Page 7 of Veil of Dust

“You’re not even curious?”

She doesn’t laugh, but something shifts in her face. “You really like hearing yourself talk.”

“That’s not a no.”

She leans in, just enough for me to see the edge in her eyes. “I don’t run mob money.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Pretty damn sure.”

I tilt my head, knowing we’re in it now. “You worked security for Hector Grimaldi five years ago, ran his poker nights out of this bar for him and his retired buddies. Don’t act like you’ve always been above this.”

Her face sharpens, and she doesn’t deny it right away. “That was a one-time thing.”

“No,” I say. “It happened three times.”

“Don’t act like you know me.”

I shrug. “I know the version of you that made it through.”

She doesn’t like that.

Before she can think twice, her hand flies out, smacking the ledger off the bar. It hits the floor with a thud, and papers slide out in messy lines.

She takes a breath through her nose, short, controlled.

“You think you can come in here,” she says, low, “drop your files and your attitude, and I’ll just go along with it?”

“No,” I say. “I think you’ve already decided to go along with it. You’re just pissed at yourself for considering it.”

That stops her.

She goes still. Not checked out—just unreadable.

We’re finally getting somewhere.

I wait.

She doesn’t speak to me first.

“Roy,” she calls to the back. “Last call’s in twenty. And keep that guy away from the jukebox unless you want another broken speaker.”

A grunt answers her.

Then, she faces me again. “Say whatever you came to say.”

“About what?”

“Whatever pitch you’re trying to sell. Get on with it.”

I pull a folded page from my jacket and slide it across the counter.

It’s a list of three businesses that went up in smoke this month.

One cleaned my money.

The other two didn’t know what they were connected to—until the insurance claims got denied.

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