The Brit
“You know nothing,” she whispers.
“I know everything.”
My reply causes a hitch of her breath. A shudder of her body. Her blue eyes shine, and past their stunned state, I detect . . . hope? She sees my curiosity and snatches her hand away, her jaw tight as she moves back, gaining some personal space.
“What’s your surname, Rose?” I ask, placing my hands back in my pockets.
“Fuck you.”
“Rose fuck you?” I muse, thoughtful. “Has a nice ring to it.” Brushing past her, I make my way to the house. “You need feeding.”
“I’m not one of your fucking dogs.”
I smile at my feet, keeping on my way. The woman makes me smile. I can’t help it. “Esther will prepare something for you,” I call, hearing her indignant huff. “And stay away from the toaster.”
“Danny!” Her shout sounds urgent, and I pull to a stop, something inside of me kicking. My name on her lips. It’s good. I look over my shoulder. “Cassidy,” she says quietly, her bare feet padding the grass. She’s nervous to tell me her name. “It’s Rose Lillian Cassidy.”
I nod mildly, watching her for a few too many pleasurable moments, as she nibbles on her bottom lip anxiously. A beautiful name. A beautiful woman. A beautiful mind. “Get something to eat, Rose Lillian Cassidy,” I order softly, returning my attention forward and walking away, pushing back all thoughts of her.
Or, at least, I try my fucking hardest.
When I make it to the office, Brad and Ringo are looking over the map of the coastline, Brad removing pins and pushing them into other sections of the sea. “What’s going on?” I ask, rounding my desk.
Ringo turns his big nose up and takes the pin back to the original point “No. It has to be here. I can see all three possible routes to the boatyard from here. If the Coast Guard turns up either during the delivery or when we do the exchange with the Russians, I’ll send my boat up in flames to distract them.”
“And what if they get distracted by us on the shore offloading?”
“They won’t.”
“How’d you know?”
Ringo turns his ugly mug slowly toward Brad. “Because I’ll make sure of it.”
I take a seat and watch them having a face-off. I know many things about Ringo. I know he’s the son of a dead hooker. I know he’s never touched alcohol or drugs. I know he respects women. And above all that, I know he went above and beyond for my father, and now he’ll do it for me too. If Ringo says he’ll make sure of it, then he’ll make sure of it. “Ringo stays in the original spot.” I put the debate to rest and write a quick note on the leather-bound pad before me, tearing it off and handing it to Brad. “Look into this name for me.”
Eyeing me with suspicion, he takes the scrap of paper, not even looking at it. He doesn’t need to. “Why?”
“Because I told you to,” I reply coldly, giving him a stare that suggests he’ll do well not to question me. “Any news on her phone?”
“Nothing.” Brad takes it from his pocket and tosses it on my desk.
I frown, taking my mobile and dialing a number that’ll surely have the owner staring down at the screen in dread. But he’ll answer. Of course he’ll answer. “Black.” His voice is harboring all kinds of caution. Rightly so.
“I have a phone I need you to look at. I want records.”
“I have a job I’d like to keep,” he retorts on a small laugh. “A man of your caliber doesn’t have the staff to get him phone records?”
“Oh, I do.” I kick my feet up on the desk. “I have you, Spittle.” Ringo smiles, the expression doing nothing to soften his features, and Brad takes Rose’s phone from my desk and sets about packaging it into an envelope. “And that job you speak of is still only yours because of me,” I remind him.
“How long are you going to hold me to ransom with those fucking pictures?”
“How long do you plan on working for the FBI?” I ask, dropping my feet from my desk and strolling over to the framed Picasso hanging over the fireplace. I hold the phone to my ear with my shoulder as I lift the art down, revealing my safe.
“I’m sixty next month,” Spittle says. “Retirement is looming. What you gonna do when I’m not around to blackmail anymore?”
I spin the dial and open the safe, pulling out an envelope from beneath a semi-automatic. “But you’re around now. And these pictures are still as fresh as they were five years ago.” I slide one out and smile down at Spittle snorting a line of cocaine off a woman’s pussy.
“You planted those hookers.”
“They weren’t hookers, Spittle. They were honeytraps. Totally different ballgame. Not that the public would know. And I had nothing to do with the coke. You know I don’t dabble in that kind of shit.” I stuff the images back in the safe and shut it, motioning to the Picasso for Ringo to re-hang. “Do your FBI magic with the phone. Tell me what you find.” I hang up and bring my mobile to my mouth, chewing the side thoughtfully.