I ordered a Diet Coke. The girl looked at me oddly, but said nothing.
Lo paid. As we waited, the smell of frying fat kicked my nausea up a notch.
When our food was ready, Lo carried the tray to the rear booth. I sat down and slid to the wall. Lo dropped into the space beside me.
The CI’s eyes rolled up below their bill, checked the restaurant, me, then settled on Lo. The irises were brown-black, the whites the same dull yellow as the tee.
“Who’s the chick?”
“Myrna Loy.”
“What’s she doing here?”
“Don’t worry about it, Fitch.”
“What the fuck happened to her?”
“Ninjas.”
Lo removed two drinks, gave me one, then pushed the tray forward. Using both hands, Fitch yanked it to his chest.
“I don’t like it.” The table edge started tapping the wall. Under it, Fitch’s left knee was bouncing like a piston.
“Tough,” Lo said.
“This isn’t our deal.” Fitch’s eyes did another sweep. He ran a hand along his jawline.
“My party.” Lo pointed to the wall. “Move over. I’m expecting more guests.”
Fitch opened his mouth, reconsidered, lurched left. All the man’s movements were quick and jerky, like those of a crab caught in a net.
Lo and I sipped.
Fitch dived into his burger.
Lo pulled a small spiral from his pocket and flipped the cover. Clicked a ballpoint to readiness.
As Fitch ate, wilted shreds of lettuce dropped to the burger’s discarded wrapper. A hunk of tomato. A glob of cheese.
“It’s my health we’re risking here.” As Fitch spoke, chewed hunks of beef tumbled in his mouth.
“You’re the one eats that garbage,” Lo said.
“You know what I mean.” Grease coated the CI’s lips and chin.
“How about finishing that? Watching you’s not doing my gut no favors.”
Fitch was squeezing a third packet of ketchup onto his fries when something caught his attention behind our backs.
Lo and I turned.
Ryan was walking in our direction.
“Who the hell’s this?” Fitch hissed.
“William Powell.”
“He a cop?” Fitch either missed or ignored Lo’s second Walk of Fame joke.
“Yeah, Fitch. He’s a cop.”
“A nark?” The left knee was pumping gangbusters.
“Aloha,” Ryan said.
“Aloha,” Lo and I answered.
Ryan tensed on seeing my face. He made no comment.
Scowling, Fitch shrank farther left.
Ryan slid into the booth.
Eyes down, Fitch jerked the tray sideways and continued shoving fries into his mouth.
Lo tested the ballpoint with sharp, quick strokes.
“So what have you got?” he asked.
Fitch swallowed, sucked his soda, snatched up and bunched a paper napkin. His eyes crawled to Ryan, to me, to Lo.
“This is fucked-up, man.”
Lo didn’t answer.
“Word gets out—”
“It won’t.”
Fitch jabbed his chest. “It’s my ass—”
