Page 103 of Long Way Down

“Can’t you read?” Denny grumbled, thumping the sign as Pongo brushed past and headed for the bar. “What are you doing out this late? Shouldn’t you be crawling outta some lucky lady’s bed right about now? ‘Stead of banging on my window looking mad as a wet hen?”

Pongo ignored him. Climbed onto a stool and rested his elbows on the bar, leaned forward, one foot starting up a steady bounce on the brass footrail below.

Denny shuffled around to stand behind the bar, unhurried, and picked up his rag and glass again. He studied Pongo’s face a moment, his own unreadable, and Pongo didn’t try to play casual or easy or charming tonight. He let a glare take hold of his expression, knew from his mother that it was mulish and, in her words, a little bit spooky, given the contrast from his usual good cheer.

Denny’s hands paused, and then he set the glass and rag aside and pulled down a tumbler from the overhead shelf. He plucked a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black off the pyramid in back without asking, and poured a generous two fingers.

“You’ve been next door, then,” he said with a heavy sigh and an air of reluctance.

Pongo took a small sip of the Scotch, swirled it around his mouth to feel the astringent burn, more powerful than any mouthwash, and then swallowed its fire. “You a member? I mean” – he gestured to the pub around them – “it can’t be a coincidence, right?”

Denny let out another big breath; he looked exhausted. “No, I’m not a ‘member.’ It doesn’t work like that – like you guys do. There’s no patches and tats and all that.”

“A gentleman’s arrangement, then.” Pongo toasted him with his glass and took another swallow. “When I was in here digging around for info, why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because he didn’t have clearance to,” another voice said, behind him, and Pongo recognized it before his arm hairs could prickle with alarm.

Kat had come in soundlessly, but let his tread ring out across the floorboards, now, as he crossed the last distance and slid onto the stool beside Pongo. He pulled his dark ballcap off and raked his sleek back hair off his forehead when it spilled forward.

Denny pulled down another glass, and went for the vodka.

Pongo’s mood was so thoroughly sour, now, that he could have spit lemon juice. “Prince owns this place, doesn’t he?”

Kat’s mouth twitched sideways as he accepted the tumbler Denny slid to him. “Yeah. He owns quite a few pubs.”

Pongo snorted. “Of course he does. Is he your secret uncle, too?”

Kat lifted the glass, gaze fixed straight ahead. “Yeah. He is.” Then he swallowed the vodka down in one gulp.

Pongo blinked at him, searching for some trace of a mocking grin. “Shit. You serious?”

Kat turned toward him slowly, expression hooded, hunted; the face of a man who didn’t want to be having this conversation…but not the face of someone yanking Pongo’s chain. “His name’s Peter Rydell. He’s Jim’s younger brother.”

Pongo blinked some more. “Jim as in Rydell’s Gym?”

Kat gave him a look.

“Okay. That…okay. That changes things.”

“How?”

“I dunno. Up here, mostly.” He gestured to the side of his own head, and then made a face. “Also, wow, they don’t look alike. Jim’s sorta got” – another wave – “potato face.”

Kat made a low, choked sound that he turned into a cough; a laugh, Pongo thought, with a small measure of inward triumph. He could wear down even the grumpiest of assholes, even when he was being a grumpy asshole himself. “Dad and Uncle Jim were in the service,” he said, when he’d composed himself. “Uncle Pete was the little brother. The handsome one. He decided he could do the most good at home, fighting for his family and his neighbors, instead of blowing up civilians on the other side of the world.”

“And yet, instead of joining the NYPD, he became a gangster.”

“A businessman,” Kat said, firmly. “He’s clear on that.”

“He’s probably also clear on it being a bad idea for you to go around sharing his real name.”

Kat met his raised-brow look with a direct one of his own, intense and nearly black in the low light of the pub. “I know your real name, Nathan McCoy. It’s only fair you know his.”

Pongo was a little bit impressed. “Ballsy.”

“Not really. He’s not married, got no kids. Nothing to lose; he’s always been proud of that,” Kat said, turning grim. “He’s not a trusting sort – but we’ve never had to trust anyone. Now, though, with this Abacus shakeup…the wind’s changing in the city. Prince knows he’s got no hope of expanding to a survivable size anytime soon, which means we’ll have to glom on to some other organization.” The face he made was eloquent of how he felt about that.

“Makes sense,” Pongo said, and it did. “But won’t it put a larger target on your backs than just staying neutral?”