Inside the bar, Émile Cinq-Mars was stopped by a man with biceps splitting the seams of his suit jacket.
‘You need a new tailor.’
‘Spread,’ the door monitor said. Bushy eyebrows. Facial hair that infringed on his nose and cheekbones. Hair to his shoulder blades.
Cinq-Mars declined to comply. ‘I’m not armed.’
‘I decide.’
‘Touch me, I’ll be back with the SWAT. You won’t like the charge.’
‘We got lawyers.’
‘You won’t like it.’
‘I’m patting you down, copper.’
‘What you do to little boys.’
‘That’s supposed to mean what?’
‘Your lawyer won’t like it, either. Nobody you know will like it. You’ll get off – eventually – but who will believe you, really?’
An impasse.
‘Back alley,’ the man suggested.
‘I’ve wrestled horses bigger than you.’ Not a lie. He’d pinned more than one horse in an ornery mood to inject him or pry wire from a foreleg. ‘Just so you know.’
Cinq-Mars had height on him, not weight.
‘Serge,’ a voice said. Both men sought it out. The bartender’s. He cocked his head to indicate the back of the room. There, Slewfoot was waving Cinq-Mars past his own security guard. The big man with the hairy face stepped aside.
Cinq-Mars walked back and sat opposite the older fellow.
‘You’re Slew?’ he asked.
‘Cinq-Mars,’ the other man greeted him. ‘How’s old Touton anyway?’
‘Tough as shoe leather. Thanks for seeing me.’
‘Me and him, we go back a distance.’ The man altered his tone to a singsong voice, adding, ‘Out of the mists of time. He calls, I give his man a listen.’
Not typical gangster locution.
‘He got around,’ Cinq-Mars stated, ‘back in the day.’
‘Truth is, I work a dayshift now. Started that to get out from under his damned Night Patrol. Since he retired, still my habit to work days. Plus, like him, I’m as old as a post.’
‘He always boasted that under his watch he wouldn’t allow biker gangs in the city.’
‘I was West End Irish back then. We kept our heads down. Bikers were run out of town.’
‘The Angels are French.’ He was expressing a concern.
‘They can fit in one or two old Irish if we make ourselves useful. Not to worry. I’ll convey whatever story needs telling where it needs to be heard. Touton calls, says to see you. I see you. What’s up?’
Touton had not been specific on the man’s position within the Hells Angels. Lean, a short ponytail tied in a bob, the hint of a tattoo along his collar line. Cinq-Mars could imagine him looking the part on a Harley. He could also look like a regular citizen with a hint of the hip. He could move through different milieus. Even on a Harley he could come across as a benign geriatric biker if he preferred. Clearly, the man was smart, articulate; Cinq-Mars suspected he could alter his diction to suit the conversation. To a lesser degree, he possessed similar ability. Their take on being multilingual.
‘I want a war called off,’ Cinq-Mars told him.
Slew did not deny the possibility, which came across as respectful. ‘You’re current, Cinq-Mars. You know about a war nobody knows about because it hasn’t started yet.’
‘I see I’m talking to the right person.’
‘I might be knowledgeable. How do you expect to stop what’s not begun?’
‘Voice of reason. Anyway, two men dead in the farmers’ market is a start. If I may be blunt, the Hells have gained ground, but a war that nobody wins sets you back in time. It’ll draw attention. Damage inflicted by Russians and Italians. The official retribution will also hurt. That’s bound to come down later, if not sooner.’
‘Not sure that Italians will damage us. I’m impressed you heard about Russians. Right up to speed. Maybe you should work for us.’
‘I know the side I’m on. Not sure you do.’
‘Don’t get you there.’
‘Don’t count on Ciampini.’ He followed up with an educated guess. ‘Don’t count on Willy, either. He might not be who he seems.’
The next pause was a lengthy one. By naming him, Cinq-Mars was protecting Willy, dashing any potential notion that he was connected to law enforcement. At the same time, he sought to undermine any plan he was cooking up, along the lines of what the janitor suggested.
Noticing that Slew was drinking water, with hand signals Cinq-Mars requested the same from the bartender, who hopped over with a glass.
‘What do you think?’ Cinq-Mars asked.
‘Under advisement,’ Slew said. He leaned in, lowered his voice. ‘You have your own reasons not to want us dead. That puzzles me, but I’ll put it aside for now. I’ll treat this as a favor delivered. For that, and for old times’ sake with Touton, I’m giving one back. Clear the debt that way.’
‘No debt, but OK,’ Cinq-Mars said, leaning in as well.
‘You’re a marked man.’
‘Ah, this would be from your crew? Why?’
‘Not mine. You warned me off Ciampini. Well, you sent Ciampini’s daughter up the river. Did you forget? Ciampini didn’t. Payback’s on the way.’
Cinq-Mars settled back in his seat. ‘Who’s he got left to do it?’
‘Think about it. Something might occur.’
Something did.
‘When and where?’
‘No time like the present. By that I don’t mean this minute. As for where, stay alert if you hear any whistling.’
‘Whistling.’
‘Best I can do. I’m nobody’s snitch. Favor to Touton, I’m giving you fair warning. You didn’t give me much more. Debt paid.’
‘OK. Thanks. Have I made any progress, Slew?’
‘We’ll see. Good to meet you, Cinq-Mars.’
‘Likewise. Do you have a real name?’
‘Slew is for short. If you ever book me, book me as Slewfoot. The last name’s O’Grady.’
They exchanged a smile and a handshake.
Cinq-Mars neither smiled nor shook hands with the guard at the door, and departed.