“You were pretty critical of the locals this morning.”
“One must keep a finger on the pulse of the common man.”
“And woman.”
Tammi returned with a beer, a Diet Coke, and a million miles of teeth. I smiled her back to the kitchen.
“Anything new since this morning?” I asked when she'd gone.
“Seems Haskell Simington may not be such a hot pick. Turns out he's worth zillions, so a two mill policy on his wife isn't that unusual. Besides being worth megabucks, the guy named their kids as beneficiaries.”
“That's it?”
Ryan waited out another sound check.
“The structures group reported that three quarters of the plane has been trucked down the mountain. They're reassembling in a hangar near Asheville.”
Ryan's eyes drifted to a TV behind my head.
“That's it?”
“That's it. Why the orange paw prints?”
“It's a Clemson home game.”
He looked a question at me.
“Never mind.”
Tammi was back after three downs.
“I gave you extra cheese,” she purred, bending low to give Ryan a spectacular view of cleavage.
“I love cheese.” Ryan gave her another blinding smile, and Tammi held position.
I glared at Tammi's breasts, and she removed them from my line of vision.
“Will that be all?”
“Ketchup.” I picked up a French fry.
“Any talk about my visit to headquarters this morning?”
When I lifted my burger a cheese umbilicus clung to the plate.
“Special Agent McMahon said you looked good in jeans.”
“I didn't see McMahon there.” The bun was raining soggy clumps onto the cheese connector.
“He saw
“What's the FBI position on my dismissal?”
“I can't speak for the entire Bureau, but I know McMahon isn't fond of your state's second in command.”
“I don't know for certain that Davenport is behind the complaint.”
“Whether he is or not, McMahon has no time for him. He called Davenport a brainless buttwipe.” Ryan spooned chili into his mouth, followed it with beer. “We Irish are poets at heart.”
“That brainless buttwipe can probably have you invited back to Canada.”
“How was your afternoon?”
“I went to the reservation.”
“Did you see Tonto?”
“How did I know you would ask that?”
I reached into my bag and produced the moccasins.
“I wanted you to have something from my native land.”
“To atone for the way you've been treating me lately?”
“I've been treating you as a colleague.”
“A colleague who'd like to suck your toes.”
My stomach did that little flippy thing.
“Open the package.”
He did.
“These are kickin'.”
Resting an ankle on one knee, Ryan replaced a deck shoe with a moccasin. A big-haired deb at the bar stopped peeling the label from her Coors to watch him.
“Made by Sitting Bull himself?”
