Grip brought Morphy along to Crippen’s, both men slumping into chairs, drained by the day. The door to the outside was open, fans blowing, making no difference. Angry rhetoric and static blared from the back, the hate tangible even if the words weren’t. The bartender brought over whiskey shots and bottles of beer. His right arm was amputated at the shoulder—Belleau Wood, or so he claimed. He set the tray down on the table.
Wayne was sitting at another table with a couple of younger guys that Grip recognized but didn’t know. Grip could feel the energy radiating from their group; hot and dangerous. Wayne looked over at Grip and nodded, then eyed Morphy warily. Morphy wasn’t a regular here and guys on the force tended to be unnerved by him, his strangeness.
“Seen the door?” Wayne said.
“What’s that?” Grip asked.
“The door.”
“What about it?”
“Have a look.”
Grip walked over to the open door. Morphy watched, tilting his beer bottle into the corner of his mouth. The bartender watched, too, as Grip took a look.
“Yeah?”
“Other side. The outside side,” Wayne said.
Grip opened the door and checked the other side. “The fuck?”
Beneath two TRUFFANT FOR MAYOR signs that had been nailed up there weeks ago, someone had, in black paint, traced the outline of a top hat above two rounded triangles and, below them, four vertical lines; the whole thing maybe two feet high.
“What d’you think?” the bartender asked.
“It’s a skull in a fucking top hat. Who did it?”
The bartender frowned. “Damned if I know. It was there when I showed up this afternoon.”
“Jesus.” The figure gave Grip the creeps.
When Grip sat back down, Morphy was smiling. “Nice place.”
Grip held up two fingers. He needed another shot.