Page 51 of Think Twice

Wait. Hold the phone.

One of the bartenders was working a Carter’s Brewing tap into a Miller Lite glass.

Myron narrowed his eyes. The long, frosted locks were gone, replaced with a blending-in military-style crew cut. The carefully cultivated facial hair had been replaced with the old-school clean-shave look. He wore wire-framed glasses now, and where his outfits on his Instagram page were Technicolor and flamboyant, this bartender too wore the stock black-tee-blue-jeans uniform of the Shanty.

It was a disguise and a pretty good one. Subtle. If you weren’t looking for him and looking for him hard, you’d never happen upon him and say, “Hey, aren’t you Bo Storm?”

But it was Bo. No question about it.

Myron again debated how to play it—should he wait, watch, what?—but the direct route seemed best. He didn’t want Win delaying Spark any longer than absolutely necessary. They’d done enough to the guy.

There was an empty stool next to the French bulldog. Myron took it. He was the only one not in jeans, sporting his crisper look of trousers and a blue dress shirt. No one seemed to care what he was wearing, though the French bulldog, who wore a nametag that read FIREBALL ROBERTS, looked at him with disdain. Myron nodded at the dog and smiled. The dog turned away and faced the bar.

Can’t please everyone.

Bo Bartender came over to Myron and gave him a smile. The smile was a bit of a tell. Not to stereotype, but his teeth were still the bright white of Vegas veneers, which didn’t fit the norm of the Shanty Lounge.

“What can I get you?” Bo asked.

“What’s good on tap?”

“I like the Carter’s.”

“Sounds good,” Myron said. “But can you do me a favor first?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t panic. Don’t run. Don’t even react. I got guys out front and out the back. You’re safe right here. I promise. I’m not here to hurt you. You can make a big stink and try to get away, but that’ll just draw attention and then Joey the Toe will hear about it. That will be bad for you. I mean you no harm. He does.”

For a moment Bo just stared at him. Myron could see the wheels turning. He kept his eyes on Bo’s. Steady. Calm. Confident. Bo could scream for help. He was a local. These people would jump in, Myron had no doubt.

“Yo, Stevie?”

It was someone at the other end of the bar. Bo said, “One second.”

Bo looked lost.

“Pour my beer, Stevie,” Myron said.

Bo nodded and turned to the tap. Myron looked to his right. Fireball Roberts was giving him the stink eye. Myron almost told him to mind his own business, but Fireball had been sitting here first and also Myron didn’t want to get into a beef with a French bulldog.

The beer had the right amount of foam on top. Bo put it in front of Myron and said, “You work with those guys who harassed Spark?”

“I am the guy who harassed Spark.”

“No way. You could never—”

“Private plane, Bo. This is big time. You might want to listen to me.”

“I got a good life here.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I kicked the drugs. I’ve been clean for four years now. I like my job. I got friends. People.”

“And I don’t want to ruin any of that.”

“So what do you want?”