“I know.” She grinned back. “It’s just that you guidance types tend to discourage ‘intelligent, talented’ girls from spending time with career criminals.”
It took him a beat to realize she was kidding, then laughed. “Just trying to keep young, impressionable–”
She wiped her hand down his beer bottle and flicked the water droplets into his face, which set them both to chuckling.
When they’d sobered, she said, “He doesn’t want me, Ronnie. He made that abundantly clear five years ago. Let’s not let him ruin our evening.”
He nodded. “Fair enough. But what about that one?” He pointed toward Littlejohn, sitting at a booth alone, with a view of them and the door, looking uptight and too-serious.
Ava sighed. “That one’s here to stay, unfortunately.”
“Prospect, get over here.”
Littlejohn – lanky, messy-looking kid striving hard to please his new president – jerked to attention and came to Mercy’s table, almost sending another patron sprawling in his haste. “Sir?”
By this point, Mercy had downed more than his share of the beer in the pitcher, and then ordered two rounds of Johnnie Walker Red. His old friend. It was probably a bad idea to say what he was about to say.
“Prospect, you’ve been following them all afternoon?” He nodded toward Ava across the room, sharing fries with her little punk.
“And not a hair out of place,” Littlejohn said, puffing up his chest a bit proudly.
RJ laughed.
Mercy said, “Lemme ask you something.” He leaned against the back of his stool, arms folded. “What do you think of that boyfriend of hers? Does he look shifty to you? You know, just your bodyguard opinion. Off the record.”
“Jesus Christ, Merc,” RJ said.
Walsh pulled the Johnnie Walker deftly out of reach – both glasses.
“Hey,” Mercy protested, and Walsh held up a finger in silent refusal.
“Um…” Littlejohn scratched at his hair. “Shifty like…how?”
“Likeshifty,” Mercy said, exasperated. Jesus, why was this kid so thick? And why couldn’t he come up with any appropriate synonyms? He wasn’t drunk. Not really… “Like…no es bueno.”
“Oh, look,” Walsh said, “he’s trilingual.”
Mercy flipped him the bird. “Write me a sonnet, Shakespeare.” And turned back to the prospect.
“This is so not good,” RJ muttered.
The prospect was not-so-subtly studying Rodd or Todd or whatever-the-fuck-his-name-was across the bar. He rubbed his chin. “I think he seems…well, like a pussy–”
“Yes!” Mercy slapped the table. “Thank you. It’s like I’ve been trying to tell them.”
Walsh shook his head with a delicate look of disgust. “No, you haven’t.”
“He’s a total puss,” Mercy continued. “But…shifty, too. Like, a shifty pussy.”
RJ made a choking sound.
Walsh gave a rare chuckle. “Shifty pussy.”
Mercy nodded, aware that he shouldn’t have been this dead serious, and that his vocabulary should have been better.
He felt himself sway a moment, catching the edge of the table, suddenly aware that the room was boiling hot.
Shit, he was drunk.
