Page 102 of Long Way Down

Pongo’s smile fell away; he felt the muscles in his face go lax. “We’re not helping them now.” That same prickling on the back of his neck in Ian’s office flared to life now, a tightness in his throat and chest.

Prince’s brows gave a small jump of feigned surprise. “Oh? You’renotsleeping with an NYPD detective?”

He gritted his teeth. If Prince knew, this was him displaying those intel networks he’d bragged about.

And if Prince knew…did all of New York? Did every criminal and lowlife rat and hanger-on of larger groups know that a Lean Dog was fucking around with a detective? If so, there was a giant, blinking target on Dixie’s back.

“I don’t care,” Prince went on, before he could form a response that wasn’t totally incriminating. “The Lean Dogs have always had a bit of a” – one outstretched hand, see-sawing back and forth – “Robin Hood reputation. Less ruthless, more…philanthropical.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

Prince shrugged, unbothered. “Talk to your president. Let him talk with the other presidents, if that’s how this works. Then get back to me.”

~*~

A black-topped café table straddled the flooring change between Dana’s kitchen and living room, half on grungy linoleum, half on carpet. It was snugged up against the wall on one side, beneath a clock shaped like a sunflower that ticked loudly into the silence. Dana had reached for the wine bottle sitting open on the counter, hands shaking, and Melissa had waved her down into a chair and made them coffee instead. They sat now across from one another, Dana’s trembling hands wrapped around her mug, face bent over the fragrant steam that wafted up in the glow of a dim, nineteen-fifties overhead fixture.

“You must think I’m crazy.”

A little. Melissa took a sip of coffee and longed for cream. There’d not been so much as milk in the fridge; mostly leftover takeout, beer, and wine. “Had you been drinking tonight before you called me?”

Dana shook her head emphatically. “No. I didn’t – after I called, while I waiting, for my nerves…” She trailed off and lifted her mug with two hands; her teeth clattered against the rim. “But not before. I mean…I had a couple glasses with dinner, but then I went to bed. I was getting up to get a glass of water when I saw him.”

“It, you mean,” Melissa corrected, gently. “It’s a grill, Dana.”

“No, I know, but.” She bit her lip, hard, eyes squeezing shut. “That’s what’s out there now, but there was a man. He was staring right at me.

“Please.” She opened her eyes and lunged forward, hands slapping the tabletop; Melissa fought not to startle. “I wasn’t drunk and I’m not making this up! He was there!”

Melissa offered a soothing gesture. “Okay. I believe you.” She didn’t, but denial wasn’t the answer here. She wished she knew of someone she could call, some way to find Dana the help she needed.

A thought struck. “You said he was looking in at you. Did you get a good look at his face?”

“Yes.” She nodded. And then froze, eyes widening as the implication of that struck. “Yes,” she repeated, excitement mounting visually. “I did, he–”

“Take your time.” Melissa took a deep breath, pleased when Dana nodded and followed suit.

“Okay,” she said, after a few more deep breaths. “He was…” She squinted as she organized her thoughts, and took a deep slug of coffee. “He was white. Tall. But hunched over. We were eye level, even though he was ducked down to look into the window at me.”

Melissa had whipped out her pad and started jotting; nodded for Dana to continue.

“He had a tan, like he’d spent time in the sun. I couldn’t see his hair, because he had his hood up, but his eyebrows were dark, black, and so was the stubble on his chin.” She tapped her own in demonstration. “His eyes looked black. They were…” She shuddered hard. “God, the way he wasstaring. It was so intense. It didn’t seem human. And the worse part…” Her gaze skipped toward the window, cheeks coloring. “Even though I thought I was gonna have a heart attack because I was so scared, I thought ‘man, he's hot.’ And he was.” She turned a look on Melissa that was half-hopeless, half-pleading. “Isn’t that awful? That I thought he wasattractive?”

Melissa offered a faint smile. “That’s the thing, though: there’s no rule that says creeps have to be ugly.”

Twenty-Two

Pongo was in a cold sweat by the time he descended the front steps of Roger’s Antiques to the sidewalk. He alternated between pissed off and unreasonably spooked. Angry that Prince had dared bring Dixie into things one moment, and afraid for her the next. That was twice in one day someone had sent him a veiled warning about her.

Two days in a row, really, given it was the next morning, already.

He stopped beneath the streetlight and fished out a cigarette; stood for a bit, shoulder propped against the light pole, letting the nicotine seep into his veins and settle his jangled nerves.

It was then he noticed that, despite the CLOSED sign in the door of Hauser’s, the interior lights were still on and Denny was polishing glasses at the bar.

Pongo flicked his cigarette into the damp gutter, strode over, and rapped on the glass with the back of his hand.

Denny’s head lifted slowly, but one hand slipped below the counter, where doubtless a gun lay hidden. His expression wasn’t tense, per se, but nevertheless relaxed when Pongo pressed his face in close to the glass so he could be recognized. Denny tried to wave him off, but Pongo thumped the window hard with the side of his fist, until Denny mouthedfuck, and came to let him in.

---