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“Well, it’s good to see you. Can I buy you a beer?”

Although Howie was glad to see the return of the man he hoped to call friend, his invitation to a beer was issue

d halfheartedly. Tonight wasn’t convenient. He’d stopped in at the bar only for a quick drink, not to socialize. All day, he’d been as nervous as a whore in church, wondering when Bondurant would pop up, demanding to know what he’d been able to ferret out regarding the First Lady’s whereabouts. He had feared that either he or Barrie would show up at the WVUE studios.

But seven o’clock had come, the hour when he relinquished his position to the overnight assignments editor, and there’d been no word from either Barrie or her menacing confederate. He’d tried tricking himself into thinking they’d forgotten about him, or had found what they wanted from some other source, but the attempted self-deception hadn’t worked. The longer the day stretched out, the more anxious he became.

He doubted they would believe that he’d been unable to weasel anything from anyone at the White House, even though he’d tried his damnedest. Either everybody in town was lying, or nobody, but nobody, knew where Mrs. Merritt was hospitalized. That wasn’t what Barrie and Bondurant wanted to hear.

So Howie had decided that even if he had to invent a medical facility, he would give Bondurant something. He figured the former Marine was as good as his word. If he didn’t produce, Bondurant would just as soon kill him as not.

“Thanks, a beer sounds great.”

“What?” Howie asked, jostled out of his grim musings.

“A beer?” His newfound friend was regarding him with puzzlement.

“Oh, sure, sure. It’s been a hard day,” Howie said, apologizing for his momentary lapse. “Be right back.”

When he returned with the beer, the man, a real cool customer, was chalking up a pool cue. “Watch yourself tonight. I’ve been practicing.”

His grin reminded Howie of a carnivore with shifty eyes and very small, pointed teeth. “Uh, actually, I don’t, uh, have time tonight.” The only thing more disturbing than the man’s smile was his frown. It quickly changed Howie’s mind. “Well, maybe one quick game.”

“Great. It’ll give me a chance to salvage my pride.”

Between shots, they made idle chitchat. Howie played poorly. He couldn’t concentrate for thinking about who or what would be waiting to ambush him when he got home. Or did Bondurant have him in his sights now? Was he watching from the Laundromat across the street?

“… about your friend?”

“Pardon?”

“I asked about your co-worker. The broad. Say, you seem preoccupied. If you’ve got something better to do tonight—”

“No, no,” Howie said hastily. “Sorry.”

Snap out of it, you idiot, he admonished himself. What the hell was the matter with him? Here was a cool guy practically begging to be his buddy, and what was he doing? Behaving like an asshole, that’s what.

It was all Barrie’s fault. It was always Barrie’s fault. Hers and now Bondurant’s. Who were they to be breaking into his apartment and pushing him around, anyway? They had no muscle. At least Barrie didn’t. And Bondurant had been run out of town ’cause he couldn’t keep out of the First Lady’s pants. Screw ’em. If they came around tonight with their veiled threats, he’d call the cops on them.

Imbued with a new self-confidence, he hiked up his slipping waistband and took a swig of brew. “I canned her.”

“No shit?”

“I felt bad about it,” he said, his lips forming a moue of regret, “but she kept screwing up, gave me no choice.”

“What else could you do, man?”

“Right.” Howie sank his best shot of the evening. His friend hoisted his beer mug in a salute to his success. “I’m giving her a break, though.”

“Oh?” The man lined up his next shot. The balls clacked solidly, but he failed to sink one. “Are you writing her a letter of recommendation?”

“No, I’m helping her on some undercover work.”

As Howie had hoped, the man’s eyebrows rose. He was impressed by the adventurous sound of that. “What kind of undercover work?”

Stung by the humiliation he’d suffered from Bondurant, Howie was pleased to be flexing his muscles. So what if he stretched the truth a little? His buddy here would never know the difference. Besides, even best friends bullshitted each other. It was all part of the guy thing.

“She’s working freelance now, still digging into that big story I told you about. When she ran up against a brick wall, who’d she come to for information? Yours truly.”