Chapter Seven #3
His voice was somewhat even as he declared," I don't have any cash. There are some chips in my front left pocket."
"I don't want your money, you stupid fuck," I seethed, pulling him back to slam him forward again, this time, hearing a curse erupt from him as the metallic smell of blood filled the air around me.
"Fuck," he hissed, reaching up to swipe his forearm across his nose, coming back dripping crimson. "What do you want then?"
"I want Savea back," I told him, voice down by his ear, close enough to his body to feel it tense. His first show of the severity of this moment, what I could do to him if I was so inclined.
"Who are you?" he asked, not playing dumb, not asking who Savea was.
In a small way, I appreciated that.
He might have been a chickenshit, but he didn't play games.
"Kingston Rivers," I declared, jerking him around, pressing my hand around his throat as he faced me, putting enough pressure there to be genuinely uncomfortable without risking unconsciousness.
"Private security," he told me, tone calm, collected, even as his broken, bleeding nose dripped into his mouth.
"Her man," I clarified, even if it was maybe too premature to claim that when we hadn't even discussed it at length yet. She was mine, case closed. Just as much as I was hers. That was all he needed to know.
"Oh, shit," he said, shaking his head in a self-deprecating way, like this was just his luck, like his life was full of these unfortunate little twists and turns.
"Yeah, Oh, shit. You stupid bastard," I shot at him, finding myself losing a little edge to my words, somehow unable to keep it when he was so calm himself, even with the taste of his own blood filling his mouth, staining his shirt.
"I'm doing everything I can to protect her."
"By leaving town? You let some bastards chase her through the streets of Navesink Bank at night in the pouring rain, all alone, no one to help her."
Okay, maybe some of the rage was still there. If the clenching of my jaw, the pain in my grinding teeth was anything to go by, that is.
"They didn't get her. They came back without her."
"They didn't get her that night. Because she was lucky enough to get to me.
No thanks to you. But they got her today.
You fuck. They have her. And fuck-knows what they are doing to her.
And you are going to stand here and try to tell me that you are helping her by spending your days at the tables, worry-free? "
"Worry-free," he snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, that's what I am. Worry fucking free, buddy. Not hundreds of thousands in debt that I might have to pay with my own skin. But, yeah, aside from that, just peachy fucking keen, buddy."
"Who are you in debt to?" I demanded, pushing him back to the wall again, seeing a little sliver of pain slide across his eyes before he closed them, taking a breath before opening them again. "Answer me. Who is it? Who has her?"
"Who I owe money to and who has her are two different issues."
"They're connected."
"In a way, yeah."
Okay, maybe he wasn't opposed to games. But why play now? Did he think someone would happen by and save him before he had to spill it, give me names, give me what I needed to go and get my girl back?
I didn't care if the entire Bethlehem police department showed up. No one was stopping me from getting the answers I wanted.
"Fucking names, Harry. Or I will be the one making you pay with your skin."
"The guys who have her are contract workers. Newer ones. I have only seen them the past six weeks. Before them, it was another crew. He likes to keep things fresh. Keep the guys clamoring to come back to get the next job. So they stay on their toes."
"Who is he?"
"Eamon," he told me, shrugging like that name meant something.
But even as I scrolled through my long list of names, that one didn't even come close to ringing a bell.
"Eamon Awan," he added, clearly sensing my lack of recognition.
"You're going to need to elaborate."
"Look," Harry said, looking off to the side, something that made my hand press harder into his windpipe, making him choke a bit.
"I am guessing I am not going to be walking away without you.
So let's say we have this conversation in your car where I can do something about this?
" he suggested, waving at his nose with a nonchalance that spoke of more than a few breakings in his past.
"Fine," I hissed, releasing his neck only to grab the back of his shirt again, not taking any chances of him running off.
"Really?" he asked when, five minutes later, he found his wrist situated in a cuff, the other bracelet secured to the door handle.
"Yeah, really. I imagine this isn't as bad as whatever Savea is going through," I added, slamming the door harder than I needed to. I wasn't sure, but I thought I might have spotted a flash of regret in his eyes before I turned, going around the car to climb in the driver's side.
