“You want to go? Even with that murderer out there hunting for you?”
“I have something I need to do.”
“Your laundry?” said Ramirez.
“Family business.”
“Don’t be a fool, son,” said Henderson. “Let us protect you.”
“Thank you for your concern. It touches my heart, truly. But there is something I need to do right now. Am I free to go?”
Ramirez looked at Henderson. Henderson shrugged.
“Yes, you’re free to go,” said Ramirez wearily.
“Then that’s what I’m going to do,” said Kyle.
Henderson shook his head as he rose from the booth, making way for Kyle to leave. “It’s your funeral.”
“At least he’s dressed for it,” said Ramirez.
“Thank you, both,” said Kyle, sliding out and standing. “Yo, Skitch.”
“Bro?” said Kyle’s squat friend who’d been hiding behind the bar.
“I need your bike.”
“But I’m using it tonight. I’m hooking up with that girl from Jersey, and we got—”
“Give him the bike,” said the bartender.
“When will I get it back?”
“Hell only knows,” said Kyle.
“Bro?”
“Dude.”
“Crap,” said the kid as he reached into his pocket and threw a set of keys that Kyle snatched out of the air. “Take care of my baby.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll treat it like it was my own.”
“After what happened to your 280ZX, why don’t I find that comforting?”
Kyle turned again to Ramirez. “You got a phone number, Detective?”
She leaned back, narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, I have a phone number.”
“You want to give it to me?”
“I’m not sure,” said Ramirez. She looked up at Kyle and saw the smile and felt it slice into her with its sweetness. He scratched his cheek as if to signal that she had something on her own, and she couldn’t help but wipe at it with the edge of her thumb.
“Let him have it,” said Henderson. And as Ramirez took out a card and handed it to Kyle, Henderson added, “You call us if you need us, son. We’ll be waiting.”
“Thank you,” said Kyle as he put the card into his jacket pocket.
After Kyle left, Ramirez looked at the closed door and said, “What do you think?”
“I think we’ll be on duty tonight,” said Henderson. “And poor little me, I was planning on going bowling.”
“He has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Henderson. “He strikes me as someone who has every idea of what he’s gotten himself into.”
“I’m worried about him.”
“I know you are,” said Henderson. “It’s why you followed the lead he gave you and traced that number and found that Spangler and kept your eye on him all the while we were putting this operation in place. Because you were worried about him. This Byrne kid is not just a piece of a puzzle, is he?”
“No.”
“See there, Ramirez, now you’re making me cranky.”
“Why? Because partnering with me, you actually have to do some work?”
“No. I just get cranky when my expectations are confounded. And here all along I thought you’d never make it as a detective.”
CHAPTER 50
UNCLE MAX WAS SITTING at the bar of the Olde Pig Snout, smoking a cigarette, nursing a beer, watching the local news on the television as his life ticked away swallow by swallow. When the door opened, he palmed his cigarette and turned his head to get a look at who was walking in. He instinctively smiled when he saw it was Kyle. And then the smile froze on his face, as if something in his nephew’s eyes made it clear that this was not simply a sweet familial visit.
“Kyle, what a surprise,” said Max. “And in a suit, no less. Who died?”
“No one,” said Kyle. “Yet.”
“Want a drink?”
“We need to talk.”
“What, you dress like that just to break up with me?”
“Over there,” said Kyle, pointing to a booth.
“Sure thing, Kyle. No problem. Let me get us a round, first.”
Max waved Fred the bartender over. Fred smiled crookedly. “How you doing there, Kyle?”
“Not so good,” said Kyle.
“What happened?” said Fred.
“I’ve been betrayed,” said Kyle.
Max’s head swung toward Kyle as if his ear had been yanked, but Fred just kept on nodding and smiling. “Good, good. You still playing ball?”
“Not anymore.”
“Just keep swinging. Anything I can get you?”
“A beer.”
“Two,” said Max. “With a couple shooters.” Max glanced back at Kyle’s stone face. “On my tab.”
“Good,” said Fred. “So everything’s good, Kyle?”
“Yeah,” said Kyle. “Everything’s just swell.”
“Good,” said Fred. “That’s good.”
“Have you ever noticed,” said Kyle when they were in a booth with their drinks, “that no matter how terrible the news, Fred always tells you how good everything is?”
“That’s about the extent of his charm,” said Max, “but somehow I find it comforting. Everything’s always good at the Olde Pig Snout, except the food, the beer and the company. So what climbed up your butt?”
Kyle looked away, let his eyes harden, and then turned back to stare at his Uncle Max. “I want to know,” he said, his teeth clenched, his voice suddenly low and hard, “how you could do it to my mother. Forget about me, a twelve-year-old kid forced to go to his father’s fake funeral, forget about how your little trick twisted my life into knots. I want to know how you could do it to my mother, your sister, how you could do it to her.”
Max stared at Kyle for a long moment, lit a cigarette, took a draw, downed his shot while smoke leaked out his nose, and then promptly burst into tears. It was not a tidy little cry, it was red and wet and full of sob and self-fury. Max’s cheeks burned, his bulbous nose turned red and ran, his beady little eyes squeezed out bucketfuls, and in the middle of it he slammed his forehead on the table once and then again, before grabbing Kyle’s shot, downing that, too, and sobbing some more.
Kyle was unmoved.