Thirty-Five

The taxi picks us up in front of Bailey’s apartment, a short walk from the salon, and takes us to the Dog House. While I look like I’ve gone three rounds with a bruise-knuckled smoke monster, Bailey is practically glowing with a freshly scrubbed face, new haircut, clean underwear, and fresh clothes.

If this were a fairy tale, it would be called The Princess and the Ugh.

“You sure know how to make a girl feel good about herself,” I grumble as we push open the doors to the bar.

A loud cheer erupts as soon as we step inside, shattering my feelings of inadequacy and sweeping them off to a corner. The bar is packed with gorgeous, muscled men with too much alcohol diluting their blood and enough scar tissue to show it isn’t a new experience.

Before I can speak, two of the wrestlers hoist me on their shoulders and parade me around the tiny bar as if I’ve just bagged the Snitch to win a Quidditch match. Despite a brief flush of embarrassment, I find I enjoy it—especially when I reach the bar and Bill hands me an ice-cold Warthog.

The men quickly turn their attention to Bailey, and a fresh round of beer is soon flowing as I slide into my usual spot beside the stool reserved for the ghost of Al Capone. I clink glasses with Bill.

“I take it the boys did alright,” he says.

“Couldn’t have been better,” I say. “Overturning the car was a nice touch. Brought the cops running.”

“How about inside? Any trouble?”

I shrug, unable to be glib. “Any trouble you can walk away from … ”

“I hear that, but—” Bill’s large forehead furrows. “Dix. I’ve been watching the news. You’re wading in some deep muck here. They’re talking terrorists, gangs, arsenals, drugs?”

“Would you believe me if I said it’s supposed to be a nice little upbeat story for Father’s Day?”

Bill’s mouth splits into a wide grin before a rumble erupts from deep in his belly to become a room-filling guffaw. He still has tears running down his cheeks when the door bursts open and Frank shoves inside with a face like he’s been chewing a nest of wasps.

The crowd quiets slightly as Frank pushes his way through to the bar and sits next to me.

Bill wipes his eyes and pours Frank a non-alcoholic O’Doul’s.

“Busy night?” Bill asks.

Frank nods silently before turning to me. “You been watching the news?”

“The fire?” I ask.

“Building has links to your Russian friend, Krasnyi Lebed.”

“Was he inside?”

Frank squints as if trying to get a better read on my face. I can’t tell if he’s amused or angry, but I’m leaning toward angry.

“There’s at least six bodies and signs of a gun battle.”

“Rival gang?” I ask.

“Not their style.”

“Hmmm.” I take a swallow of beer.

“One witness saw two women fleeing the scene.” Frank glances around at the crowd. “Plus a group of very large and boisterous men.”

“Hmmm.” I take another swallow.

“One of the women was described as having red hair and wearing a green trenchcoat.”

“Hmmm,” I say for the third time and hand my empty bottle to Bill in exchange for a fresh one.

“Did you go to the gun range today?” Frank asks.

I shake my head. “Too busy.”

Frank reaches into his pocket and removes a small bottle of clear liquid and a clean handkerchief. He takes my right hand and turns it palm side up.

“You mind?” he asks.

I turn my attention to my fresh beer, not wanting him to see the nervousness in my eyes.

He sprays the liquid on my palm and waits.

Nothing happens.

After a minute, he wipes off the remaining liquid with his handkerchief.

“OK,” he says. “Now tell me what you were doing there.”

I turn to look him in the eyes. “First tell me what that was about.”

“Diphenylamine solution,” he says. “If you fired a gun recently, it would turn blue. I’d hate to think that I’m helping a killer.”

“You could simply ask.”

Frank’s lips twitch. “Have you killed anyone today?”

“No,” I say, relieved that I can be honest. “Not today.”

The street door opens again, and Roxanne bursts into the bar like Hell’s slobbering hounds are on her tail. She takes one look at me and I understand why Kristy was so frightened. There’s a streak of poison running deep within this one that’s been festering for too long. It’s in her eyes and in her blood.

My hand tightens around the beer bottle in case I need to defend myself, then she spies her sister. Her face instantly softens and with a squeal of delight, Roxanne runs into Bailey’s arms and squeezes her tight. The affection appears genuine.

The wrestlers let out another mighty cheer and call for more beer as the reunited sisters weep with joy.

Frank lifts the O’Doul’s to his lips.

“This better be good,” he says.

“This isn’t the place to discuss it,” I tell Frank. “Feel like walking us girls home?”

“And here I thought you were planning an all-nighter.”

“Me?” I say as if insulted. “Perish the thought.”

I slide off my stool and walk over to Bailey and Roxanne.

“We’ve got an escort home,” I tell them. “Best we take it.”

Roxanne looks at me with a mixture of both hate and resentment, but it’s fighting with something else: a gnawing need for acceptance.

“What about me?” she asks.

Bailey looks at us in confusion, unaware of what’s happened in her absence.

“You’re welcome too,” I say. “But you need to want to be here. I’m not putting up with any more shit, I’ve already got enough of my own.”

Roxanne nods. “I want to be here … with Bailey.”

“Good enough.”

The wrestlers groan and protest as I leave the sisters to bid their goodnights. While walking away, I notice one of the men slipping a card with his phone number into Bailey’s hand. Bailey blushes slightly when she catches my eye.

I smile my approval in return. A good strong protector might be exactly what she needs—especially now.

While the two women extract themselves, I step outside the bar to clear my head. The night is dark and moist. It reminds me of the disinfectant wipe that Pinch pushed into my hand while a gunman’s brain matter slid down the wall.

Always the professional.

Frank said there were six bodies inside the building, and I watched Pinch kill one of them in front of my eyes. Yet I don’t feel a twinge of remorse. True, they weren’t nice men; in fact, at least two of them showed little compunction about trying to kill me. But have I changed so much that a human life can now be placed on a scale? Tip toward evil and your passing doesn’t matter?

I pinch the skin of my forearm between finger and thumb. It hurts. No armor there, still just flesh.

The deliberate clunk of a car door makes me lift my head to glance across the street.

Krasnyi Lebed is standing on the sidewalk beside a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. Flanking him on either side are two men with masks of determined evil—gargoyles carved out of granite and humanized by Italian tailors. They are different from the behemoths who guard his office; these men are bred to kill rather than break bones.

Lebed doesn’t say a word. Just stares. And for once I don’t have a cheeky comeback. I’m honestly too scared.

The door behind me opens, and Frank exits the Dog House with Bailey and Roxanne in tow.

I don’t turn around, even though I want to tell them to go back inside and bolt the door.

The Red Swan offers me the thinnest of smiles as he lifts one of his gloved hands to his throat and slowly drags his index finger across the flesh.

Frank moves to stand beside me as Lebed slowly climbs back inside his car. He doesn’t even care that Frank sees him. He doesn’t care at all.