“On the house,” said Beth, her voice soft and hesitant. She gave Rachel a lopsided smile and set the glass of red on the sticky table. Around them, the colored lights of eternal Christmas filled the Roxy, but only a few customers had come to drink. It was still too early, and after the cops had raided the place last week a lot of regulars were staying away.
“Thanks,” Rachel said.
“Mind if I sit a sec?”
“Knock yourself out.”
Beth settled across from her. She’d swept her hair over to try and cover the half she’d previously shaved. “How you holding up?”
Rachel took a long breath, wondering what kind of answer she would give if she were an honest person. Might she tell this bartender that a week ago she’d taken a shotgun out of a car and, in a fury that was less professional than she would later admit to her boss, found Toby kicking open the cellar door and shot him right in the chest? Well, it didn’t matter, because she wasn’t an honest person.
“It’s hard,” she told Beth. “I had no idea they were capable of that.”
That, of course, was what had appeared in the newspaper. Three self-proclaimed revolutionaries had raided a vacation home in Sonoma and killed an entire family, then, apparently in a dispute, each other. Rumors of a suicide pact had not been verified.
Beth shook her head. “You’re lucky you didn’t go out there with them.”
“They didn’t invite me.”
“Well, don’t take it personally.”
Rachel shot her a grin. “Look, I don’t mind political action. I just don’t need a lot of crazy in it. That was a wasted effort.”
Again, Beth smiled, but it was a twitchy smile, unsure of how to set itself.
“Wrong target,” Rachel said. “Go after Russians? They’re not the ones making our lives hell right now, are they? How about Silicon Valley? I could throw a rock and hit a better target.” She shook her head. “I’m sick of dealing with amateurs. I need to connect with people who know how to sack Rome.”
She could hear Beth swallowing, and watched her rise. “Look, I gotta get back.”
“Sure,” Rachel said, realizing that she’d gone too far, and was scaring off the girl.
But Beth didn’t leave yet. She put her hands on the edge of the table and leaned close, her voice lowered. “I know people who aren’t amateurs.”
Rachel measured the girl with her eyes. Beth’s mousy features were made hard by the intensity of her stare, and Rachel knew that she’d found what she’d hoped for: a gatekeeper. “They know the deal?”
“They know how to sack. They know how to pillage.”
“Really?”
“Want an introduction?”
“I’d love one,” Rachel said.
She watched Beth return to the bar and speak with a heavy, bearded man in an army coat and glasses. The man slowly turned to look in Rachel’s direction.