Hostage Zero

CHAPTER TWENTY

It was hard for Harvey Rodriguez not to feel at least a little like a prisoner. With his beard shaved and his hair cut-courtesy of a hot black chick named Venice, who turned out to know her way around a pair of clippers-all it took was a hot shower and a change of clothes to make Harvey feel and look like a new man. Officially, he was free to come and go as he pleased, but it’s hard to wander around in the open when people you don’t know are looking to kill you.

Still, he needed fresh air. Blame it on the hundred bucks Jonathan gave him. With no bills to pay and a guaranteed roof over his head-in a mansion, no less-cash in his pocket meant beer in his belly. The way he saw it, dying with a couple of Coronas on board had to be better than dying parched.

Jimmy’s Tavern sat on the water, three blocks downhill from the mansion. At 8:30 in the evening, the parking lot was three-quarters full, a surefire sign of the kind of place where Harvey could enjoy killing some brain cells.

His expectations dimmed, however, as he closed within a few dozen yards of the place and noticed that the pull hardware on the doors was fashioned in the form of fish-a yin and a yang, one sniffing the other’s ass as they swam counterclockwise.

He grabbed the fish belly on the right and pulled, hoping to be greeted by the aroma of booze and stale cigars, but instead was assaulted by the stench of chicken fingers and French fries. He missed real bars. This family-fare shit was for the birds.

If you ignored the left-hand side of the building, where a forest of empty tables awaited the dinner crowd, the smaller right-hand side featured a bar fashioned from pine planking and old seafaring barrels of grog. He knew the barrels were supposed to be grog, because the word was stenciled on every other one. The alternating barrels bore the mark of the ass-sniffing fish from the front door along with the word JIMMY ’ S stenciled in the open circle.

You never judge a bar by its bar, though; you judge it by the number and diversity of bottles stacked against the back mirror, and by the forest of beer taps. Measuring by that yardstick, this place was just fine.

The kid behind the bar didn’t look old enough to be serving liquor. “Welcome to Jimmy’s,” the kid said, sliding a cardboard coaster at him. More of the damn fish. “What can I get you?”

The tap handles advertised an embarrassment of riches. With a hundred unearned bucks in his pocket, he ignored the cheap domestics that he’d normally order and went for a Harp Lager. Three or four of those and he’d be feeling a lot like a leprechaun.

The kid placed a heady pint onto the coaster and extended his hand. “I’m Chris,” he said.

“Harvey.” They shook hands.

“No kiddin’?” Chris said with a chuckle. “You missed a friend of yours by about ten minutes.”

Harvey recoiled, instantly pissed at himself for giving up his name so easily.

“A big guy,” Chris expounded. “Gray hair, mustache. Boston accent.” He mocked the word as Bahston. “He didn’t leave a name, but he asked me to keep an eye out for you. Ring any bells?”

Absolutely. Big guy he’d never heard of. Sounds just like a guy sent to avenge two friends he didn’t kill. “Not a clue,” Harvey said. He took a pull on his beer, but now it tasted like piss. Maybe that was one of the thirty-four flavors of fear. “Did he say why he was looking for me?”

“Something about being an old Army buddy.”

A wiry guy two seats down wearing denim on denim and sporting a close-cropped goatee piped in, “Said you were a war hero.” The unspoken rule of neighborhood bars everywhere: Any conversation with the bartender is open for group participation.

“That’s right,” Chris confirmed, his face brightening with recognition. “He said that he found some medals that belonged to you. I don’t know, in a basement or something. Said he wanted to get them back to you.”

New flavor: acid. The next mouthful almost made him gag. He kept his Navy Cross and Distinguished Service Medal in their original cases, hidden in a hole he’d dug under his tent. He fought the urge to bolt from his barstool and tear for the door.

“Now that I see you, though, that might be bullshit,” said Denim. “He must be twenty years older than you. I have a hard time seeing you two serving in the same unit. You might want to be careful.”

