Page 47 of Reaper
“Yeah, I watchReacher, too, kid.I like that actor.Bigmotherfucker.”
“I’m five-nine and a hundred thirty pounds, Harker.Everyone’s a big motherfucker to me.But that’s beside the point.Stoller didn’t have any direct connection to your guy Pete, but I tracked his phone’s movements and his credit card purchases for the last six months, and ran an algorithm to determine?—”
I held up a hand.“Xia, I’m sure whatever you did was really impressive to anyone who gives a shit about tech stuff.But I don’t.So how about you just say you did nerd shit and found somewhere for me to go.”
“Oh.”She looked momentarily crestfallen, then smiled.“Okay, I did super-awesome nerd shit that you’ll never be smart enough to understand, and I found that every few weeks, Stoller went to the same bar on Sunday at eleven a.m.”
“That’s early for Sunday drinking, unless he’s really into mimosas,” Becks said.
“Nobody’s that into mimosas,” I replied.“They’re just the warmup drink, not worth getting up early for.”
“Especially since the bar in question doesn’t open until noon on Sundays,” Xia said.
“Well, how late is it open on Monday nights?”I asked.“And what’s the address?”
“I already sent it to your phone and the Suburban’s GPS,” Xia said with a grin.“Now, did you say you gotfour dozenwings?”
* * *
I stuck around the house long enough to get some wings in my belly and change out of my socks and shoes.It seems Stoller hadn’t quite managed to miss my feet when he was peeing all over himself.I threw the socks in the trash, but I liked those Docs, so they were gonna have to be cleaned.Once I got my magic fully recharged, I’d use a spell for that.
Some practitioners give a shit about universal balance and not using magic for piddly little shit like cleaning my shoes, but balance isn’t something I’ve ever been very big on, so fuck ‘em.I figure if I’m throwing the universe out of whack by not wiping the piss off my boots with a towel, then the universe’s balance was way too precarious already.Also, I didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good towel with banker piss.
With clean shoes on, I headed out to a faux dive bar in Southend.I didn’t bother taking the Suburban because the address was only half a mile from my building, so it was a pretty easy walk.Kind of blasphemous in Charlotte, where people drive to go around the block, but I grew up in London before cars were nearly as ubiquitous as they are today, and I still like getting a chance to stretch my legs a bit now and then.
Plus it gave me plenty of time for a healthy dose of self-recrimination about this whole case.I’d started this shit the better part of a month ago, and all I had to show for my time were a few more dead cryptids and paras, a phenomenal amount of property damage, a couple weeks living in an underground fight club with sweaty monsters who wanted to cave my head in, and a fuckload of self-doubt about my ability to judge character, since I was taken in so completely by Pete’s aw-shucks attitude and hapless demeanor.Oh well, at least the odds of me getting to punch somebody tonight were pretty high.
I walked into The Last Ride Bar & Grill around midnight, handing ten bucks to the door guy for a cover charge.Fucking hipster joints, charging an entry fee whether there’s a band playing or not.I stuck out like a sore thumb, having left my Harley-Davidson t-shirt, my leather vest with a biker club cut on it, and my chain wallet at home.Or more like I left them at the store, because I owned none of those things.I’d owned a Harley at one point, though, which I figured was more than I could say for three-quarters of the bar’s population.Good bike.I think I left it in Boston, but I couldn’t be sure.I was really high when I left the city.
I walked up to the bar and passed a twenty over to the bartender.“Harp and information,” I said.
“We don’t have Harp, and I don’t talk to cops,” he said.He was the stereotypical biker bartender, about six-six, three hundred pounds easy, with a black sleeveless t-shirt, arms full of ink, a shaved head, and a goatee.I briefly wondered if there was a look requirement for slinging drinks at a biker bar, then decided I didn’t give a fuck.
“Then gimme a Guiness.And I’m not a cop.”I’m not.I’m a federal agent.Kinda.More like an independent contractor with one client who happens to be the Department of Homeland Security.But close enough to a fed for government work, as the joke goes.
“You’re totally a cop,” Chrome Dome said, pouring a perfect Guinness, right down to the shamrock in the foam.He slid it over to me.“You stink of cop.”
“That’s because I’m banging a fed,” I replied.“But I’m not a cop.”
Hey!Becks protested in my head.
What?I am banging a fed.
Yeah, but you don’t have to broadcast that fact.
I didn’t saywhichfed.Now let me work.
We’re not finished with this conversation.
“See?”Baldy asked.“Totally cop.I bet you’ve got one of those ear things with somebody talking to you right now don’t you.”
“No, I don’t,” I said, turning my head from side to side to let him see into my ears.“I’m a fucking telepath and my fiancée is talking in my head about how much trouble I’m in for telling some rando in a douchebag wannabe biker bar that I’m sleeping with a federal agent.Is that better?”
“You don’t have to make up stupid shit, dude.I just thought you were a cop is all.”
In my world, the truth is often so much stranger than fiction that I can tell people the absolute facts of a situation and they still won’t believe me.“I don’t give a fuck what you thought, I just need some information, and I’m willing to pay to get it.”
“Well, if it’s information worth anything, it’s worth more than ten bucks,” the bartender said.
