Free The Betrayers by James Patrick Hunt Page A

fuckhead,” Cain said. “Count on it.”
    Steve Treats turned and looked at Cain again, deciding to acknowledge him with a blank expression. Then he turned back to Hastings.
    Treats said, “We’re done talking.”

TWELVE
    It was around eleven thirty in the morning and there were four people in the bar. Couple of guys in a corner booth drinking Old Style, the bartender, and Stanley Redd drinking an Amstel Light. The girl behind the bar was a twenty-four-year-old chippie with a stud in her lower lip and a white stomach bulging out of her tight white T-shirt. She looked good to Stanley Redd, who was in his mid-thirties, balding, and with bad skin. He had the Chicago Reader in front of him and his eyes went from the football scores to the girl’s chest like a dotted line from a comic book character. He thought he had a chance with the girl.
    At eleven thirty-seven, Regan came in and took the barstool next to Stanley’s.
    The girl walked over and gave Regan a smile that depressed Stanley Redd, not least of all because Regan was older than he was.
    Regan said, “Cup of coffee, with cream. And get this fellah another beer.”
    Stanley Redd said, “Thanks, guy.” And felt a bit of a stone in his heart. He hoped the guy was a fag or something, not because he liked men, but because it would explain a complete stranger sitting next to him when there were a dozen other barstools the man could have taken.
    Regan looked up at the television behind the bar. Fat white people being interviewed by Maury Povich. The trouble with young people today, Regan thought, is they’ll watch anything on television. Like old ladies.
    The bartender brought back coffee in a white cup on a white saucer with the spoon on the side. Regan liked that. He preferred coffee in
cups, with a spoon to stir rather than a wooden stick. She set another bottle of Amstel in front of Stanley Redd.
    Regan said, “Taking the day off?”
    Stanley Redd said, “Uh, yeah.”
    â€œCold out,” Regan said.
    â€œWhat?”
    Regan turned to look at him. “I said, it’s cold out.”
    â€œYeah, it’s getting cold.”
    â€œGood to be in a nice, warm place like this. Know what I mean.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œIt’ll snow soon. We’ll have to drive through all that snow. That Range Rover you drive, has it got four-wheel drive?”
    Jesus. He’s not a homo, Stan thought. His heartbeat quickened.
    Regan said, “I mean, you can’t drive that little convertible of yours in the snow, can you?”
    Stanley Redd looked at the fresh bottle of beer in front of him, the sides sweating. He managed to force a smile as he said, “Yeah, well that’s cute.” He started to get off the stool.
    Regan put a hand on his wrist.
    â€œWhere’re you going?”
    Stanley Redd said, “What do you care?”
    â€œStanley, sit down, finish your beer. We can handle this like gentlemen or we can go put you in a back room for three of the worst days of your life. We’ll get what we need either way.”
    Jack Regan spoke quietly to Stanley Redd. He did not use the word “torture” or explain what it is they did for three days. In his experience, people’s imaginations worked better for him. Particularly for people who did business with criminals. Most of them understood.
    Regan said, “We know where you live, where your parents live.” Regan gestured to the bar around them, “We know where you go. You can leave town, go on a vacation, but you can’t leave home forever.” Regan spoke in a gentle tone, not unlike that of a priest, letting the confessor
know he would feel a whole lot better getting that sin out of him. “Okay?”
    Regan kept his hand on the man’s wrist and he could feel it quivering now.
    Stanley said, “Who are you?”
    Regan shook his head. The question was not relevant. He said, “I know about