Page 10 of His Puppet

“I don’t use my last name.”

“Smith. Not exactly unique, is it?”

She lifts her eyes to meet mine. “What difference does knowing my name make?”

I shrug and bring the glass to my lips, pouring the rest of the Cognac down my throat. I’m enough drinks in that I no longer feel the burn.

I slam the glass on the table and stand. “All right, then I guess we’re done. Enjoy your time with Victor.”

“What?” Her eyes go wide. She whips her head behind her as if expecting Victor to appear.

“If I can’t trust you with giving me as little information as your name, you’re useless to me. We’ll chalk it up to a junky with sticky fingers and call it good.”

I’m bluffing, of course. I do need to know who she is and why her path crossed with my guy’s. She can’t do that if she’s dead.

I take a step toward her, and she cowers, shielding herself with her arm. “Emily!”

I pause and tilt my head. “Emily what?”

“Emily Granger.”

This time, I buy it.

I sit back down and prop my elbows on my knees. “Where do you live?”

She hesitates and fiddles with her drink for a minute. I’m just about to make another threat when she responds.

“401 S Garland. It’s on the east side. Across from Coach Park.”

I nod. “Very good, Ms. Granger. You told the truth. See? This is how trust is built.”

She lifts her drink and throws back the vodka. I can see the moment the liquor burns. She winces and brings the tumbler down, clearing her throat as she sets the glass on the table.

“What were you doing in Naked City today?” I ask.

“A job. A couple of guys hired me to steal a fanny pack off a tourist. They told me where he’d be, and I showed up thirty minutes before the time they gave and waited across the street, by the movie theater.”

“Who hired you?”

“I don’t know. Just a couple of—”

“Don’t repeat yourself, Emily. It’s a waste of time for both of us.”

She closes her mouth and thinks for a moment. “I don’t know their names, but one was tall and thin. Like really tall. Basketball player tall. The other, not so much. He had a hat pulled down low, and the tall guy did the talking, so I’m not real sure what he looked like.”

“Were they Russian?” I hold my breath while I wait for her answer. Worst case scenario, the Russians tried picking off our product. We haven’t been in great standing with them in recent years, and I’d love to avoid another war.

She shakes her head. “No. They were just a couple of white guys. Kind of trashy looking.”

“Trashy as in … their clothes? Their demeanor? What was trashy about them?”

“The tall guy had bad teeth… And yeah, they weren’t dressed for the Ritz, but they had cash. A lot of it.”

“Did they seem high?”

She considers it, but I’m already coming to a conclusion. They sound like dealers. Probably small-time guys, not looking to eliminate the competition but looking to score some product to sell.

She shakes her head. “No. Bad Teeth has definitely dabbled with meth at some point, but he was alert enough that I didn’t guess I was stealing drugs for them.”

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