Beside me, Harry reached into the glovebox, producing a handful of take-away napkins, swiping at some of the blood, then tipping his head back, pinching the bridge to stop the free flow.
"Who is Eamon Awan?"
To that, Harry let out a snort that must have hurt even though he didn't let on. I imagined with his gambling history, this was not his first dance with loan sharks or collectors. He had to have gotten somewhat used to pain in many of its incarnations.
"Some male model. Some say he came from oil money in Pakistan. Others say he was a gutter kid with a pretty face."
"I don't want his fucking life story, Harry," I snapped, turning the car back onto the road, heading back toward Jersey. "I want to know what he does, how you are connected to him, and how we can get him to give us the address to his men, where we can find them."
"Eamon isn't going to give you any of that."
"And Eamon fucking is?" I growled, my patience wearing thin.
"He owns an underground casino."
My gaze slipped from the road, looking over at him. "In Navesink Bank?" I clarified.
"Yep."
"How am I just hearing about this now?" I demanded.
There were a lot of organizations in our little town. Gun runners, loan sharks, drug dealers, the mob, the list went on and on.
But the only underground club I knew of was a fighting ring.
And as far as I knew, since I had never heard anything mentioned by anyone else, no one else knew about it either.
"It's invitation only," Harry informed me.
"And you expect me to believe that you—nobody, low-life gambling you, got an invitation?"
"Not really," he admitted, not offended by my description of him.
Likely because there was too much truth in it.
You wouldn't look at Harry and think he was a self-realized individual.
But he seemed to know what he was, and therefore couldn't be offended when people called him on it.
"I stole an invite. Someone dropped the chip.
Bright gold chip with black notches. Haven't seen it around before.
Turned it over. All there was there was an address. "
"And being a lifelong gambler, you couldn't resist."
"You can never resist a new table. An exclusive table. They're usually reserved for high rollers, important people. Who could resist getting a chance to play with them?"
There was a pathetic sort of logic there.
"So, where is it?"
To that, he snorted.
"The address brings you to a meeting place where you are then blindfolded, loaded into a stretch of some sort, the kind you have to step up into, an Escalade maybe. And driven to the new location with guards there watching to make sure you don't peek."
"What was the address on the chip?"
"That's the thing," he said, a humorless smile pulling at his lips as he leaned back against the headrest, almost seeming relieved to get this out, to talk about it all with someone.
There was a small—minuscule, given the situation—stab of sympathy for him. This somewhat pathetic creature, all alone in the world, drowning in an addiction that he had no one in his life to push him to seek recovery from.
Aloneness was sad.
Even when he had brought it upon himself.
"What is the thing?" I demanded, taking a deep breath, trying to keep my mind focused on what was important. How to find the men who had Savea.
"The chip is the same every week. But the address printed on it is different. Never been the same place twice."
"How do the chips come to you?"
"Once you have been there one night, and they decide you're allowed to come back, they get your addresses.
Work and home. They deliver them, dropping them in your mailbox or with someone at work.
No one gets to know where the club is. And I've never seen Eamon outside of the club.
Swear the bastard lives there, counting his money, rolling in it at night, fucking those gorgeous women hanging around on it. "
"If you have the money to pay your debts, how do you get in touch with Eamon?"
"You don't get in touch with Eamon. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen him with a cell."
"So you deal directly with whichever contractors are working that week or month?"
"Pretty much."
"And you contact them how?"
"Mainly, they contact you."
I tried, and failed, to hold back a sigh, feeling like there was so much to go on. And yet there wasn't.
"You got descriptions at least?"
"That I can do," he agreed, nodding. "I know it might not seem like it, but I want to help. Soon as I knew they had Savea's name, I took off to try to make the money."
"Why do you owe them money anyway? They don't collect at the time of the game?"
This was when Harry's neck went red, his gaze skittering away, fingers drumming on the armrest on the door. "What did you do?"
"Tried to skew the odds in my favor."
"Cheated. You cheated what sounds like a very rich and powerful owner of an underground gambling club?"
"See how it was not the best bet."
"Ya think?" I shot back, not even trying to hold back the eye roll I felt coming on.