The Burning Wire

“We ain’t servicing you ’cause you stink and you’re a prick. Out.”
    The man had assembled all his wet bills and sticky coins. He must’ve had twenty dollars. He muttered, “ You the prick. You throwing me out and I’ll go out there and get burnt up.”
    “Just take your money and get out.” Stipp picked up the bat and displayed it.
    The man didn’t care. “You throw me out I’ma tell ever’body what goes on here. I know what goes on here, you think I don’t? I seen you looking at Miss Titty over there. An’, shame on you, you got a wedding ring on. Whatta Mrs. Prick think ’bout—”
    R.C. grabbed the guy’s disgusting jacket with both hands.
    When the black guy winced in panic and cried, “Don’ hit me! I’m a, you know, a cop! I’m a agent!”
    “You’re no fucking law.” R.C. drew back for a head butt.
    In a fraction of a second the FBI ID appeared in his face, and the Glock wasn’t far behind.
    “Oh, fuck me,” R.C. muttered.
    One of the two white guys who’d come in just before him said, “Duly witnessed, Fred. He attempted to cause bodily harm after you identified yourself as a law enforcement officer. We get back to work now?”
    “Thanks, gentlemen. I’ll take it from here.”

Chapter 66
    IN THE CORNER of the pool parlor, Fred Dellray sat on a wobbly chair, the back turned around, facing the youngster. It was a little less intimidating—the back of the chair in between them—but that was okay because the agent didn’t need R.C. to be so afraid he couldn’t think straight.
    Though he needed him to be a little afraid.
    “You know what I am, R.C.?”
    The sigh shook the skinny kid’s entire body. “No, I mean, I know you’re an FBI agent and you’re undercover. But I don’t know why you’re hassling me.”
    Dellray kept right on going, “What I am is a walking lie detector. I been in the business so long I can look at a girl and hear her say, ‘Let’s go home and we can fuck,’ and I know she’s thinking, He’ll be so drunk by the time we get there I can just get some sleep.”
    “I was just protecting myself. You were intimidating me.”
    “Fuck, yes, I was intimidating you. And you can just close your lips and not say a word and wait for a lawyer to come by and hold your hand. You can even call the federal building and complain about me. But, either 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