Corrupted Queen - Nicole Fox Page 0,17
the two men were lower-downs in the Irish mob. They complained about Walsh and his weak backbone, which confused me, as it was my understanding that Andrew Walsh was dead. And when he was alive, I certainly wouldn’t have called him weak. I figure there must have been another Walsh who took over in his stead.
One of them speculated about whether their pay would be cut now that they’d lost the majority of the docks, which slashed the syndicate’s revenue stream. The other reminded his friend that they had a new source of income now, playing lapdog for the Italians and pushing their import of purple heroin onto the streets. One of them must have chugged his drink, as the other warned him not to be hungover for the exchange in the morning, reminding him they were due back at the bar at seven.
Both of them grumbled at great length about the Italians and their fledgling alliance.
The men soon moved on to other topics, such as the great pair of tits lingering near their table (I chose to take this as a compliment), and I stopped the playback but didn’t move from my computer for a long time as I digested everything I’d heard.
I didn’t want to believe it, so I decided not to. Not until I gathered more evidence. I figured it was my journalistic duty to gather all the facts before I threaded a narrative together.
So I got up bright and early the next day and staked out the bar from a table in the window of the coffee shop across the street. The two thugs from the day before arrived separately, one of them looking worse for wear. I guess he hadn’t heeded his friend’s warning.
About half an hour later, a sleek black town car pulled up outside. My throat constricted and my muscles tensed as I wondered if I was about to watch Gabriel unfold from the car. I considered bolting. I felt too exposed. Gabriel would scent me in a heartbeat.
But when the door opened and a man emerged, I let out a sigh of relief. It wasn’t Gabriel. I didn’t recognize the man at all. He was tall and thin, with dark hair and a twist in his lips like he’d just smelled something bad. I snapped a few photos and left, a little relieved that I hadn’t gotten the evidential affirmation that Gabriel was behind this.
Footsteps round the corner and I jerk back into the present. My hand goes to the knife holstered on my hip, hidden under my T-shirt, but the man who walks toward me wears neither a suit nor a menacing frown.
I relax. “You must be Bernard. You’re late.”
Bernard is in his mid-thirties, with a scruffy beard and fluffy, curly brown hair that glows like a halo in the early morning light. He wears a pair of deep blue coveralls and a violently yellow safety vest that may as well shine a spotlight on our supposedly covert meeting.
He stops in front of me, smiling apologetically. “Sorry. It’s been a long night.”
I root through the satchel at my hip and pull out a small white envelope, passing it to him. “Debbie said you usually work the night shift.”
I couldn’t have done this without Debbie. Not only did she arrange the meeting, but she generously provided the cash bribe, too. I am determined to make sure this story is worth every penny.
“Yup,” Bernard says, peeking inside the envelope.
“And do you ever see any strange activity?”
He stuffs the envelope in the back pocket of his coveralls and shrugs. “Lots of stuff. What specifically are you looking for?”
“Shipments, meetings. Really anything in the past few weeks that has seemed off to you.”
He pauses to think. For a second, I think I’m about to end up with a big fat goose egg. Something about this guy, maybe his unkempt hair or scraggly beard, doesn’t shout “observant.”
Finally, he nods. “I helped unload a late-night shipment a few weeks ago, which isn’t unusual by itself. What struck me is that the guys from the boat met with some guys in suits and the whole thing seemed a bit off.”
“What do you mean off?”
He twists his mouth in thought. “I guess they all looked very tense. One of the suits talked to one of the sailors while the others seemed to be sizing each other up for a fight.”
His description has all kinds of shades of drug deal.
“The suit who talked to the sailor,” I say. “What did