The Devil's Copper by Jamie Crothall (ink ebook reader .txt) 📕

“I’m definitely gonna get fired for this,” she muttered.

***

Riley drove her personal vehicle, but had a walkie-talkie on the dash.  She stopped to listen to a crackling voice recite some code, but determined it wasn’t relevant.  It was a short drive to the establishment, a bar attached to an aging hotel on Lasalle Blvd. Would he be there at this time of day?  We could only hope he was that desperate for a drink.  Or to brag to anyone who would listen.  The parking lot was almost empty, which wouldn’t be unusual for a Wednesday afternoon. Riley put the car in park.

“Let’s go,” Riley said.

“No,” I insisted.  “It’s fine, honest.”

She rolled her eyes.  She knew it made sense, but she didn’t like it.  “Just try to find out who he was working for.  That’s all we need.  If he gets suspicious, just run for the door.  Don’t do anything stupid.”

I turned down the sun visor to look at myself in the mirror.  A little make-up would have gone a long way, but hopefully the visor on my cap would cast a little necessary shade over my eyes.  I wiped away any lingering tears, chased away any remaining fears, and called upon my old acting abilities.

“How do I look?” I asked.

“You look good, girl.”

I smiled.  A genuine smile.  I needed that.

“Wait. Here,” she insisted.  She handed me a twenty dollar bill.  Good call; I forgot I was penniless.

***

The last time I set foot in the Laurentian I was sixteen.  It was one of the few places lax on carding people.  I wasn’t a fan then, and it only got worse as time went on.  The place was mostly empty, except a few older men who likely spent their weekdays day-drinking.  The chances of Mike being there already were slim, but hopefully it would be over quickly.  I picked a place at the bar and ordered a drink.

The first twenty minutes were uneventful.  Then, a man in his fifties sat beside me and made a show of a business conversation on his cell phone.  Being important enough to take a call in public was still a bit of a status symbol at the time, as sad as that sounds.

“Hi, darlin,’ ” he said with a smile.

He had a gold tooth.  A frickin’ gold tooth.

“Not interested.”

“Bitch,” he muttered, and walked away.

What an enlightened age.

It was closer to one o’clock when Mike finally entered the bar.  My whole body tensed at the sight of him.  Much like the first time I saw him, waiting by my car.

“Tony!” he called out.

“Hey Mike,” replied the bartender. “Where ya been?”

“Locked up,” he proclaimed proudly.

“You’re kidding?”

“Nah, man,” he said, taking a place at the bar only three stools down.  “They can’t hold me though, can they?  Told them they had no right.  You should have seen them nearly shit themselves when they realized they had to let me go.”

The only good thing to come of that exchange was the sideways look the bartender shot me as he walked by.  Clearly Mike and I weren’t the only seasoned actors in the establishment.  Once the new patron was given his beer, and the bartender found other things to busy himself with, I decided to get myself into character.  I found my muse, which was something between every drunken broad I ever watched at closing time, and my mother, once she had a few shots of tequila.  Yeah, she and I didn’t have much of a relationship anymore.  Or ever.

“So what were you in for?” I asked.  I kept my head down to further the mystique, as well as to hide my face as much as possible.  I could see him turn out of the corner of my eye, and he didn’t immediately turn away, which was a good start.

He took a sip of beer. “Breaking and entering.”

He was trying to play it cool.

“Interesting,” I replied.  “Get to keep anything?”

He shifted in his seat to turn towards me.  “It’s not always about stealing, honey.  Only junkies steal for quick cash.”

I gave him a quick glance over my left shoulder.  “And what do you steal for?”

He shifted over one stool closer.  “Oh, honey, I didn’t steal anything except someone’s trust.”

“You must have hated him.”

He shrugged.  “It’s not about that.  Truth was, he was alright.  A bit of a loser. But whatever.  Money was too good.”

“I thought you didn’t steal.”

He moved another seat closer.  “I’m an artist, I get paid for the work I do.  You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Sometimes you just have to send a message.”

“And what was your message?”

“It wasn’t my message, honey.  I just passed it on.”

“For who?”

He moved one final seat closer.  “You’re asking a lot of questions.”

I was getting too brazen, I had to readjust my course.

“I don’t fuck around with losers,” I said.  I then added, “I don’t fuck them either.”

The possibility was enough to break down his meager defenses.

“Well then you and I will be alright, won’t we?  Some guy paid me a few grand to fuck up the guy’s place.  Easy money, easy work.”

“But you got caught,” I replied with a taunting smirk.

“Part of the plan.  Why else do you think I got let out?”

“You sure they didn’t just sell you out?”

“Nah,” he said.  But he paused.  Maybe he never considered that.  “Nah, they’re good to me.  Just one of the hazards of the job.”

“That’s pretty hot,” I said.

I was rewarded by having his hand placed on my thigh.

“You don’t know the half of it.  Want to get out of here?  I kinda hate this place.”

“So who are you working for?” I asked.  I immediately cursed myself for my impatience.  I felt