Page 24 of Long Way Down

Denny chewed at the inside of his cheek a moment, debating. Then jerked his chin toward the far corner. “I’ve not heard of anything like that, but if somebody has, it’ll be him over there.”

Pongo tried to casually turn around to scope the guy out. He sat in the corner of the pub’s farthest booth, alone, wreathed in shadow. A tattooed hand reached out slowly into the light to pick up the tumbler sitting in front of him on the table, and retreated.

“Fucker thinks he’s Strider or some shit,” Pongo muttered.

“What?”

“He got a name?” he asked, louder, picking up his Coke and sliding off the stool.

“Think it’s Kat. With a K. That’s what shows up on his tab, anyway.”

“Kat with a K.”

“You go by ‘Pongo,’ dipshit. You’ve got no room to judge.”

“Touché. But cold-blooded.” He chuckled to himself as he shoved off the bar, Denny grumbling behind him.

He’d long suspected the bar was set up to be purposefully difficult to navigate in a hurry. Booths lined the walls, and formed a W shape in the center of the room. Round tables filled in the rest of the gaps, amongst the wooden support pillars. It was a formation that offered privacy, darkness, but prevented a group from charging en masse anywhere. To enter or exit, one had to walk slowly, and dodge chairs and tables.This isn’t your turf, it said.This is a neutral place. Treat it as such.

He tried to get a better look at the man he approached as he wended his way toward the corner, but the shadows were working against him. He saw the silhouette of a dark baseball cap, and a bulky jacket, a glimpse of a scruffy chin, but not much else. He made sure to make noise as he arrived, boots thumping loud over the floorboards, letting out a long, slow, noisy breath. He knew he’d been clocked by the way the shadow went still, but no greeting was forthcoming.

Pongo plopped down into the booth across from him, all careless ease, slumping down to prop on one elbow straight away. “Hey. Mind if I join you?”

The man’s head lifted slowly. From beneath the bill of his hat, his dark eyes looked black, their shape faintly Asiatic, his brows dark and slanted above. Beneath a few days of beard growth, his jaw was angular, his nose fine-boned, but healed crooked from a break. His hair fell past his shoulders, slick and shiny-black. Small, red enamel studs winked in the lobe of each ear, and the points of a tattoo peeked over the collar of the hoodie and leather jacket he wore, midway up his neck. His mouth was a flat, emotionless line. The tattoo on his hand, as he lifted his glass to his lips, proved to be a tiger’s face.

Pongo nodded toward it. “That’s pretty memorable. Nice shading.”

He said nothing.

“You Kat?”

The man lowered his drink, slowly, ice cubes clinking when it landed. When he spoke, his voice was low and sandpaper-rough. “You’re the idiot who got on Nakamura’s bad side yesterday.” It wasn’t a question.

Pongo felt a crawling uneasiness along the back of his neck, and ignored it. Smiled. “You were here for that? Aw, man. Not my finest hour, lemme tell ya.”

“It was stupid.”

“So everybody’s been telling me. What’s his deal, anyway? Who pops off like that?”

“One of Sakishima’s boys,” he said, like that explained anything.

“Okaaaay.”

Another sip, slow, dark eyes never leaving Pongo’s face. Not even blinking. “What do you want?”

Pongo sat up straight and dispensed with the act. “Well,” he said, pleased to note that his shift in tone finally got a blink out of the guy, “for starters, I’d like to know if I’m talking to the right person. Are you Kat?”

Another blink. Then a nod. Pongo supposed that was the best he could hope for. “Cool. I hear you’re the guy I should talk to if I’m trying to figure out who might be into some sick shit and taking it out on prostitutes.”

Another sip. “You’re gonna have to be a lot more specific.”

Pongo rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Nobody appreciates discretion anymore, you know?”

Flat stare.

“Okay, so I have a…friend.” He winced inwardly thinking of Titus in that way, but needs must. “He’s pissed ‘cause one of his girls got cut up real bad. A guy – and not a john, just some guy she didn’t get a look at – grabbed her, roughed her up, raped her, and took a knife to her back. Wrote a note or some twisted shit. Now she can’t work, and her boss is worried about the rest of his girls.”

“April Showers.”

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