Page 86 of Long Way Down

The word sounded clinical and nasty in Ian’s patrician voice. Pongo shrugged and said, “Had someone ask me if I knew anything. Been doing a little digging.”

Ian withdrew something, shut the drawer, but kept whatever it was out of sight in his lap, gaze lifting to fix Pongo with cutting scrutiny. He had the gaze of a general…or a psychic. Like he could look straight through skin and flesh and see the beating heart of what made you weakest. “This ‘someone’ wouldn’t happen to be Detective Dixon, would it?”

Paired with his direct look, the question traveled down Pongo’s spine like the tease of a cold, clammy fingertip.

Here was the thing about Ian Byron – about Shaman: the official word from Knoxville was that he was family, as sacred as any club old lady or kid or grandma. Ghost Teague had taken him under his black wing and his affection for the man was paternal bordering on indulgent.

Officially, Ian’s money and sway had enabled the Dogs to take a step up in the world – or,underworld, really.

Unofficially, however, amidst the gossip whispered over whiskey tumblers, Shaman was a villain who’d threatened, pressured, and manipulated the club at first. Ghost and the Knoxville boys might have considered him one of their own, now, but there were Dogs in other chapters who didn’t share that sentiment.

Pongo had no opinion one way or the other…at least he hadn’t, until Ian looked at him just now and mentioned Dixie with a bite in his voice.

His belly tightened in response, nerves like plucked guitar strings, suddenly.

He donned a lazy grin and said, “Dixie? Nah. We don’t cross the streams like that. This was somebody else. Pimp who had one of his girls roughed up.”

Ian’s brows gave a single jump, as if his curiosity was only mildly piqued. “Don’t cross the streams? She was the one on-scene at the Beaumont Building, wasn’t she?”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

“Well, yeah,” he said, as casually as he could. “I called her and gave her the tip-off. We had to have someone bring the local cops in, right? The club works with the law sometimes, when they need to.”

“Hm, true. That was the whole point of you cultivating a relationship with her in the first place, wasn’t it?”

All the little hairs were standing up on the back of his neck.

“But,” Ian continued, head angling, tone deepening, “when it comes to the law,weusethem. Not the other way around.”

It had been different, before; Ritz-Carlton hotel rooms crowded with too many people; five conversations going on at once, air rank with cigarette smoke and fear sweat. Ian had been surrounded by security goons and by Dogs that he knew personally, from Knoxville. It was easy to forget, met with the splendor of the office on the other side of the door, that this posh man, nervous and tense at the hotel, fretting and pacing with a phone pressed to his ear, was capable of baring all his perfect teeth in a wicked smile as he ran Jack Waverly through with relish. Pongo hadn’t seen it in person, but he’d watched the video after, just like everyone else.

Shooting a man was one thing.

It took an entirely different sort of person to kill him up close, with a blade…and to enjoy it.

He was reminded of that, now, and had trouble affecting the nonchalant grin he attempted. “Aw, come on, man. It’s not like that, I told you. This pimp – guy named Titus – said he heard the Lean Dogs were in the good deed business these days and reached out – through one of our dealers, actually. Two-Shoes Jimmy.” He gestured to the room around them. “He’d love this place, by the way. He’s got a real eye for bling, our Jimmy.”

One corner of Ian’s mouth twitched. Amusement? Contempt? Impossible to tell. “I feel it pertinent to remind you that, whatever your relationship with the good detective, she operates on the other side of the law from us.”

“Us?” Pongo asked, still smiling, though he could feel the aggressive edge to it, now. “Did you patch in to our chapter and I didn’t hear about it?”

That smile’s dangerous, his grandmother had told him, once.You can say the most provoking thing, and smile through it, and the man you said it to won’t know whether to punch you or shake your hand. He’d relied on it his whole life, and it rarely failed him.

It worked now…though he had the sense, judging by Ian’s little snort, that it was down to amusement, rather than any sort of charm on his own part.

“Very well, I take your point. Still.” A single finger lifted in warning. “Here.” Ian’s other hand came up from his lap and flicked a palm-sized object through the air toward him.

Pongo caught it on reflex, and turned it over to find a phone, still in its white manufacturer’s box. “What’s this?” It was a relief to drop the subject of Dixie, though his heart still thumped harder than normal.

“There’s a number programmed into it, listed as ‘Billy.’ Don’t call it, it’ll call you – sometime after midnight tonight. Ghost is making overtures with other outlaw organizations, trying to get on the same page now that Abacus is fractured. This particular organization wants a parlay: one of theirs one-on-one with one of ours.”

“There you go using that word ‘ours’ again.”

“Hush. My lack of a dusty leather cut is immaterial at this point. Patched or not, I am your liaison with the mother chapter of this club.” Said firmly, patiently…warningly. Kenny Teague had given this asshole far too much latitude, in Pongo’s worthless opinion.

He fidgeted. “Who am I meeting?”

“The contact will tell you. He’s also arranging the meeting place.”

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