Page 25 of Long Way Down

“What?”

“The girl. She strips, too, club called Cool Down. She’s not been in and her regulars are pissed. That’s her stage name: April Showers. ‘Cause her fans always make it rain,” he deadpanned, and lifted his glass again.

Pongo blinked. “How the hell do you know that?”

A one-shouldered shrug. “I make it my business to know things.”

Pretentious much? Pongo shook his head. “Alright, so, you know who I’m talking about. I said I’d look into it. The old Lean Dog Robin Hood angle, you know?”

Kat stared at him as if he either didnotknow, or really, really didn’t care. Toss-up as to which.

“Heard anything, Mr. Business to Know Things? Any hunches?”

“No.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

He shrugged, downed the rest of his drink, and stood.

“Hey, hold on.” Pongo was surprised when he listened. “Look, we don’t have to be pals or anything. But whoever this guy is, he’s a piece of shit. I said I’d look into it, so I’m gonna. If you know anything that could be helpful, I’d appreciate it if you shared it with me.” He didn’t use one of his winning smiles, assuming they’d be wasted in this situation.

Kat gave him a long, cold examination, all the way down to the toes of his boots and back up, face unreadable. When the silence had stretched to the point that Pongo felt the urge to break it, Kat said, “Guess the Lean Dogs are feelin’ on top of the world after you knocked Waverly off.”

Pongo frowned. “All I wanted was info. If you don’t have it, you can just say so.” He dragged an abandoned napkin over, fished a pen from his cut and jotted his number down. He slid it over toward Kat’s hand – this one tattooed with a greyscale steel trap – fully expecting it to be ignored. “I’m not trying to start a buncha shit.”

He got another long look. “Nobody’s crying ‘cause Waverly’s gone…but don’t expect to start cleaning up the streets wild west style without a fight on your hands.”

Pongo sighed. “Once again: I’m after info. About one guy.” He slumped back. “Sorry to bother you, man.”

The flat line of Kat’s mouth firmed, tweaking down at the corners. Then his gaze slid away, and he turned to go.

At the last moment, his fingers slid over the napkin, and he palmed it. So casually and deftly it looked like an accident. But he disappeared it inside his jeans pocket.

Pongo restrained a smile.

Six

Mama was wild about church. That was what Daddy would say, in a grumbling undertone. “She’swildabout church, isn’t she?” he’d mutter, and Granddad would hum and say, “We all gotta have something.” Melissa didn’t care for church: it was too warm, and the pews had a certain smell about them, and Pastor Keith, once he got rolling, could talk for a looooong time. Melissa tried to pay attention, especially when Mama pinched her knee and told her to, but between the itchy dress, and the beads of sweat sliding down her nape, a grumbling tummy and her general disinterest in the topic at hand, she always wound up wandering in her own private, mental weeds; the pinch would bring her back mid-story, and she’d be lost, and wind up tuning out again.

One story stuck out, though, vivid in her memory. The one about Eve and the apple.

The forbidden fruit.

She thought she understood that story a little better after the day in the swamp. After she and Ivy ventured into the shack.

Though nothing bad had happened, each time she recalled the raked dirt floor, and the buffed table, and the neatly arranged tools, a little coil of fear wriggled in the pit of her belly. Fear ofwhat, she didn’t know. That someone had been lurking and seen them? ThatPastor Keithhad seen them?

The Sunday following their exploration of the shack, Melissa sank way down in her pew at church, not wanting to be noticed, afraid of accidental eye contact, given the way Mama always dragged them up to the very front row.

“Missy,” Mama hissed, tugging at the collar of her dress in the back. “Sit up.”

She resisted, at first, but Mama leaned in close, breath hot and smelling of coffee against the side of her face. “Missy, if you don’t sit up like a ladyright this instant–”

“And look who we have here with us today,” Pastor Keith said from the pulpit, microphone sending his normally-soft voice out in warm, loud ripples through the chapel. “It’s the Dixons. Good morning, Beverly. Jacob. Hank.” Melissa had lifted her head at the first word, and too late realized that they were about to lock eyes; when it happened, he smiled, small and close-mouthed, eyes glittering behind his glasses. “Good morning, Missy. Are you ready for the Gospel of Luke today?”

She wanted to look away – she tried to. But she couldn’t, pinned to the pew by his relentless regard. There was somethingwrongabout the way he was looking at her, and Melissa was helpless to explain what it was, even to herself. She wanted it to stop, but her head wouldn’t turn, and he kept smiling, smiling, smiling, his eyes bright as marbles.

He knew. He knew about them pushing open the door, and tracking up his raked floor. Knew she’d skimmed her fingers over the tabletop. Knew that Ivy had tipped a bottle to her lips and taken long swallows of the brown liquid within. Knew that Ivy had stopped on the walk back to the house, leaned over and vomited into a pool of brackish swamp water, so noisily that Melissa had covered her ears and tried to keep from gagging. His gaze bored into her, and she knew that he knew all of that. His smile was taunting.

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