Chapter Eleven
Grade wedged theend of a flat-head screwdriver under the dented lid of the drum and then put his weight on the handle. It resisted for a second and then popped free with a hollow clunk. He lifted it, tapped it against the lip of the drum so it wouldn’t drip everywhere, and then set it against the wall.
None of the other three men in the room moved for a second. Finally, Ezra made an aggrieved sound in the back of his throat and stepped forward. He screwed his face up in distaste as he leaned over to look in at the… remains.
“Ah, Jesus,” he said. “It’s like Hell’s gumbo.”
Grade tapped the side of the drum with his foot. There wasn’t a lot of room in there, but it was enough for the bits to wobble about as the liquid sloshed.
“That’s Buchanan,” he said, “so I’m off the hook.”
Ezra pointed at him. “That’s fucking disgusting is what that is,” he said. “And the contract was you get itoutof my bar.”
“And then you told me to bring it back,” Grade said. He bit the inside of his cheek on a tart “Make up your mind.”It was rarely a good idea to push your luck.
“Yeah,” Ezra agreed. He stepped back and leaned against his desk. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he scratched absently around the edges of his dressing. “Bring it back…beforeFisher’s men got wind that something had happened to his bagman. Unfortunately, they were more on the ball than you.”
Grade frowned at him and opened his mouth to argue. “You said—”
“Fisher’s men already saw you,” Clay interrupted him. He pointed with his chin at the drum. “And they probably aren’t going to be happy aboutthat…”
“Fuck knows, I’m not,” Ezra grumbled under his breath. “I was going to make stew for the kids.”
Clay ignored the interruption. “So you’re still on the hook, same as the rest of us,” he said. “Get used to it. And put the lid back on before someone knocks the bastard over.”
The answer wasn’t what Grade had wanted. He couldn’t pretend to be surprised either, though. “Get out of jail free” cards only worked in Monopoly. He picked up the lid and slapped it back on.
“Wait,” Clay said. He looked at Grade. “You sure that’s Buchanan? We’re not going to decant him for Fisher and it turns out to be whoever lived in that house before Hadley rocked up?”
Grade paused as he rested the screwdriver on the top of the drum. “You want to take another look?”
“No,” Ezra said. “Besides, Clay never met Buchanan. I did. That was him.”
“You met him once,” Clay pointed out. “Grade spent two hours getting intimate—”
Grade grimaced. “Not the way I’d describe it.”
“Up close and personal?”
“Not better,” Grade told him. “But I get your point. This is the guy I cut up. I recognize my work.”
Ezra looked at Clay. “Satisfied?”
Clay scratched behind his ear and pulled a dour face. “In a lot of ways, no,” he said. “Get the lid back on and get it out of my office.”
Apparently, Grade might still be on the hook, but he wasn’t part of the crew. The three men leaned their heads together in grim conversation, while Grade was left on the outside to get on with his job. It was how he liked it. The rule of thumb was usually knowing anything meant you knew too much, but… this was hardly usual.
Grade used the butt of the screwdriver to hammer the lid into place. He picked up bits and pieces of the conversation as he worked.
“… still don’t know what happened,” Ezra said. “If we come up with one story and TJ contradicts us—”
“Deal with that when it happens,” Clay interrupted him. “Look, we know Hadley was involved. The woman—Betsy—she was the one who told me Buchanan had been shot. Hadley had to be the one who set TJ up. We aren’t getting out of this scot-free—”
“No, because we look like morons,” Ezra said.
Out of the corner of his eye, Grade saw Harry lean in and press his finger against the desk to make a point.
“We have her. She can fill in the blanks. Whoever the she is—”
