Page 6 of The Thief
"What brings you to our lovely establishment?" I ask, because Murphy pays me to be civil to customers—even the ones who look like they collect souls for a living.
"Work."
"What kind of work?"
"The kind that's none of your business."
Fair enough. I top off his whiskey without being asked; professional courtesy between people who know when to stop asking questions.
He watches me move behind the bar, and I can feel his gaze like a physical thing. Not lecherous like some of the punters who come through here. More like he's memorizing me, filing away details for reasons I don't want to think about.
"Any man looks at you like that; you make sure there's distance between you and the door," Dad used to say. "And if that fails, you remember what I taught you about kneecaps."
Sound advice. So why am I not following it?
"You live around here?" the stranger asks.
"Why? Writing a travel guide?"
"Just curious."
"Curiosity killed the cat."
"Good thing I'm not a cat."
Christ, he's persistent. Also, good-looking. Also, definitely not someone I should be having this conversation with.
I've been around dangerous men my whole life. Dad was one of them, IRA through and through; the kind who solved problems with explosives and asked questions later. But he loved me completely, protected me fiercely, and made sure I knew I was worth dying for.
This stranger's different. This one makes my pulse quicken instead of my survival instincts kicking in. He makes me forget everything Dad taught me about staying safe.
Which means he's exactly the kind of trouble I can't afford.
"Your drink's paid for," I say, sliding his change across the bar. "Enjoy your stay in Belfast."
It's a dismissal, clear as daylight. He gets the message but doesn't move. Just sits there, turning his nearly empty glass between his fingers like he's got all the time in the world.
"What's your name?" he asks.
"What's yours?"
"Freddie."
Freddie. It suits him somehow; casual, friendly, the kind of name that puts people at ease. Which probably makes him very good at whatever kind of work brought him to Belfast.
"Well, Freddie," I say, putting just enough ice in my voice to freeze him out, "I'm working. And you're drinking. Let's keep it that way."
He finishes his whiskey in one swallow and stands, then drops a twenty on the bar. The tip’s too much for one drink but not enough to buy my attention.
"See you around," he says.
"No," I reply. "You won't."
But I watch him leave anyway. Watch the way he moves through the door like smoke, there one second and gone the next. I watch until the cold Belfast night swallows him up and I'm left standing behind the bar with my heart doing something stupid.
"Friend of yours?" Murphy asks from the other end of the bar.
"Never seen him before in my life."
