A nod of thanks to the waitress as she set down the cup. He took it and sipped. Didn’t really want any. But he was testing his gut. After a moment he concluded: no, it wasn’t going to come up again. He added sugar. Another test. Same result.
Ryan had more of his meal, cutting it with his fork. “I eat meat at lunch. At home, at night, June watches the fat.” He tapped his gut. Round, yes, but Merritt wouldn’t’ve worried about it. “Sometimes it’s just a salad. For dinner. You can believe it? And dressing? Low fat.”
Ryan glanced Merritt’s way, subtly. The rambling meant he was treading lightly. He’d seen Merritt out of control. Blood had spilled.
And this caution was coming from one of the most ruthless mob bosses in Ferrington’s history.
The man’s freckled face concentrated on the plate over the courseof several bites, washed down with sips from his half-empty pint glass. Bass ale, Merritt could tell from the aroma.
He looked off again and he was not wholly present. He was thinking of—no, wasseeing—the words he’d just read on the last sheet in the second envelope Larkin, the big guard, had given him: letters addressed to the discharge board. Three recommended his release. The last one did not.
My ex-husband is a brutal and sadistic man. Throughout the marriage I was constantly in fear for my and my daughter’s physical safety and emotional health. Our daughter has been in therapy for years. Only through regularly meeting with a psychologist is she able to cope with the trauma she has experienced throughout her life thanks to my husband—thankfully now “ex.”
He puts on a charming façade. Do NOT let him fool you. My therapist said he is a classic sociopath. Friendly when he wants to be, but cruel underneath.
But three to one.
And he was free.
After a couple more bites, Ryan brought him back. “Jon?”
“You ever come here as a kid?”
“Here? Sure. You?”
Merritt didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “With my old man, ten, twelve times.” He was staring at the mural. “Lunch break. He was at Briscow.”
“The tool place?”
A nod.
Those lunches were at a time when Jon was the star on the high school baseball team. He hadn’t wanted to come, never knew what his father might do or say, even in public: bully and insult. But the man had insisted, and if Jon had said no, things definitely would’vebeen bad. So he rolled the dice and went. Usually it was okay. A little bullying, a little sarcasm. Not terrible.
When offers from the pro teams, even bush league, never materialized, the lunch invitations from his father stopped. And he didn’t have to worry about it anymore.
Merritt sipped coffee. The waitress came by and refilled the cup. He waited until she was across the room, then eased close to the Irishman. “I need two things, Dom.”
“If I can help you out.” Given who Merritt was, this qualification was required. But appended delicately, so as not to light any fuses.
“A piece. Not fancy. Wheel gun’s fine.”
Ryan didn’t ask if he was sure. Everybody knew that for a con who’d just been released, possession of a firearm was suicide: the fastest way to get processed back inside—the fastest way, short of using it, of course.
“When?”
“Now.”
Ryan’s brow furrowed. He nodded to himself and sent a text. The response was nearly instantaneous. “Twenty minutes. Out back. Expect a frisk for a wire. It’ll be energetic.”
“Fine.”
“And the second thing?” Ryan asked.
Merritt was seeing more of his ex’s letter. The last paragraph, in particular.
There are things about Jon that I know, that he does not want to come to light. This was, I’m sure, one of the reasons for his attempt to kill me. I had hoped to be able to relocate with my daughter before he was released, as I know our lives are still in danger. A release now would not give me the chance to finish important projects at work and move.
Please, honor the terms of the plea arrangement, and keep him in prison for the entire time of his sentence.