running a risk with a stolen car with South Carolina plates. He decided he would take that risk. But his major concern just now was that he couldnât take Luntz into the bar. That would be asking for trouble.
He weighed up his options and realised he didnât have any. He decided to leave the car where it was as he was only going to be gone for a couple of minutes. He shut the window and stepped out into the sultry night. Pressing the carâs central locking fob, he walked up to the entrance.
A tattooed skinny guy with tousled blond hair wearing a black T-shirt stepped forward and smiled, partially blocking his way. He was holding a cigarette in one hand, a bottle of Bud in the other. âSorry my friend,â he said. âWeâre closed.â
âIâll bear that in mind, son,â Reznick said, as he brushed right past him and headed inside to the cool of the bar.
A crazy old hippie was belting out some punked-up blues standards on an old guitar, as stoned college kids lounged around on sofas, drinking beer and laughing loud.
Reznick walked up to the bar and ordered a Heineken. He handed the tattooed, muscle-bound barman with chiseled features a twenty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change.
The kid took the money and Reznick took a long drink. The cold beer quenched his thirst. âIâm looking for Harry Leggett,â he said.
âWhoâs asking?â
âNameâs Reznick.â
âYou got a first name?â
He gulped the rest of the Heineken. âTell him Reznickâs in town.â
A smile spread slowly across the barmanâs chiseled features and he handed Reznick back his twenty-dollar bill. âYour moneyâs no good here, man. Itâs on the house.â He extended his hand. âPleasure to meet you, sir. Ron Leggett. Remember me? We met a few years back, up in New York.â
Reznick shook his hand. âChrist, Ron. I didnât recognise you. Howâs your father these days?â
âA pain in the ass, if you must know.â He asked a barmaid to hold the fort for a few minutes. The girl nodded sullenly as Ron opened a couple more Heinekens and joined Reznick at the other side of the bar.
Ron pulled up a stool and sat down. âMan, dadâs gonna freak when he sees you,â he said, taking a large gulp of beer. âI take it youâre not here for the music.â
âIs your dad around?â
The kid pulled out a packet of Winston from his shirt pocket, tapped out a cigarette and lit up. He inhaled half an inch of cigarette before he flicked ash on the floor. âYeah, heâs around. Just not here. An old buddy turned up this morning and they went out fishing this afternoon. He likes to kickback a couple of times a week. But heâs probably sleeping it off on his boat.â
Reznickâs gaze was drawn to a faded color picture behind some whisky optics of Leggett that showed some guys drinking in the bar. He didnât recognise any of the faces. âYour dadâs got a boat?â
âYeah, a brand new fifty-foot Cabo,â he said. He took a deep pull on the cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray. âItâs awesome. Pure teak inside. Man, my dad loves that boat.â
Reznick smiled but said nothing.
âReal pleasure to meet you again.â He leaned closed, voice low. âMy dad once told me that you were the only man he truly trusted. Said you never made a wrong move. You always made the right call. And you never, ever let him down.â
Reznick averted his gaze. âI donât know about that.â He looked at the boyâs rippling physique. âSo, howâs life working for your dad?â
âI work all the hours here, and he spends most of his time on his boat.â
âI hear you.â
The kid fired up another cigarette, dragging hard. He blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth, away from Reznick. âItâs a job.â He slugged