Page 62 of Long Way Down

Room 3 was empty, and she pulled a blank sheet of printer paper from the scant offering of supplies at the front table, wrote “Contreras + Dixon” in black marker, and taped the makeshift sign to the outside of the door. The whiteboard against the far wall still bore the smudges and streaks of badly-erased notes from a previous case, and she was vigorously wiping them clean with the Expo spray and a paper towel when Contreras let himself in. She knew it was him rather than Pongo when the door clicked shut, because Pongo would never have kept silent, but she finished the board with a last, mean squeak of wet paper towel before finally turning.

Contreras stood against the interior-facing window, blinds crumpled behind his shoulders, expression one of patient expectation.

She stared at him in silent challenge. She wasn’t going to start this conversation. If he could be big enough to ignore what had just happened and press forward with the case, then points to him. If not, she wasn’t going to lead with a justification.

He said, “So, you’re dating a Lean Dog.”

She took a slow breath and let it out even slower through her nostrils.

“Sorry. Maybe notdating. But you…know one. Named Pongo.” His mouth twitched in a way that she interpreted as him holding back a smile.

“It’s a nickname,” she ground out through her teeth.

“I figured.” He studied her a moment, and she could tell that he was rethinking what he knew about her; reconsidering things in this new light. No one had officially been able to link the Dogs with what happened at the Beaumont Building, but the name had been floated in law enforcement circles. Whoever took out Waverly wasn’t small-time or unconnected; there were only a handful of organizations with that kind of pull and firepower and the Lean Dogs were near the top of the list these days.

Finally, he said, “Look, he’s not my friend. You can send him packing if you want. But he did bring food, and I know I’m at least hungry.” His head tilted. “He also said he might know something useful about Davey’s Number One Fan.” He spread his hands in awhat’ll it be?gesture.

She took another deep breath and tried for logic. Pongo was already here, and had already introduced himself to her partner using that stupid nickname. Shewashungry. Theydidneed more intel.

“Okay,” she said. “But we better bring him in here so he doesn’t attract a bunch of attention.”

Contreras grinned. “You old softie.”

She aimed a finger his direction. “Start sounding like him, and I’m going home.”

He chuckled as he went to retrieve their Dog.

~*~

Later, they would turn the whiteboard and conference room walls into a visual representation of the case, all their theories and the lines connecting vics and potential suspects laid out visually so they could walk through it more easily. But for now, with Pongo not privy to anything official, they laid out the Thai food, paper plates and plastic forks, and set about the business of dinner.

Pongo, sitting across from Melissa and beside Contreras, who’d taken the head of the table as if he sensed the need to play mediator between them, loaded up his plate and said, “You guys ever hear of a bar called the Dirty Dog?”

Melissa snorted and popped the tab on her Coke. “That sounds wildly appropriate for you. But no.”

“I have,” Contreras said. He reached for a packet of soy sauce. “That’s kind of a rough crowd who goes in there.” He sent a meaningful glance to the front of Pongo’s hoodie. “You guys don’t run it, do you? Seems a little on the nose.”

“Nah, Mav doesn’t want us selling pu…those sorts of favors.”

Contreras snorted. “Nice save.”

“I try to be as gentlemanly as possible.”

“God,” Melissa muttered. “Okay, so it’s not your bar. Why were you there?” She realized after she said it how it must have sounded; realized too, her stomach tightening, that the answer mattered more than it should have. It was one thing to know she was sleeping with a Dog and that doing so entailed certain risks – another to have him admit to her face that he was sleeping with hookers.

Pongo realized it, too, judging by the way his expression caught and froze. The air filled with a sudden tension. Contreras’s chair creaked as he leaned back in it.

Pongo shrugged, playing innocent. “Looking for info.” Then one of his more annoying, shit-eating grins appeared. “Why? Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m–”

She banged her Coke can on the table. “That’s enough of that.” He mimed zipping his mouth shut and she’d never wanted to throw her drink in someone’s face so badly before. “You went for info. Did you get any?”

“’Course? That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” He shoveled dripping noodles into his mouth.

“I assumed it was to annoy me.”

“And bring you dinner,” he said with his mouth full, like a heathen.

“This is my new favorite show,” Contreras said.

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