"We'll need to meet," Roland said. "What city do you live in?"
"Pittsburgh. That's why Marcos recommended you. He said you're in Pennsylvania and--"
"Right. So let's get together in two hours."
Now my hesitation wasn't faked. We hadn't expected to have so little notice.
"You want to meet tonight?" I said.
"Is that a problem?"
He was testing me. If I couldn't come quickly, that might suggest something was fishy. I agreed, and Roland gave me the address.
CHAPTER 24
I've never quite understood the allure of dive bars for underworld meetings. Oh, sure, places like that are made for shady folks and shadier deals. But if you're serious about keeping your criminal activities secret, you'd be better off in some overcrowded hipster joint, where the noise volume and sheer crush of people would guarantee privacy.
But no, it's almost always a dive bar or a place teetering on the edge of dive-bar-dom. This one fit better in the latter category, probably because Roland suspected Ms. Suburban Client wouldn't set foot anyplace worse.
In this case, Ms. Suburban Client had no intention of setting foot inside. The plan was for us to stake out the place until Roland realized he'd been stood up and headed home, where we could follow and perform a proper interrogation.
Evelyn didn't go with us. She's past the age where she cares to take any kind of unnecessary risk--of injury or exposure.
Jack was inside the bar, where he could keep an eye on Roland while enjoying a beer. A temporary dye had washed the silver out of his hair. He'd added a facial scar, green contacts, forearm tattoos, and a handlebar mustache. He could be a biker. He could be a trucker. Or he could just be a guy passing through town who thought the bar looked like a good place to grab a beer.
Quinn and I patrolled. We were watching for Roland, using Evelyn's general description--early sixties, dyed hair, my height, twice my weight. Quinn spotted him first, a block from the bar.
"Heading your way from the east," he said over the radio. "Dark jacket. Gloves. The street's empty, so you should spot him easily."
"Got him," I said as I picked up a distant figure trudging along the sidewalk. "Did you see where he parked?"
"In a lot farther down the block. I spotted him walking out. I'll go in, feel the hoods, find the warmest one."
"You're good."
A quiet laugh, as if surprised by the compliment. "Thanks."
I slipped into position in an alley across the road from the bar, where I could watch the front door. Roland was moving fast for his size, jacket pulled tight, looking anxious. Twice he glanced over his shoulder.
A first meeting is always dicey. Younger guys insist on handling everything by phone or e-mail, but the old-timers know that practice is actually more dangerous than a face-to-face meeting. Phones can be tapped. E-mail can be hacked. Yes, in person, someone can tape you, but you also have the advantage of being able to evaluate your client.
Still, an experienced middleman shouldn't be this nervous meeting a new client. How badly had Jack scared him all those years ago? We could joke about it--the killing of the dog, Roland tied up and left to eat and drink from the bowls. But if it had happened to an ordinary citizen we'd be horrified.
I know Jack wouldn't have left Roland there to die, but Roland hadn't realized that. Those three days would have been terrifying. Looking at him now, I wondered if he'd ever recovered.
Roland slowed as he approached the bar. He took out his cell phone and made a note or sent a text. There was no way to tell. I sent my own texts, though, to both Jack and Quinn, giving them a heads-up. Then Roland went inside and I got comfortable at my post.
After thirty minutes, the bar door opened and a single figure stepped out. I wasn't surprised it was Jack. He'd find it easier to convey a message in person than by text or radio. He lit a cigarette--an excuse for going outside--and strolled my way. I was in my alley behind a pile of recycling boxes. I stayed in position as he stubbed out the cigarette and swung in behind me.
"All good?" he whispered.
I nodded. "You?"
He shifted up against me, his leg against mine, tobacco-scented breath warm against my ear as I faced the bar. "Gonna be a while. He's settled in. Ordered nachos. Figures the client's just antsy. He'll wait."
"Okay."
"Need a break?"