“Not for the Massacre, but for other stuff,” Frank said. “He’s presently serving four life sentences back to back for his role in an assassination attempt on a local district attorney. And boss?” The Buma’s eyes flashed. “Michael is the name of Al Genovese’s oldest son.”
Tylor’s gaze darted back to hospital room. Son of a bitch.
“There are bad people in this world, Chief,” Frank said. “Then there are monsters like the Genovese crime family. Believe me when I say, you want zero part of that crew. I mean zilch.”
Taylor took the Buma’s point to heart and thought hard.
“The best way to avoid a situation is to do just that,” his father had always said. “Avoid the situation.”
Taylor’s gut told him he really oughta follow that advice just then. Still, try as he might, Taylor couldn’t erase the thought of Ms. Torrio, sobbing into that doctor’s lab coat for information about her son’s whereabouts.
“So what’s our play?” Frank asked.
Taylor scratched his whiskers. “Take the flyer back to campus, then brief Jack and Stan on what we know. I’ll circle back with you later.”
“Where are you goin’?” Frank asked.
Taylor started for the elevators. “To see an old friend.”
* * * * *
Chapter 7: Highway to Hell
“Look who it is, everybody!” Rex O’Malley bellowed a laugh from behind the Hell House bar, then rounded the server’s station and threw an arm around his old coworker.
“Hey Rex,” Taylor said. “How’s business?”
“Same as always,” the Bostonian said. “The burgers are still fresh, the fries are still hot, and the beer’s still colder than an Eskimo’s butt crack in December. Oh, speaking of! I’ve got a new lager from Oyster City Brewing you have got to—”
Taylor’s expression turned sideways.
“Right.” Rex frowned. “One pint of Jax’s finest piss water comin’ right up.”
Taylor made his way to a stool in front of Taps Row and gave the old tavern a once over while Rex filled a frozen mug with Long Branch Light beer. The place hadn’t changed a bit since Taylor’s bartender days what now felt like a lifetime ago. Same sticky floors in dire need of a mop. Same outdated brass fixtures and retro rustic decor. Same regulars perched on scarred wooden barstools, nursing pints of the same local brews Rex had waiting for them each and every day after their shifts ended over at Jax starport.
A heavy-set Jivool in grease-stained coveralls raised a glass in Taylor’s direction. “Hey, T. Been a while. Good to see ya back around.”
“Thanks, Normitt. It’s good to be back,” Taylor said. “How’s life treatin’ ya over at Old Man Sally’s garage?”
The mechanic sighed into his mug. “Like a newling treats a diaper, T. Like a newling treats a diaper.”
Taylor chuckled as the mammoth alien hoisted himself up onto his freakishly short legs, then made his customary waddle toward the old-style jukebox in the corner.
“Ah, crap, here it comes,” another regular muttered.
A moment later, a familiar piano melody rolled through the speakers, accompanied by a man singing about a place where everybody knew his name.
It’s good to be home.
“So, what brings ya back down here to fraternize with us, the little people?” Rex placed the pint in front of his customer. “Business, or pleasure?”
“Business, mostly.” Taylor saluted with his beer. “Although a little pleasure along the way never hurt anybody.”
Rex smirked and pointed to the mug. “You’ve had that beer before, right? Pleasure ain’t exactly the adjective I’d use to describe it.”
Taylor rolled his eyes like always when the other insulted his taste in beer, then moved on with the conversation. “I need some information.”
“What sort of information?” Rex asked.
“What’s the word around the Junction lately about the River Hawk Defense Group?”
Rex hunched against the bar and tipped up the brim of his Red Sox cap. “Not much, honestly. Rumor has it Paul Torrio weaseled his way past you guys to land a big-credit contract on Karma Station a while back. Besides that, though, there hasn’t been much else. Why?”
Taylor took a pull of his beer then recounted what he knew of the events on Emza.
“Holy fargin shit!” Rex exclaimed. “Do the Hawks know who hit them?”
“Sadly, no. That’s actually what I came here hopin’ you could tell me.” Taylor reached into his flannel shirt pocket and pulled out the palm-sized slate he’d brought from his Harley’s saddle bag. “Do you recognize this species?”
Rex leaned in to examine Michael Genovese’s insectoid sketch. “Can’t say as I do, no.”
“You’re sure?” Taylor said.
“As sure as I can be, sans a photographic memory,” Rex said. “Sorry, T. I got nada.”
Taylor sighed and put the device away. Of all the barkeeps in Jax’s Cocktail Junction district, Rex was among the most senior, having served countless drinks over the years to legions of GU species. If he didn’t know what the bug aliens were, Taylor wondered who would.
“So what now?” Rex asked.
“I don’t know yet.” Taylor sipped his beer. “I’ve got another contact over at the Stool Pigeon who might be able to throw me a bone or two, but he’s not nearly as connected as you are, so I’m not holding my breath. But a lead’s a lead at this point.”
“Can I have a look?” Normitt asked.
Taylor traded looks with Rex, then shrugged. “Be my guest.”
The Jivool let out a seismic beer belch that could’ve downed a light cruiser, then slid off his stool and waddled toward the server’s station. “May I?”
Taylor handed over the slate.
“Can I ask you something?” Rex asked while Normitt swiped the device back to active. “These mystery aliens of yours. Why do you wanna find them so
