Page 2 of Blood Moon

“You’re not what I expected,” she said.

“No? Except for the getup, you’re exactly what I expected.”

“Based on what?”

“Your voice over the phone.”

“What about it?”

“Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.”

She stopped fiddling with the drinking straw and let it sink into the glass. Sitting back against the booth and crossing her arms, she subjected him to a lengthier and even more disapproving once-over that terminated on his implacable stare, from which she didn’t back down. “What did you mean by ‘except for the getup’?”

“The LSU ball cap? You’ve never worn it before. It doesn’t fit your head, it’s way too new, and it doesn’t go with your bespoke purse.” He glanced down at it lying beside heron the bench. “Between those two accessories, I’m betting the LV is more you.”

She didn’t acknowledge that he was right. “You’re not wearing a badge.”

He didn’t comment on what was obvious.

“Do youhavea badge?” she asked.

“In a wallet.”

“Photo ID?”

“In a wallet.”

“On your person?”

“Yes.”

“Would you show them to me, please?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Well…” He folded his arms on the table and leaned in, lowering his voice. “First off, you asked me—no,instructedme—not to show up here looking like a cop. Wearing a badge sort of gives that away. And anyhow, I never wear my badge to be seen.

“Secondly, the pack of hyenas shooting stick? I know that the DEA is on their tail. Now, if they saw me flashing you a badge and ID, they’d peg me as some brand of law officer, and that would likely result in an outbreak of trouble. I know damn well they’re armed; I just don’t know what kind of firepower they’re carrying, and finding out could lead to bloodshed.

“Thirdly, the bartender has given up hisMotorTrendto polish a shot glass. In a joint like this, that level of cleanliness is uncommon if not downright nonexistent. He’s pretendingnot to watch us, but he hasn’t missed a thing. I don’t know whose side he would be on if a gunfight erupted. If one did—and I can almost guarantee it—you could get hurt, and I would hate that.”

“Your conscience would never recover?”

“No, my career. For a while now, my superior has been looking for an excuse to fire me. If you, an innocent bystander, got injured or killed during a shootout initiated by me, it would be more excuse than he needed to give me the boot.

“All that to say that I’m going to keep my ID wallet in my pocket, my weapon under my shirttail, play it cool, and after we conclude this—whatever this is—I’ll be sure to get the license number of that redneck pickup parked out front, which I’m almost certain belongs to those fentanyl pushers and not to you, then notify the DEA where they’re hanging out.

“So, for everyone’s safety and well-being, let’s just go on pretending that this meeting is random, that you’re a neglected housewife who’s slumming in Auclair, Loooziana. You came in here trolling for an afternoon rodeo. I happened in, you looked me over, and figured I’d do.”

By the time he’d finished, she was seething, but she tried to appear as unfazed as possible. “Your back is to the bartender. How do you know what he’s doing?”

“He’s reflected in the blacked-out window behind your right shoulder. No, don’t turn to look. Trust me.” He picked up his glass and took a long drink, then barely smothered a burp.