I step out of the vehicle and walk up to the bar. It’s a simple building painted black and wedged between two larger businesses, practically at the end of an alley. The windows, plastered in neon signs that flash and blink, are covered from the inside with thick blackout blinds. I like this place. It’s private. Not many people outside Noimore even know it exists.
Miles and I enter. A cloud of smoke wafts out into the night as we cross the threshold. Despite the fog, there aren’t many individuals in the joint. The bartender, Sammy, doles out drinks at a slow rate, serving the three at the bar with no haste in his movements. The other four patrons—men I don’t know and don’t care to know—eye me and Miles as we stroll in.
“Where’s your buddy?” Miles asks.
Having one eye makes it hard to glance around and my neck aches like a bitch, but I eventually get everything. The copper accents on the bar, tables, and chairs sparkle under the dim overhead lighting. My old associate, James “Chronic” Ward, is nowhere to be seen. I head straight back to the bathroom, certain he’s there. I’m also certain Sammy won’t like the fact we aren’t ordering a drink, but I don’t want the man to recognize me.
I get two steps into the men’s room and spot Ward leaning against the sole sink. He’s hard to miss, what with his tight black leather pants and open jacket. The guy sports a whole host of tattoos, and I suppose he wants to show them off, which is why he opts out of wearing a shirt. Despite his thuggish appearance, he smiles wide, a cigarette clamped in his teeth.
“Hey, friends,” Ward says, a slick manner to his speech. “Lookin’ to relax?”
I step up close to him, and he straightens his posture, his smile disappearing.
“Pierce? Is that you?”
“Last I checked,” I say.
He grabs my upper arm and pulls me to him, half smiling. “Shit, really? I heard you were dead. And then maybe you were alive again. I haven’t seen you in ages.” I enjoy the smell of the smoke he exhales—it’s my favorite brand of cigarette.
“I need to speak to you.”
Ward tilts his head. “Me? Heh. All right. Let’s get some privacy.”
All of us walk out of the bathroom, and once again, we’re given odd glances by everyone in the room. Sammy and Ward exchange a quick nod, and I know we won’t be hassled by the bouncers while we’re outside.
We step out into the cold, and Ward rounds the corner of the building, standing a few feet away from the grimy dumpster. There aren’t any homeless druggies milling about, and I know why. Everyone’s doing their business behind closed doors now.
“You wanna smoke?” Ward asks, withdrawing a cheap cigar from his pocket and twirling it around. I sneer. All the guys in this area empty those cigars and fill them with weed—and add their own “flavors.”
I shake my head.
“You sure? It’s got some embalming fluid.”
“Like what you soak dead people in?” Miles says, interjecting himself into the conversation.
“He means it’s got PCP,” I reply. “Forget about it.”
Ward stares at Miles for a moment before returning his attention to me. “What’s this? Ya got yellow fever?”
“I’m not here to bullshit, Ward. I’ve been out of it for a while. I need information. I know you still work for the Vice family. This is your side gig.”
“Yeah,” Ward says. “Okay. What did you want to know?”
“What’s Jeremy been doing since I died? Where’d he hole up?”
“Oh, wait, you want to reconnect?” He laughs, throwing his whole back into it. “Seriously? D’aww, you must miss him! That’s adorable.”
I wait for Ward to collect himself before continuing, my expression never changing. “Where is he?”
Ward chuckles once more. Then he says, “Man, I dunno. Operations have gotten weird since he got outta jail. He changed things up. Started spendin’ money.”
I suspected his time in jail had been the game changer. Jeremy must’ve spoken to Worldwide Decurion and then the crooked cops of the Noimore system.
“What about spending money?” I ask.
“On properties. He owns a lot of empty lots and such. I guess he’s going to build stuff, like his old man, but now he also owns a bunch of trucks and boats and junk.” The guy squints and smiles, like he’s holding back another round of laughter. “Want me to give you Jeremy’s number? I got it from one of his enforcers. You two could sext each other. Wouldn’t that be cute?”
I glare at him. “Shut the fuck up. I’m not here to talk to him. I want to know where he stores things. Which one of these new properties has traffic going through it?”
Ward takes a long drag on his cigarette as he mulls over the statement. As he exhales he digs into his pocket and pulls out a half-used pack. “Want one?” he asks, shaking the pack of cigarettes.
“No,” I say.
That’s not true. I want one, but I shouldn’t take it. Now isn’t the time.
“You’ve changed,” Ward mutters as he puts his pack away. “And not like you did with Jeremy, where you got ruthless. I mean, you’re the shadow of Pierce. Some old man with one foot in death’s door.” He chuckles. “Or maybe you went face-first, huh?” He points to my eye and gets another solid laugh.
“Where does he keep things?” I repeat. “And then you can get back to your business.”
“I dunno, Pierce. You’re messin’ with my livelihood. I don’t get much from backroom dealin’. I need Jeremy if I’m gonna keep up my lifestyle choices, if ya get what I mean.”
“A choice of bedpans is gonna be your next lifestyle decision if you hold out on me, Ward. This isn’t up for discussion.”
“Big talk for a guy with a busted face.”
I grab Ward by his jacket and pull him close. “I’m the
