Page 8 of Her Guardian
“Wait, what?” My brow rises.
“As long as nobody bleeds, they’re pretty lenient,” he says, motioning a server over. “If you look really close you might be able to spot some heels poking out from under a table or two.”
My eyes dart around and look back at him as soon as I see a pair of Louboutins doing exactly that.
“Holy shit, you were serious,” I say, taking a hit of my vape.
“I’m not much of a liar,” he mutters, then turns to the server as soon as she gets to our table.
The server is a redhead named Gina who seems overly enthusiastic to be our waitress for the evening. Boyd orders a cigar and a single-malt scotch. I’ve never had scotch, so I decide to try it.
I’m not sure what to make of Boyd, yet. He’s interesting to the point of almost being captivating. It’s hard to pay attention to anything else when I’m sitting across from him. He’s grumpy, sarcastic, and his cigarettes aren’t the only things that are unfiltered. I kind of like that, even if his crudeness does catch me off guard sometimes and scare me a little.
“So, how do we do this?” I ask, glancing around and taking a hit of my vape.
“We sit here quietly and listen,” Boyd says. “We’re not here for conversation. Not to have one, at least.”
“I don’t suppose I’m allowed to take notes?” I joke.
“No,” he says firmly. “Hope you got a good memory.”
It’s not the best, but it’ll have to do.
The server returns with our drinks and Boyd’s cigar. It looks like one that will take a while to smoke. He lights it immediately, but is kind enough to blow the smoke away from me. The scotch isn’t as harsh as the shots of whiskey I’ve had in the past, but it isn’t my favorite. After a few sips, I dump what is left of my glass into Boyd’s and ask for a cocktail that is much more to my liking.
Between sips of my drink and hits from my vape, I pick up some interesting conversations around us. The two older men at the table to our left are discussing the good old days, but their stories sound like ancient history. To my right, three men are talking about women they’re interested in, and they’re very descriptive. That isn’t useful for my podcast.
I focus on some other conversations, pick up a few useful tidbits I might be able to spin into stories, and make mental notes. I look around while I listen, putting faces to the conversations I can, although it’s hard to isolate some of them. Rafferty’s is like a permanent dull roar and it’s difficult to make everything out.
“Valerie… Catherine…” I mutter, listening to a couple of guys facing away from me discussing something. “Something about a Sadie.”
“No names,” Boyd growls. “Seriously. I know you’ll probably try to write down everything you hear tonight, but don’t use anyone’s name. Names are how you get into trouble.”
“I won’t use names,” I say, losing the conversation I was focusing on. “I’m just trying to make sense of everything. That’s hard to do when you’re just getting bits and pieces.”
“Isn’t investigation part of journalism?” he asks. “Even for podcasters?”
“Well, yeah,” I admit. “But how can I investigate if I don’t write down the names?”
“By using your brain,” he rumbles. “That’s what it’s for.”
Boyd has more faith in my brain than I do, but I try to continue listening to the conversations around me. It’s interesting to hear Mafia guys and whoever else is allowed through the door discussthings openly, but they’re still rather cryptic. It also sounds like the kind of bragging you’d hear in a locker room, so I’m not sure what is true and what is being embellished for the sake of the others at the table.
But I guess that doesn’t matter. I just need content. Embellished stories will still get listeners, if I can layer them with truth. It’ll be a lot better than constantly recycling old Mafia Prince Killer content or being the thousandth podcaster to do a deep dive into a cold case very few people are still following.
“Getting anything?” Boyd asks, puffing his cigar a few times and tapping it against the ashtray.
“A few things,” I admit. “I really wish I could take notes, though.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” he says. “Just keep listening.”
If I were taking notes, I’d have at least a dozen interesting things to follow up on. I keep repeating the interesting things in my head while listening to the conversations around us. The crowd thins out, along with some of the smoke, and it’s easier to isolate the conversations. Unfortunately, there aren’t as many people sitting at the tables closest to us now.
“Want to stay a while longer or have you got enough?” Boyd asks, putting out his cigar and finishing his scotch.
“I’ve got enough for one day,” I answer, looking around and inhaling a hit from my vape before turning my attention back to him. “But if the offer is still open, I wouldn’t mind having another drink with you. Maybe somewhere we can get some food? I skipped lunch.”
“Sure,” Boyd says, pushing his massive frame back from the table. “I can always go for a bite.”
