Page 93 of Prodigal Son

“Oh.Albie.” He wiped his eyes with the back of a gloved hand. “Didn’t recognize you.”

That was fair. Albie was dressed head-to-toe in black, his own knit hat, his silhouette made bulky by Kevlar, and the thick jacket he wore to cover all the firepower he carried.

But hopefully Carl had recognized some other people.

He finally noticed the takeout and reached for it. “Supper you said? What is it?”

“Falafel.”

He paused in the act of unwrapping the parcel. “What now?”

“It’s good. Go on.”

Carl finished unwrapping it like it was a bomb that might go off. Sniffed it, cocked his head.

Albie sighed and fished a bottle of whiskey out of his jacket. “Here. This is your real incentive. But get some food in you, too.”

Carl reached for the bottle with a delighted sound, and then happily set to eating, speaking with a full mouth. “What brings you to my humble abode on this fine evening?” Put-on accent, spitting crumbs.

“Eat first.” Albie leaned back out of range. He settled his weight on his heels, and got as comfortable as possible. Let Carl make a good dent on the food and the whiskey.

Rain was moving in, the air heavy with its ozone tang, and not just the usual choking thickness of fog. It darkened the night to something dense and true-black around them; smeared the streetlamp light into the unsteady blur you’d see while drunk and staggering home from the pub.

Carl, no last name to speak of, was what Albie liked to think of as career homeless; he had vague memories of being a boy, dropping coins in an old soup tin, Carl – mostly clean-shaven back then – grinning and calling out a slurred thanks, tipping his paper-wrapped bottle back for a deep swig.

Albie wasn’t one to judge; people fell on hard times for all sorts of reasons, and some had trouble getting back to their feet. He cut checks to charities every Christmas, and hoped it did some good. But Carl, from what he could tell, wasn’t interested in anything like that. If he had something to drink, and something to eat now and then, an alley to settle in for the night, Carl was happy.

He saw things, too. London’s various criminal organizations kept him well-stocked in booze and takeout in exchange for information. Even when drunk, his intel almost always proved accurate. Albie thought he might have been a savant of some sort.

“Carl,” he started, and Carl sighed.

He swallowed his latest bite. “Knew you were after something.”

Albie pulled out his phone and opened his photo gallery. Turned it toward Carl. “Have you seen this man around lately?”

When Phillip talked to Fox earlier, Fox had told them to dig up whatever they could on Pseudonym’s CEO, a man named Morris. Only, they’d already done a cursory scan of the company’s website, and the CEO wasn’t named Morris, but Harry Fenwick. They had a picture, though, and that was what he showed to Carl.

Carl squinted at the photo, then shook his head, decisive, dismissive. “No, never.” He took another bite of falafel. “This is pretty good.”

“Uh-huh. What about this one?” Clive Mahoney, this time.

Another no.

“You seen anything strange around lately?”

Carl snorted. “’Course. The whole city’s strange.”

“No. I mean, have you seen, or heard about, anything really unusual?”

Carl chewed, and swallowed, lowered his food to his lap and really looked at Albie for the first time, one eye half-shut as he tried to focus. “What d’you mean?”

Albie sent him a meaningful look, and hoped it was discernable in the dim glow of the nearest streetlamp. “Not just your normal muggings and street fights. Have you seen anything that really stuck out to you? Any people who really stuck out? People who maybe looked a little more professional?”

Carl squirmed and looked down at his meal, shook his head. But said nothing.

“Carl, if you have, it’s really important that I know about it.”

The squirming intensified, until he was rocking side to side. He started humming, softly, and it was a panicked sound.

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