here are the rules of engagement. Like I told Heather, Bronsey is probably armed. So, if for some reason this thing goes south, you are to find cover and stay there.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be doing the same thing,” I lied. She didn’t bother to call me on it. We both knew that if someone began busting caps, I’d shield her body with mine. I continued, “Finally, please keep that jacket buttoned.”
“Why?”
“That top is a little low-cut. Ordinarily, I like that. A lot. But if Bronsey begins staring there—and he will—I’m going to have this uncontrollable urge to throttle him instead of chat.”
Ash smiled as she buttoned up the jacket. “I love you, Inspector Lyon.”
“I love you, too, Deputy Lyon.”
We started across the street. With each step, I tried to summon forth the ghost of my old homicide inspector swagger. Guns and badges don’t impress many people. It’s that intangible thing called “command presence”—the mixture of quiet confidence, courage, and decisiveness—that gives a cop dominion over the sort of folks that you’ll routinely find in a topless bar.
At the same time, I was trying to figure out just how I was going to induce Bronsey to talk to us. From past experience, I knew his credo was “Deny everything and demand proof,” and there was no hard evidence linking him to the murder scene. In the end, I could only see one option. I had to pretend that Lauren had asked us to find her son and that I wouldn’t call the cops if Bronsey gave us the straight scoop.
The Cask and Cleavage was located on the ground floor of a narrow three-story brick building. There was a virtual carpet of cigarette butts on the sidewalk near the front door and the broken Cobra Malt Liquor bottle was a nice decorative accent. Ordinarily, I hold doors open for Ash and let her go through first, but this wasn’t the sort of place for chivalry. I entered first, just in case things went to hell immediately.
Inside, the lighting was dim and the old Bob Seger song was deafening. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom and then scanned the interior of the lounge. There was a bar on the left, upholstered booths on the right, and a narrow elevated stage in the center of the room against the back wall. Fortunately, the stage was empty.
I was relieved to observe that there were only two other people in the shabby saloon. Standing behind the bar was a sour-looking older guy with a shaggy white moustache-and-goatee combo that gave him the appearance of a dyspeptic West Highland terrier. Bronsey sat in a corner booth, slouched over, as if in deep contemplation of his drink. As we got closer, I could see that he was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket decorated with patches from what I suspected were imaginary fighter squadrons. However, the intervening table and poor light prevented me from seeing whether he had jeans on and, more importantly, if one of the knees was torn.
I gave Ash a look that said, Here goes nothing , and tapped lightly on the table. “Merv, I think we need to talk.”
Bronsey slowly lifted his head and regarded us with bleary, bloodshot eyes. It took a second or two for his brain to decipher our images. Then he said in a weary and hopeless voice, “I don’t know what you’re doing here, Lyon, but go away before I kick your ass.”
“I’ll let you get back to your rum-and-coke journey to Nirvana, once you tell me about Kyle Vandenbosch and what happened at the Paladin Motel last night.”
He stiffened slightly and his eyes darted toward the door and I couldn’t tell whether he wanted to run or whether he was worried about whoever might come into the bar next. Recovering slightly, he said in a dismissive tone, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And even if I did, why would I tell you?”
I said, “Look, Merv, you don’t like me. I don’t like you, but with all your faults I find it hard to believe that you’re pulling armed Two-Elevens
“What about you?”
“I’ll be doing the same thing,” I lied. She didn’t bother to call me on it. We both knew that if someone began busting caps, I’d shield her body with mine. I continued, “Finally, please keep that jacket buttoned.”
“Why?”
“That top is a little low-cut. Ordinarily, I like that. A lot. But if Bronsey begins staring there—and he will—I’m going to have this uncontrollable urge to throttle him instead of chat.”
Ash smiled as she buttoned up the jacket. “I love you, Inspector Lyon.”
“I love you, too, Deputy Lyon.”
We started across the street. With each step, I tried to summon forth the ghost of my old homicide inspector swagger. Guns and badges don’t impress many people. It’s that intangible thing called “command presence”—the mixture of quiet confidence, courage, and decisiveness—that gives a cop dominion over the sort of folks that you’ll routinely find in a topless bar.
At the same time, I was trying to figure out just how I was going to induce Bronsey to talk to us. From past experience, I knew his credo was “Deny everything and demand proof,” and there was no hard evidence linking him to the murder scene. In the end, I could only see one option. I had to pretend that Lauren had asked us to find her son and that I wouldn’t call the cops if Bronsey gave us the straight scoop.
The Cask and Cleavage was located on the ground floor of a narrow three-story brick building. There was a virtual carpet of cigarette butts on the sidewalk near the front door and the broken Cobra Malt Liquor bottle was a nice decorative accent. Ordinarily, I hold doors open for Ash and let her go through first, but this wasn’t the sort of place for chivalry. I entered first, just in case things went to hell immediately.
Inside, the lighting was dim and the old Bob Seger song was deafening. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom and then scanned the interior of the lounge. There was a bar on the left, upholstered booths on the right, and a narrow elevated stage in the center of the room against the back wall. Fortunately, the stage was empty.
I was relieved to observe that there were only two other people in the shabby saloon. Standing behind the bar was a sour-looking older guy with a shaggy white moustache-and-goatee combo that gave him the appearance of a dyspeptic West Highland terrier. Bronsey sat in a corner booth, slouched over, as if in deep contemplation of his drink. As we got closer, I could see that he was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket decorated with patches from what I suspected were imaginary fighter squadrons. However, the intervening table and poor light prevented me from seeing whether he had jeans on and, more importantly, if one of the knees was torn.
I gave Ash a look that said, Here goes nothing , and tapped lightly on the table. “Merv, I think we need to talk.”
Bronsey slowly lifted his head and regarded us with bleary, bloodshot eyes. It took a second or two for his brain to decipher our images. Then he said in a weary and hopeless voice, “I don’t know what you’re doing here, Lyon, but go away before I kick your ass.”
“I’ll let you get back to your rum-and-coke journey to Nirvana, once you tell me about Kyle Vandenbosch and what happened at the Paladin Motel last night.”
He stiffened slightly and his eyes darted toward the door and I couldn’t tell whether he wanted to run or whether he was worried about whoever might come into the bar next. Recovering slightly, he said in a dismissive tone, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And even if I did, why would I tell you?”
I said, “Look, Merv, you don’t like me. I don’t like you, but with all your faults I find it hard to believe that you’re pulling armed Two-Elevens
Similar Books