Harvey eyed the denim guy carefully, then shrugged it off. He wanted this conversation to end.

“I think we all need to be careful,” Chris said, absently wiping the bar top even though it didn’t need it. “That stuff at Resurrection House the other day. I don’t like stuff like that happening around here. If little kids aren’t safe, then nobody’s safe, know what I mean?” He shook his head sadly, and then seemed to realize he was bringing the mood down, so he became a little too cheerful. “So, where are y’all from?”

Harvey’s gut jumped again. He’d assumed that Denim was a regular.

“I’m from everywhere,” Denim said. “I’m willing to hang my hat wherever I can find work.”

“Oh yeah?” Chris said, clearly intrigued by the prospect. “What kind of work do you do?”

Denim shrugged. “None, right now. I’m sort of looking around.”

Was Harvey imagining things, or was this guy glaring at him as he spoke? One of the problems with being a diagnosed paranoid is that you never know when the paranoia is justified.

“For what?” Chris pressed. “What’s your specialty?”

“I was in the weapons business for a long time,” Denim said. “But this new outbreak of peace is killing me.”

Chris laughed, but Harvey’s hand started to shake. Weapons business. New in town. Happened to be here right at this moment. Coincidence or strategy?

“And you, Harvey?” Chris asked. “Where do you come from? What do you do?”

He knew the kid was just trying to be friendly, but Harvey wanted to shove a wad of napkins in his mouth. He should have prepared an answer for this. “I used to work for a charter fishing company,” he lied. “I got laid off, though.”

Chris looked concerned. “Which one? I didn’t know charters were laying off.”

“In Georgia,” Harvey clarified. He had no idea why he’d just said that. He’d never even been to Georgia. “Out of Savannah.” Please, God, let Savannah be on the coast.

“Well, that’s a great line to be in around here if you’re any good at it,” Chris said. “Where are you staying?”

Jesus Christ, did he not have an off switch? “With friends.”

The kid’s smile brightened even more. “Anybody I know?”

Harvey opened his mouth to say something, but no words formed. His library of lies had just checked out its last edition. He found himself staring.

“Give the guy a break,” Denim said. “He just found out that a stranger is looking for him, and you keep leaning on him for information. Would you want to be answering your questions if you were him?”

A lightbulb went on over Chris’s head. Almost literally. “Oh, jeeze, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push too hard. I was just-”

Harvey waved him off. “Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“Sure looked spooked, though,” Denim said. He toasted him with what looked to be a pint of Coca-Cola.

Harvey forced a smile, and tried to devise an exit strategy. Denim worried him. Assuming he was a bad guy, Harvey would be foolish to leave a public place. The guy would only have to follow him, wait for the right moment, and then do whatever he came to do. On the other hand, waiting would guarantee a meeting with the big Bostonian.

Even if Harvey did leave, where would he go? He wasn’t the most selfless guy in the world, but there’s no way he could lead killers back to the mansion.

When you’ve got no good options, all you can do is hope to choose the least shitty one. In this case, it meant finishing his Harp and getting out of here. He waited a couple of minutes after he drained the pint to ask for the check. While Chris rang the order, Denim defused everything by dismissing himself from his stool and heading to the men’s room.

“I hope our friend isn’t stepping out on his bill,” Harvey quipped as he slipped a twenty into the little plastic folder embossed with yet another set of ass-kissing fish.

Chris smiled and shook his head. “Nah, he looks honest to me.” As he cashed out the change he added, “Sure you don’t want to stick around for your friend?”

Harvey spun himself off the stool. “Chris, I gotta tell you. I don’t know anybody who fits the description you gave, and I’ve never won any medals. If he comes back, feel free to forget you ever saw me.” He eyed the cash in Chris’s hand. “Keep the change.”

The kid’s eyes saucered at the three hundred percent tip. “Forget I saw who?”