Yep.
Ah well. Not her department. What’s a bar without a stolen street sign?
She scanned the faces in the bar, recognizing none. She’d been hoping to find Declan Bingham amongst the revelers. As Stephanie’s ex-boyfriend and one of the people present during Jamie Moriarty’s capture, he’d made her list of people to investigate. The young, dark-haired bartender bore a passing resemblance to Declan, but the nose was longer and his arms were dotted with tattoos.
Snookie considered leaving, but then the door to the back opened and a waitress entered carrying a basket of jalapeno poppers. A familiar man stood in the room beyond. She only caught a glimpse, but it was enough to confirm she’d seen his photo in her dossier.
Snookie headed to the bathroom with her duffle bag tucked under her arm. She couldn’t enact her new plan looking like an extra on Cops.
Claiming one of the stalls, she pulled normal clothing from the bag—a shirt without moth holes and paint splatter on it, and a skirt that didn’t have a wavy elastic waistband, though she was sorry to see that go.
Snookie strapped her gun to her thigh and lowered her skirt over it before stuffing the Tammy costume back into the bag. She left the stall to fix her makeup in the mirror by wiping away her bright blue eyeshadow. She stared sadly at the ratty little duffle bag and then dropped it in the trash. She’d had the trailer trash costume tucked in her trunk for emergencies for a long time, but she couldn’t imagine making any additional progress with Stephanie posing as Tammy, and after this assignment, she’d be officially retired.
Time to toss it.
She made the sign of the cross over the trash can and looked away before she could change her mind.
Tammy is dead. Long live Tammy.
A young woman burst through the bathroom door with her mouth wide and head thrown back laughing. Snookie had to bob to the left to keep from getting her nose broken.
“Seamus, you’re too much!” called the reveler over her shoulder before spotting Snookie.
“Oh. Sorry,” the woman said breathily, a cloud of atomized rum enveloping Snookie’s head. She didn’t mind. The woman had unwittingly informed her that her target lingered somewhere outside the bathroom.
Snookie dodged around the bleary-eyed girl and emerged from the bathroom. Plunging into the ever-growing crowd of revelers, she weaved through the room until she spotted a barrel-chested man with a mischievous smirk staring at her.
Hello, Uncle Seamus.
She held his gaze and, as if drawn by a tractor beam, he approached her, waggling a scolding finger.
“We’re not a changing room, missy, though I have to admit, it’s a nice change.”
Snookie tried not to show her surprise. She hadn’t thought it possible he’d seen her enter.
“I’m sorry. Do I need to pay a fine?” She went with a coquettish look, batting her eyelashes. The comment felt loaded, but she didn’t get the impression Seamus appreciated subtlety.
He grinned. “Aye. There’s a penalty. I’m going to have to insist you have a drink with me.”
“Those are the rules?”
He eyeballed her head to toe. “Quite a transformation.”
“You saw me come in?”
“I see everyone. I used to be a cop.”
A cop with some very strange ties to the underworld.
She’d scanned his shadowy history in the dossier. If she wanted to get near Charlotte Morgan and Declan Bingham without alerting everyone to Jamie’s escape, Uncle Seamus might be the most unobtrusive way to do it.
Snookie pondered how to play her new character, the one smitten with Seamus.
How does he like his women?
If she had to guess, breathing.
She decided to be herself. Herself, only smitten. Then Seamus grinned and she decided it wouldn’t be a part difficult to play. He looked like fun. It had been a while since she had fun.
“Tell you what. I’ll buy you a pint and we’ll talk about your punishment for using the facilities without purchasing a drink.”
“Is that a touch of an Irish accent I hear?” she asked.
He winked. “It gets better when I drink.”
He cocked out his elbow so she could take his arm and led her through the crowd. At the bar, he tapped the shoulder of an old man sitting on a stool.
“Move it, Leonard.”
The old man looked at him, bleary-eyed. “Eh?”
“Move it. I need yer stool.”
“But I’m drinking.”
“No yer not. I told you to call it a day fifteen minutes ago.” Seamus pointed at the young bartender. “You didn’t fill him up again, did you?”
The kid shook his head. “He’s been nursing that one.”
Seamus eyed Leonard’s empty glass. “Lickin’ the bottom of it more likely. Out Leonard. Call yerself a ride or I’ll call yer wife.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Aah...” He waved a dismissive hand at Seamus and slid off his stool. “You used to be nice.”
Leonard glanced at Snookie, looking up from what she guessed was his five-foot-four height. She stood nearly six feet tall, eye-to-eye with Seamus in her low heels.
“I’d like to climb that mountain,” said Leonard.
“You mind yer manners,” said Seamus, giving him a gentle shove toward the door.
Seamus looked at her, sheepishly. “Sorry about that. These old men have no filter day-to-day. Give them a drink and it’s even worse.”
Snookie laughed. “No problem.”
“What’ll ye have?”
Snookie scanned the bottles lining the wall behind the bartender. “I’ll take a bourbon with ice.”
Seamus motioned to the bartender to make the order happen and then tapped the bar with his knuckle to show he’d like something as well. Apparently, the bartender knew what he liked, because he pulled a bottle of Irish whiskey from what looked like a hiding place under the rack to pour him one.
“Take a seat,”
