Page 151 of Long Way Down

“So we’ll play it by ear. We found the brochure at Waxman’s house, by his bed, no less, and we’ve already got testimony about the group from someone else. If I hear anything useful, I’ll swoop in, make an arrest, and then say I was working with a confidential informant. It won’t blow back on you, or your club. Or…” He sent a quizzical glance Kat’s way. “Your…club?”

“Sweet,” Pongo said, “but you better be right. My prez is gonna give me some leeway with my old lady, but that doesn’t really include you.”

“Old lady?” Contreras grinned, delighted.

“Shh, don’t say that in front of her. I’m not convinced it won’t scare her off yet.”

“If you’re done gossiping about girls,” Kat said with great contempt. “I think our mark just walked in.”

“Shit,” Contreras muttered. He stepped forward, pretended to collide with Pongo, and offered a booming, “Excuse me! Didn’t see you there!” before rushing off to the counter to order.

“Subtle,” Kat muttered.

“Subtle like your gloves? You look like you’re gonna rob a jewelry store later. Or maybe fight Tony Stark in a parking lot.”

“What–”

“Come on.”

A man had entered, shoulders of his tan windbreaker dotted with rain, droplets glistening on his bald head. He was tall, thick in the middle, with a tidy beard, glasses, and hands big enough to crush a woman’s throat. He wore cheap slacks and a polo shirt, chunky, dark, out of fashion shoes. He scanned the interior of the coffeeshop, gaze landing on them, mouth plucking sideways in a hopeful little smile incongruous on his fleshy, slightly-flushed face.

Pongo had offered him physical descriptions of them, and lifted a two-fingered wave before he moved toward him. “Benjamin?” he asked, when they were in range.

One of those large hands was offered forward, warm and slightly damp – from rain or sweat, Pongo couldn’t tell. “Please. Call me Ben.”

~*~

Melissa hadn’t had the chance to properly enjoy the pasta last night, what with facing down an MC interrogation and then spilling it all over the floor in her fright. Tonight, Toly went into the kitchen, the microwave ran, ice clattered into a glass, and he returned bearing a too-large portion of pasta and sauce on a plate in one hand, and a glass of bubbly clear liquid in the other.

She’d slumped onto the sofa and sat up to accept the offerings. “Thanks.” The drink was a vodka tonic, same as last night, but this time she got the chance to sip and savor. “Really. You didn’t have to.” She could smell basil wafting up from the pasta, and this time, the scent didn’t turn her stomach. He’d sprinkled parm over the top, and it turned out she was ravenous.

He grunted something noncommittal and settled back in his chair, drink of his own in his hand, attention returning to the TV. The documentary had shifted from flamingos to penguins, and the narrator had a soothing, British-accented voice that could lull her to sleep if she let it.

First, pasta.

While she ate, her thoughts drifted toward Pongo, and Contreras, their unlikely joint mission. A twinge of guilt in the pit of her stomach slowed the motion of fork to mouth; she should be there with them, to shush Pongo when he got stupid, if nothing else. It should be her career on the line for working with a known outlaw, not Contreras’s.

Across from her, Toly lit a cigarette, and the motions of the process inevitably snagged her attention. She was too tired to conjure nightmare scenarios at Starbucks; it was much easier to focus on what was right in front of her.

She hadn’t gotten the chance to properly study the Russian Lean Dog last night, overwhelmed with nerves, with too many people in the room, and Maverick dominating things besides with his quiet, fatherly energy. Come to think of it, Maverick reminded her a lot of Contreras. Toly, though, didn’t remind her of anyone, really.

He wore his hair – a true, shiny blue-black, sleek as a fall of silk – in a too-long, shaggy cut that belonged on a late-two-thousands’ alt-rock front man, the sharp points at the front brushing his lean jaw as he stuck a cig in his mouth and cupped a hand around the lighter. He had long fingers, with nails trimmed back to the quick; the thumbnail on his near hand was black from a nasty bruise. He wore a ring on his trigger finger, a wide, plain silver band; the edge of a tattoo peeked from beneath it.

A beat too late, she realized his gaze had cut over, nearly as dark as his hair, half-lidded and intimidating.

She refused to duck her head, like she’d been caught doing something wrong…but couldn’t keep silent. That was too awkward. She said, “What do you do?”

A beat passed, and then a single black brow lifted a scant quarter inch.

Oh, this was stupid. But she’d stepped in it now. “Pongo says he works mostly alone here in the city.” She twirled pasta around her fork. “Don’t worry: he didn’t tell me anything that’s, like,classifiedor whatever. But I was just curious: he said no one lived here fulltime but him. But you’re–” She gestured with her fork before she popped the noodles in her mouth, inviting him to explain.

An invitation he doubtless wouldn’t take, she thought, as his gaze slid back toward the TV. He took a sip of his drink, and she vowed not to speak to him again.

But then he said, in that low, quiet voice full of harsh consonants: “Right now I’m working security.”

“Oh.” She was so surprised he’d responded she didn’t know what to say. “That’s…cool.”

His gaze returned, a fast touch she imagined was full of judgement. One shoulder lifted in a half-shrug. “It’s a job.”

---