Chapter 9

Minutes later Conley was being ministered to by the most beautiful black girl he’d ever seen. She studied gashes on his forehead and cheek, fat lips, crooked nose, then got to work. She worked intently, warm breath washing his face as she touched him on either side of the cuts and gently pulled skin apart.

William O’Neil sat in a straight chair behind her.

“Hello, Matt. Good to see you.”

“You, too,” he tried to say, but it came out “Yoo shoo”. He was surprised how many places could hurt just from talking.

“Sorry the boys roughed you up. Things always seem to get out of control when Sage and I go out for lunch. I wish you’d called first. Sage will fix you up. She’s a doctor.”

Of course. And Teddy was a lawyer, Donna a diplomat, Rocco a CPA. Morgan’s Tap was a regular hangout for Ocean Park’s upper crust.

The woman retrieved a medical kit from a closet and removed alcohol, gauze, and bandages. She looked back at Conley and turned to the case for more supplies.

The office was neat and clean. The leather couch looked new and wood floors gleamed. An executive desk stood in back of them. Evidently, being CEO of Morgan’s Tap had fringe benefits beyond scaring the hell out of bikers and hanging with beautiful doctors.

A picture frame displayed a gold USMC buckle behind glass. More frames held photos of William with men in fatigues—in a jungle, on a palm-treed beach, perched on the crag of a rocky hill that looked like a moonscape.

The woman—Sage—soaked pads in alcohol and swabbed his cuts as Conley watched it all in the mirror of her eyes. The reflection of her mocha-colored hands disappeared in her irises because they were the same color. The white gauze squares appeared to be dressing wounds by themselves.

William was no longer frail and certainly not small. Six-five maybe. Gangly but solid. His arms were so wide that when he straightened them, hands on knees, they looked like broadswords at rest.

Teddy brought two tall drinks, muddy and frothy, and placed them on the small table.

“Irish Car Bombs,” William said with a smile. “What better drinks for two Micks to toast their reunion?”

“Sorry, William, but I didn’t come here on a social call. I’m a policeman now.”

“Figures. Some people are put on this world to screw it up and others are here to fix the screw-ups. You were always a fixer, Matt.”

“I need to ask you about your boss. Victor Rodriguez.”

He nodded.

“And where the hell you’ve been all these years,” Conley said.

William took a long swig and folded his long arm-swords across his chest. “I’ll start there. Makes more sense that way.”

****

William O’Neil joined the military after high school, had a taste of battle, learned he was good at it. So good that private opportunity followed, a high-paid job chasing people good at screwing up the world. Heʼd also become a storyteller, and rendered his adventures more like a journalist than a mercenary.

Tears fell from the canopy in the Somali jungle, hot condensation that turned the jungle floor into a steaming cauldron. Monkeys chattered and beautiful birds cawed at the endless shower. Mud-hut villages outside Kandahar were cold and quiet—no noisy animals there, just listless, desperate people waiting to die. Winds in the desolate Peshawar mountains howled, blew relentlessly, angry and cruel, the only thing alive.

His strong jaw twitched, a tic Conley suddenly remembered. It was less pronounced now, barely perceptible.

“I’m back, Matt. Came home three months ago and heard Victor Rodriguez was looking for someone to run the Tap.”

“Interesting job.”

“And not many applicants. I had the inside track. He and my dad were friends.”

“Two unlikely companions.”

“Knew each other from St. Amby’s. Holy Name Society.”

“Really? Rodriguez was a parishioner?”

“A very dedicated member of the Church of St. Ambrose.”

“Any idea who murdered him?”

“No, but I know who does. The Paladin.”

“Who’s he?”

“Paladin’s a place—a social club.”

“You mean like the Elks or the Hibernians?” Conley asked.

William took another long slug from his drink and wore a brown mustache before his tongue wiped it away.

“No. More social.”

“I don’t get it.”

Sage glanced at William. He took a deep breath into his long, wide torso.

“Kinky stuff, Matt. You try my wife and I’ll try yours.”

Tic.

Sage pulled stitches through his eyebrow, hands moving so fast they fluttered. Conley was embarrassed that she had to hear this, hoped she was too occupied to be listening.

“William, Victor Rodriguez was a married man. He took his wife to sex parties?”

Tic.

“He took me,” Sage said. She’d spoken for the first time, in a confident, detached voice that didn’t interfere with her handiwork. “Victor took me to those parties.”

Silence filled the room. Stunned, Conley avoided eye contact and took a deep breath. When he finally spoke, his words rasped from a parched throat.

“So you think the people at this club killed him?”

“They threatened to kill him,” she said, drawing a stitch.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“I need to find out.”

“I’ll help,” William said.

Conley hesitated. Not so fast. The adult William may have been built like a steamroller and capable of scaring an entire biker gang, but he was a civilian. Conley’s job status was tenuous enough without enlisting amateur sleuths.

“Thank you,” Conley said, “but no.”

“Matt, you need us. Without our help, you’ll never find the Paladin.”

Sage stopped working and turned to William, one eyebrow raised, and said “Our help?”

He nodded once, looking Conley directly in the eye. “Victor was our friend. We need to set this right. Sage and I want to be fixers too.”