ither which way, word's going to get to your daddy in Sing-Sing that his kid hassled an FBI agent. And he's going to think that running this shithole bar, the one thing he left to you to keep an eye on while he's inside and hoped you didn't fuck up, you fucked up."
Dellray watched him squirm. "So, we all together on that?"
"Whatta you want?"
And just to make sure the back of the chair didn't make R.C. feel too much at ease, Dellray slapped his hand on the kid's thigh and squeezed hard.
"Ouch. Why'd you do that?"
"You ever been polygraphed, R.C.?"
"No, Dad's lawyer said never--"
"It's a rhe-tor-i-cal question," Dellray said, even though it wasn't. It was just a way to burst a little intimidation over R.C.'s head like a tear gas grenade at a protest.
The agent gave another squeeze for good measure. He couldn't help thinking: Hey, McDaniel, can't do this while you're eavesdropping in the cloud zone, can you?
Which's too bad. 'Cause this is a lot more fun.
Fred Dellray was here thanks to one person: Serena. The favor that she'd asked had nothing to do with cleaning the basement. It was about getting off his ass. She'd led him downstairs into the messy storeroom, where he kept his outfits from his days as an undercover agent. She found one in particular, sealed up in the same kind of plastic bag that you used for wedding dresses. It was the Homeless Drunk costume, suitably perfumed with mold and sufficient human odor--and a little cat pee--to get a confession just by sitting down next to a suspect.
Serena had said, "You lost your snitch. Quit feeling sorry for yourself and go pick up his trail. If you can't find him, then find out what he found."
Dellray had smiled, hugged her and gone to change. As he left, Serena said, "Whoa, you smell bad, son." And gave him a playful swat on the butt. A gesture very, very few people had ever bestowed on Fred Dellray.
And he hit the street.
William Brent was good at hiding tracks, but Dellray was good at finding them. One thing he'd learned, encouragingly, was that maybe Brent had been on the job after all. Dellray found by tracing his movements that the CI had come up with a lead to Galt or to Justice For the Earth or something relevant to the attacks. The man had been working hard, tracking deep undercover. Finally he'd learned Brent had come here, to this dark pool parlor, where apparently the CI had sought, and ideally gotten, important information from the young man whose knee Dellray had just vise-gripped.
Dellray now said, "So. My cards. On the table. Are we havin' fun yet?"
"Jesus." A fierce grimace that might've sent R.C.'s cheeks into a cramp. "Just tell me what you want."
"That's the spirit, son." A picture of William Brent appeared.
Dellray watched his face closely and a flash of recognition popped into R.C.'s eyes before it dissolved. He asked the kid instantly, "What'd he pay you?"
The blink of a pause told Dellray both that Brent had paid him and that the amount he was about to say would be considerably less than what really changed hands.
"One large."
Damn. Brent was being pretty fucking generous with Dellray's money.
R.C. said, with a bit of whine, "It wasn't drugs, man. I'm not into that."
"Course you are. But I don't care. He was here about information. And now . . . now . . . now. I need to know what he asked and what you told him." Dellray limbered up his lengthy fingers again.
"Okay, I'll tell you. Bill--he said his name was Bill." R.C. pointed at the picture.
"Bill is as good as any. Keep going, friend."
"He heard somebody was staying here in the 'hood. Some guy who'd come to town recent, was driving a white van, carrying a piece. A big fucking forty-five. He clipped somebody."
Dellray gave nothing away. "Who'd he kill? And why?"
"He didn't know."
"Name?"