack behind the bridge and braced himself against the motion of the ship. Rain beat a tattoo on the roof over his head and wind moaned around the portholes. Although the seas weren’t heavy, the ship rolled, pitched, and corkscrewed viciously because she was not under way; she was riding sea anchors, being held in one place, at the mercy of the swells.
Through the rain-smeared porthole windows Solo could see the flood and spotlights of another ship several hundred feet to port. She was also small, only two hundred forty feet long, roughly the size of the ship Solo was aboard. Carrying massive cranes fore and aft, she was festooned with flood lights that lit the deck and the water between the ships, and was also bobbing like a cork in a maelstrom.
Through the open door to the bridge Solo occasionally heard the ringing of the telegraph as the captain signaled the engine room for power to help hold the little ship where he wanted her.
Johnson was the captain, an overweight, overbearing slob with a sneer engraved on his face and a curse on his lips. Solo