Page 127 of Highball Rush
“Bootleg moonshine ain’t for the weak,” I said.
He glanced at me, blinking hard like he was trying to focus. Between the dim lighting and the quick dose of moonshine, he didn’t seem to recognize me. Yet. “Guess so.”
“Seems like you’re new around here. What do you think of Bootleg?” I needed to get him answering questions so I could be sure it was working.
“Small town shithole, basically.”
He might have said that without the truth serum. I couldn’t be sure. “Is it, now? I take it you’re a city boy?”
“Oh yeah. Born and raised in Baltimore. Wound up in Virginia, but Richmond isn’t bad. Always wanted to live in New York City, though.”
I suppressed a grin. It was working, all right.
“You know what I hate about small towns?” He turned toward me, resting one arm on the bar, and his voice was nothing but friendly. Part of the magic of Sonny’s moonshine was what it did for a person’s mood. Made them feel great. And extremely chatty. “There’s nothing to do. I’m stuck out here, bored off my ass.”
“That’s a damn shame,” I said. “What are you stuck here for?”
“A job. It’s a dead end, if you ask me. But my boss is fucking paranoid.”
“Huh. Paranoid about what?”
“Oh man, it’s a good story.” His speech slurred a little and he jabbed a finger toward me.
“I’m always up for a good story,” I said, trying to seem like a friendly listener without looking at him straight on.
“This guy I work for, he’s a big shot, right? Dirty fucker, but he keeps his hands squeaky clean. I mean, he’s good. Even kept me out of prison all these years. Anyway, some twelve or thirteen years ago, his teenage daughter goes missing. Shady shit, let me tell you. He had me searching for her, but he called me off after a while. Didn’t say a word to me about it for, I don’t know, ten years? I always figured she was dead.”
I resisted the urge to clench my fists and made a non-committal noise. Nicolette kept acting like she was working.
“Anyway, about a year ago, the kid’s case gets reopened. New evidence or some shit. So he sends me out to look for her again. I come up with nothing, and he’s pissed. This guy’s so twisted he wants his own kid dead.”
Stay calm, Gibson. Stay calm.“Shit. He wanted you to take her out?”
“Yep. Wouldn’t be my first hit, but I don’t like it. She’s not a kid anymore, but still. What kind of guy does that?”
“Good question. But why would he want her dead?”
He shrugged, hiccupping. “Don’t know. My guess is, she knew something and they don’t want her around to tell.”
“You were right, it’s a damn good story. Did you ever find her?”
“No, and here’s the real rub. I made everything a hell of a lot easier for him and he still sends me out to this crappy town. She’s officially dead, we have the forensics report to prove it. Fake report, but no one’s going to question it. Even if she did turn up, who would believe her? Some chick already burned that bridge when she claimed to be her.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Don’t you follow the news out here?” he asked. “I guess if it doesn’t involve someone driving a tractor into a fence or a chicken taking a shit in someone’s roses, you people don’t pay attention.”
God, this fucking guy. “Guess not. What happened?”
He proceeded to tell me all about Abbie Gilbert. How she’d turned up at a hospital, claiming to be his boss’s missing daughter—he still hadn’t said anyone’s name—and how his boss had gone out to see who she was. Brought her home and told the media his daughter had been found.
“Did he know it wasn’t her?” I asked. “I mean, a guy would have to know his own daughter.”
“Oh, he knew. I think it was his wife’s idea to use her. They figured this would close the case for them. They were getting sick of these damn investigators poking their noses everywhere.”
“Smart move,” I said. “So what’d they do? Pay her off to keep up the lie?”
“That’s exactly what they did.” Swaying on his stool, he poked my shoulder. “Paid her a solid chunk of change and set her up out in Philly. I took her out there, myself. Dumb girl thought she’d won the lottery.”
