Read Online Truth or Die by James Patterson, Howard Roughan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Patterson, Howard Roughan
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more accurately, watching to see if anyone was following me. The kid wasn’t dumb. That was why he was still alive. That was why we were both still alive.
So this guy walks into a bar with a Beretta M9 tucked under his shirt …
Most New Yorkers can tell you that last call in the city is 4 a.m. Far fewer of them can tell the flip side—first call, the time at which a bar can legally start serving. It’s 8 a.m. I knew it only as trivia.
For sure, the four guys scattered along the stools, who didn’t even bother to glance my way as I approached the bartender, knew it as a way of life.
“Double Johnnie Black, rocks,” I ordered.
The fact that I was having whiskey for breakfast didn’t seem nearly as relevant as my having just had a gun aimed at my head. Drinking to numb the pain of Claire’s death was one thing; drinking to settle an entire body of frayed nerves was another.
The bartender, tall and thin and hunched with age, nodded, completely expressionless, before heading off to grab the bottle. He might as well have had a sign hanging around his neck that read NO JUDGMENTS .
Waiting for him to return, I looked around a bit. Fittingly, the Oak Tavern was a genuine throwback, not the kind of place that hung reproduction crap on the wall to imitate a time gone by.
Instead, what hung on the wall was actual crap and old as shit. Signed photos of D-list celebrities from the seventies. A painting of a horse that looked as if it had been bought at one of those hotel art fairs off the highway. And right next to it, a coatrack missing half its pegs.
Genuine as well was the musty smell of the place. I could practically feel the dust traveling up my nose with each breath.
“Five fifty,” said the bartender, standing in front of me again and pouring.
I gave him seven, picked up my glass, and headed for the rear of the tavern and a row of booths. They were those classic high-back ones, the crimson leather so worn and cracked it looked like a marbleized porterhouse. I slid into the last booth on the left, beyond the line of sight from the bar.
A few minutes later, the kid arrived.
As he walked toward me, I noticed that almost everything about him was a contradiction. He was skinny, with unusually broad shoulders. He had disheveled hair and slacker clothes and was staring ahead with the most focused eyes I’d ever seen. His gait was slow and deliberate, and yet his hands couldn’t keep still. He was rubbing them together as if they were under some imaginary faucet.
The kid sat down across from me without saying a word. No introduction. No offer of a handshake, either, lest one of those hands of his might actually have to stop moving while waiting to grip mine. Finally, he spoke.
“Sorry for all this,” he said.
That was the biggest contradiction of all, as far as I was concerned. “For what?” I asked. “You saved my life.”
“I’m the only reason it was ever in danger, dude.”
“We’ll get to that in a moment,” I said. “That, and whether I’m really going to let you call me
dude.
But speaking of names, what’s yours? And don’t say Winston Smith.”
“It’s Owen,” he answered.
“And you already know mine, don’t you? Among other things.”
He nodded.
“Are you some kind of hacker?” I asked.
“It’s not what I do for a living, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Okay. What do you do for a living?”
But it was as if he hadn’t heard me. Or, more likely, as if he needed to ask a few questions for himself before answering that one.
CHAPTER 26
“WHAT’S YOUR connection to Claire?”
“Close friend,” I answered. It was a good enough explanation for the time being.
“Are you a reporter?”
“No.”
“You don’t work at the
Times
?”
“No.”
He hesitated, reluctant to ask his next question. He needed to know, though, and I needed to tell him.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
I explained how it had happened. His head
So this guy walks into a bar with a Beretta M9 tucked under his shirt …
Most New Yorkers can tell you that last call in the city is 4 a.m. Far fewer of them can tell the flip side—first call, the time at which a bar can legally start serving. It’s 8 a.m. I knew it only as trivia.
For sure, the four guys scattered along the stools, who didn’t even bother to glance my way as I approached the bartender, knew it as a way of life.
“Double Johnnie Black, rocks,” I ordered.
The fact that I was having whiskey for breakfast didn’t seem nearly as relevant as my having just had a gun aimed at my head. Drinking to numb the pain of Claire’s death was one thing; drinking to settle an entire body of frayed nerves was another.
The bartender, tall and thin and hunched with age, nodded, completely expressionless, before heading off to grab the bottle. He might as well have had a sign hanging around his neck that read NO JUDGMENTS .
Waiting for him to return, I looked around a bit. Fittingly, the Oak Tavern was a genuine throwback, not the kind of place that hung reproduction crap on the wall to imitate a time gone by.
Instead, what hung on the wall was actual crap and old as shit. Signed photos of D-list celebrities from the seventies. A painting of a horse that looked as if it had been bought at one of those hotel art fairs off the highway. And right next to it, a coatrack missing half its pegs.
Genuine as well was the musty smell of the place. I could practically feel the dust traveling up my nose with each breath.
“Five fifty,” said the bartender, standing in front of me again and pouring.
I gave him seven, picked up my glass, and headed for the rear of the tavern and a row of booths. They were those classic high-back ones, the crimson leather so worn and cracked it looked like a marbleized porterhouse. I slid into the last booth on the left, beyond the line of sight from the bar.
A few minutes later, the kid arrived.
As he walked toward me, I noticed that almost everything about him was a contradiction. He was skinny, with unusually broad shoulders. He had disheveled hair and slacker clothes and was staring ahead with the most focused eyes I’d ever seen. His gait was slow and deliberate, and yet his hands couldn’t keep still. He was rubbing them together as if they were under some imaginary faucet.
The kid sat down across from me without saying a word. No introduction. No offer of a handshake, either, lest one of those hands of his might actually have to stop moving while waiting to grip mine. Finally, he spoke.
“Sorry for all this,” he said.
That was the biggest contradiction of all, as far as I was concerned. “For what?” I asked. “You saved my life.”
“I’m the only reason it was ever in danger, dude.”
“We’ll get to that in a moment,” I said. “That, and whether I’m really going to let you call me
dude.
But speaking of names, what’s yours? And don’t say Winston Smith.”
“It’s Owen,” he answered.
“And you already know mine, don’t you? Among other things.”
He nodded.
“Are you some kind of hacker?” I asked.
“It’s not what I do for a living, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Okay. What do you do for a living?”
But it was as if he hadn’t heard me. Or, more likely, as if he needed to ask a few questions for himself before answering that one.
CHAPTER 26
“WHAT’S YOUR connection to Claire?”
“Close friend,” I answered. It was a good enough explanation for the time being.
“Are you a reporter?”
“No.”
“You don’t work at the
Times
?”
“No.”
He hesitated, reluctant to ask his next question. He needed to know, though, and I needed to tell him.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
I explained how it had happened. His head
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