Kin

enough that Finch could smell his breath. He’d heard it said that vodka, once ingested, didn’t give off a smell, a quality that, along with gin, made it the yuppie drink of choice, but he could smell it on this guy, which pretty much confirmed his theory that saying liquor of any kind didn’t come with its own stench was akin to claiming no one would know you pissed yourself if you were wearing rubber trousers.

“You in the war or something?” he asked now, and surprised at his perceptiveness, Finch looked at him.

“Yeah. I was.”

“Figured.”

“What gave it away?” he asked.

The other man shrugged. “You’re not the first guy I’ve seen tonight that got himself all messed up over there. The other guy didn’t even have legs. Said he got them blown off in…” He struggled to recall the name, but gave up with a wave of his hand. “Over there.”

Finch bridled. “What do you mean ‘messed up’?”

The barman reappeared and slid a Budweiser before Frat Boy. There were still flecks of ice on the bottle. He nodded approvingly and dropped a ten on the counter.

“Besides,” he continued, ignoring Finch’s question and the tone with which it had been delivered. “My older bro was there.”

“In Iraq?”

“Yep.”

Finch pictured the type: Rebellious, conscientious rich kid, eager to prove he was worth more than Forbes would estimate in two decades time, eager to show his loveless father that he was his own man and not afraid to step outside the protective bubble his family’s wealth afforded him. A casualty of wealth would become a casualty of war, one way or another.

“Can’t understand it myself,” Frat Boy went on. “No need for him to do that shit, know what I’m sayin’. Plenty other guys out there fighting the good fight. No offense.”

“None taken,” Finch lied. His perception of how indifferent and selfish society could be had been heightened by his time away from it. The kids coming up these days, and most of their parents, had no idea what the world was waiting to do to their children, no concept of the depth of evil that permeated the world ready to corrupt the naive.

The door squeaked open, and a tall, well-built black man entered. He was dressed in a red OSU sweatshirt, navy sweatpants and sneakers, and though he didn’t look big enough to play football, he was too large to be mistaken for a basketball player. His head was shaved, and the gold stud in his ear glinted in the light. In his right hand he held a large manila envelope.

“Huh,” Frat Boy said. “Lookit Billy Badass.”

Finch grinned. While the wariness in the guy’s tone undoubtedly stemmed from his stereotypical view of men bigger than him, it might have cowed him further to know he was right. The man at the door’s name wasn’t Billy, but “Badass” was right on the money.

Finch leaned back in his seat, so Frat Boy wasn’t shielding him from view. The black man spotted him immediately and his lips spread in a winning smile, exposing large perfectly straight white teeth. He jabbed a finger at the booths lining the wall opposite the bar and Finch nodded.

“Friend of yours?” Frat Boy sounded disappointed.

“Yep.”

“Huh.”

Finch grabbed his beer, and headed for the booth halfway down. It was far enough from the door and Frat Boy to give them a little privacy, unless of course the guy decided to invite himself into the conversation. Finch hoped he wouldn’t. It might force Billy Badass to live up to the name he had just been given—a name he might have liked, as it was infinitely better than his unwieldy real name, which was Chester “Beau” Beaumont.

“Orange juice if you got any,” Beau told the barman and turned his back on him, leaning against the bar as he appraised Finch, who had just slid into the booth. “Slummin’, are we?”

“Hey, I like this place.”

“Wasn’t talkin’ ’bout the place, man.” He looked pointedly up the bar at Frat Boy, who quickly looked away and started muttering to his beer.

“Just one of those kids in the middle of a transitional period,” Finch said. “Going from idiot to asshole, though someday he’ll probably end up owning half the city.”

“He’s welcome to it,” Beau said, and nodded his thanks to the barman, took his drink and joined Finch in the booth. “I swear,” he continued, as he settled himself and set the large envelope between them. “Every time I walk these streets I think we made some kinda bet with God and lost. I was down this way over the weekend and you know what I saw?”

Finch shook his head.

“Two guys in the alley, up by that clothes store with the funny name?”

“Deetos?”

“Yeah. Reminds me of chips. Well, here were these two guys right? One’s down on his knees with the other guy’s dick in his mouth. Nothin’ funny ’bout that if that’s your thing, but get this… the guy gettin’ lubed is slappin’ the other guy in the side of his head. Hard. Over and over again. Now, maybe I’m gettin’ old or somethin’, but if I got some babe workin’ me down there, I ain’t doin’ shit to break her concentration, know m’sayin’?”

Finch grinned. “Yeah.”

“Damn, I don’t know if it’s some shit I missed in all those porno’s growin’ up but I can’t understand it. And hey, let’s just say for argument’s sake I’m the one doin’ the lubin. Strictly for argument’s sake, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, I ain’t lettin’ the guy privileged enough to have me down there in the first place smack on my skull. One time is all it’d take and I’d have that motherfucker mulched.”

Though enjoying the camaraderie and Beau’s banter, Finch was eager to get down to business. He looked down at the envelope. “That what you got in there? Pictures of the one time you experimented?”

Beau smiled. “Naw. Any mother took pictures of my dick, they’d need a tapestry, not a camera.”

Finch nodded. “I’m sure there’s a whole wall in the Metropolitan reserved for it.”

Beau slid the envelope to him. “I figure everythin’ you need is in there. Sorry it took so long. Hard to find shit out if no one talkin’. You may as well be askin’ what happened to a white supremacist in Compton.”

Fingers trembling slightly, and aware that Beau’s eyes were on him, Finch turned the envelope over. It wasn’t sealed. He opened it and withdrew a sheaf of paper.

The barman, apparently bored of listening to Frat Boy complaining and the inaudible conversation from their booth, ducked down behind the bar. A moment later, soft bluesy music rose up and danced with the smoke.

“Looks like a lot of info,” Finch said, examining the papers. He nodded appreciatively. “Hell of a lot more than I was able to find on my own.”

“Yeah, there’s some readin’, but I don’t think you gonna find everythin’ you need to know. Lot more about the victims than the villains. Got names for them, but no faces and that was hard enough. They’re like ghosts, man.”

“Well, thanks. I know what you’re risking here.”

Beau looked around the bar. “I ain’t riskin’ nothin’. I’m a good liar if it comes to it. You, on the other hand, lookin’ to get into a whole world of hurt if you’re plannin’ any Charles Bronson shit.”

“My gun’s a lot smaller.”

“Yeah, and Chuck was a whole lot better lookin’ but you get what I’m sayin’ right?”

“Sure, and it’s duly noted, but I can look after myself.”

Beau gave a rueful shake of his head. “Wish I had a dollar for every time some dumb white boy said that to me. I’d be drivin’ a Cutlass Supreme with Lexani alloys by now instead of a piece a’ shit Toyota.” He leaned forward. “And if I remember correctly, you were damn glad to have my ass coverin’ yours back in the desert.”