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“Who’s this?” he slurred, the words coming outWhosis?
“You know who this is.”
“Don’t… who is this?”
“I know what you did. And I know about the money.”
“What?What money?”
But he was talking to an empty line. His mystery caller had hung up, and now he was stuck staring at the black surface of a disconnected phone, totally confused.
“Bad news?” the dancer from earlier said.
“Bad news?” he said, swaying a little as he tried to focus his eyes on the dancer. “Your titties are bad news. Ha!”
“Asshole.”
Before he could put together another drunken insult, his phone buzzed with a text message alert.
Drink up, Officer Bailey,it read, from UNKNOWN CONTACT.
“Who the… hell?” he said, looking down at the message.
Was someone playing a joke on him? It was hard to tell, especially through the curtain of booze soaking his brain.
“Hey, Bailey?” the bartender called out to him.
“What?”
“Someone just bought you a drink.”
Now, even through the haze of alcohol, Bailey started to feel a little spooked.
“Who?” he said.
“They said they know you from the Cayman Islands. From the bank there.”
“Cayman… what? Who? Where are they?” Bailey said, looking around the bar.
“They left. Said to send over a beer with this note.”
The bartender slid a pint glass of beer across the bar at him, setting a square napkin down next to it, folded in half. Bailey ignored the beer, grabbing at the napkin and unfolding it.
On it was written#288-8379-3779.
He stared at it for a long minute. A phone number? Too many digits. A Social Security number? Same problem.
Slowly, the mystery began to solve itself in his head, and now, now he really was starting to feel spooked. The bank account number in the Caymans. The one that the crooked fed, Harris, had set up for him a while back when he’d asked Bailey to do some work for him. That was the account number.
But nobody knew about that. Nobody but Harris.
The choking fear started to become anger, blind rage, Bailey’s knee-jerk reaction to feeling threatened. Someone was messing with you? Go straight at them, fists swinging. This was his town. The badge in his pocket said so.
“Mother… fuck!” he shouted, still swaying a bit as he lurched in random directions, searching faces in the club for Special Agent Harris. “Where? Where’d he go?”
“Who?”
“Whaddaya, mean, who, ya fuckin’ idiot? The guy, the… fucking guy! The drink guy?”
