That was it. As Zig learned during his years at Dover, things don’t go wrong in three minutes; they go wrong in three seconds. As Zig turned, still trying to pull free, Roddy’s eyes went dark, like an internal switch had flipped. One fist gripped Zig’s shoulder, the other held tight to the pilsner glass, holding it like a nightstick.
Zig froze. Elijah froze. The whole bar froze, customers turning, the crowd now staring at the sudden and violent shift in the bar’s ecosystem.
Roddy blinked a few times, looking around, his grip slowly relaxing.
In the awkward silence, as adrenaline wore off, Roddy looked . . . ashamed was the only word for it. “Mr. Zig, I’m sorry . . . I shouldn’t’ve—”
Don’t, Zig scolded with a glare that hit like a punch.
“Everybody, relax! No blood here. They’re just doing a mole check （for you precancerous middle-agers）！” Elijah called to the crowd. No one laughed, though the customers—including the consultant with the ankle holster—all quickly returned to their original equilibrium. Lowering his voice, Elijah turned back to the table. “Okay, now that we’re all socially uncomfortable, can we get back to Nola? She really came to see you?”
“Trust me, I was just as surprised. But that’s the thing about Mint’s death—it’s got your whole team scurrying,” Zig said, carefully eyeing Elijah’s reaction. “Nola comes to see me; O.J. comes to see you . . .”
Elijah froze. “Who told you Colonel Whatley was here?”
“The old woman with the rhinestoned oxygen tank. Owns the clay store.”
Elijah sighed. “Miss Neicy. Lord, is she a pain in everyone’s ass.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“You didn’t ask one—all you did was come inside, throwing accusations. As for O.J., he’s doing what he’s always doing: looking out for O.J.”
“I’m not a fan, either,” Zig admitted, noticing the way Roddy had shrunk in his seat, like he was punishing himself.
“Tell me about Nola. What’d she say?” Elijah asked, picking up some loose Starbursts and resetting a stack of coasters that got knocked over on the table. He was trying to look casual, but his voice was clearly impatient.
“We talked about that night . . . about the robbery at Grandma’s Pantry. Most important, I told her I was coming to see you,” Zig explained. “She didn’t object—which tells me, well . . . considering Nola hates everyone . . . somehow, someway, she thinks you might be one of the few people who’s worthy of some trust.”
Elijah gripped the stacked coasters, squaring them like a deck of just-shuffled cards, then squared them again for no good reason. “Flattery? You’re playing the old Nola nostalgia card and using flattery on me?”
“Is it working?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Then let me be clear: You’ve got two team members dead. I’m trying to prevent a third. Nola told me about the robbery—that something was snuck inside. If you know what it was . . . what they put into the warehouse—”
“Not ‘what,’” Elijah interrupted.
“Excuse me?” Zig asked.
“That night at Grandma’s Pantry . . . You said ‘what’ they put into the warehouse. It wasn’t a thing,” Elijah explained. “What they snuck inside . . . It was a person.”
74
Five years ago
Chaz “Salty” Trebbiano always kept a two-dollar bill in his wallet. For good luck, his father used to say, though Salty never believed in such nonsense. Over the course of his sixty-two years, Salty had never been in a car accident, never broken a bone, never had a cavity . . . even still had a head of thick gray hair that matched his gunmetal eyes. Six months ago, however, Salty’s luck ran out.