Page 69 of Slow Burn

Nobody in the room competed.

He sucked down beer and stared blankly at the big-screen TV; the table of drunks had started screaming and throwing peanuts at it. One of them stood up on his chair, leaned slowly left, and toppled over on the guy next to him.

He couldn’t see what they were so upset about, except that the hockey game had stopped. The players were skating around in tight circles at the far end of the ice, hands on their hips, shaking their heads. There were a bunch of people who didn’t look like players on the ice, too, near the edge; one of them was tying down. Great. A fan jumped the wall and had a heart attack, or got slammed, or something. Who cared?

The picture fuzzed out and was replaced with blurry footage of a guy on fire staggering down the steps, while hockey fans scrambled back from him in human waves. Paolo sat riveted, beer half-raised to his lips, staring.

One of the drunks threw a beer bottle at the TV, but it missed by a mile and pegged a big burly-looking guy in the back of the head. He had a table full of friends who looked like linebackers. They all had Marine haircuts.

“Turn it up!” somebody screamed, and the crowd in the bar took it up like a chant. The bartender messed with a remote control, and the sound buzzed and whispered until it finally competed with the shouting in the room.

Appears that security reacted very quickly to deal with this potential threat to the fans and players—as you can see, three of them arrive very quickly after the man is down and begin trying to beat out the flames with their coats—also, as we clearly see in the tape, helpful fans tried to help the victim by pouring drinks on him as he passed—

Well, Jim, if you ask me, what we’re seeing is exactly what’s wrong with professional sports today. The fans just get way too involved in things. I’m sure this guy was flicking his lighter up in the rafters and—

Thanks for that insight, Greg. Excuse me for interrupting, but I have definite word now that the victim is dead, I repeat, the victim has just been pronounced dead from severe burns. What a tragedy for the sport, the players, and the fans.

I’m telling you, Jim, this is the kind of thing that gives hockey a bad name.

“What’s the fucking score?” one of the drunks yelled.

The five jarheads at the table near the TV were up and walking. Paolo sipped beer and munched pretzels and thought about Velvet’s story of the client bursting into flames.

Could happen, he decided. Definitely could happen.

The fight was okay, but the businessmen didn’t have much of a chance against the jarheads, not even with a couple of bouncers joining in to break it up. Not much of a substitute for the hockey game. Paolo watched until he’d finished his beer, dropped a dollar on the table for tip, and took one last walk around the bar.

Not there. Ming was going to be very unhappy.

By the door, a delivery guy was loading papers into a machine marked FREE. The logo on the side said BIG D GAZETTE. Paolo grabbed one off the top and flipped to the back for the personal ads. He sat down at an empty table nearby and started circling the ones that caught his eye.

Young, shy SWF seeks M for friendship and companion-ship. Favorite colors: black and blue

Friendly curvaceous SWF seeks WM for cuddles and communication

Bored? See me. I’m a MF with vast experience in what’s most important to you—marital status no obstacle

Not bad, he decided, and folded the paper up.

Velvet’s face stared at him from the inside bottom right. It was an old mug shot, not very flattering. She had that defiant crazy look in her eyes. He laid the paper out carefully and found the article that went with the picture.

He read it silently, lips moving, one thick finger marking his place. While he was still working on it, two or three cops showed up to haul the businessmen and jarheads out; he hardly noticed.

When he was done, he sat back and closed his eyes.

“Jeez, Velvet,” he whispered aloud. “Oh, Jeez.”

He knew he’d have to kill her.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Velvet

Agent Garrick James bought Velvet a hamburger and fries and a shake, which was a good thing, because even though she wanted to throw up she needed the stuff in her stomach to do it with. She took tiny dogged bites of the hamburger until she got it all down, licked the ketchup off her fingers, and munched nervously on french fries while he drove down Industrial to Oak Lawn. The shake was chocolate and too watery, and every time she sucked on the straw the taste of plastic made her want to gag.

“Where’re you from?” she asked, to take her mind off the throb in her head. Agent James looked over, surprised, and almost ran over a man in a red flannel shirt shuffling across the street.

“Kansas.”

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