Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

In the distance, I can already see the red neon sign of the Uptown, the city’s greatest old-fashioned movie house and the neighborhood’s most popular monument. To its left, half a dozen restaurants and shops fight for attention. Dwarfed by the Uptown, they rarely get a second glance. Today, however, one jumps out: Ireland’s Four Provinces Restaurant and Pub.

Under the run-down green and red sign, I take a quick look up the block. Everything checks out-no khakis or polos in sight; none of the nearby cars have government plates. I even brush my eyes past the roof of the Uptown. Far as I can tell, no one’s taking photos. Heading for the entrance, I know this is it. Time to meet Vaughn.

As I pull open the door, I’m slapped in the face with bar whiff. It immediately reminds me of my first night with Nora. Inside, it’s set up like a real Irish pub. Sixteen to twenty tables, some framed stained glass Irish crests, and an old oak bar along the back wall. To my surprise, the place is packed. One guy’s wearing a mailman uniform. Another’s dressed by FedEx. I like this place. No tourists. Local crowd.

“Take a seat at the bar,” a waitress says as she blows by me. “I’ll have a table in a second.”

Following her instructions, I pull up a stool and scan the lunchtime group. Nothing too suspicious.

“How you doing?” the bartender asks as he pours a couple of sodas.

“Okay,” I say. “And you?”

Before he can answer, I hear a door on my far right creak open. Following the sound, I see a muscular guy wearing a ratty black T-shirt step out of the men’s room. He’s got a great Neanderthal brow that puts Darwinism to the test. Focused on the box scores of his folded-up newspaper, the man seems startled when he looks up and notices me.

“Wat you looking at, putzhead?” he asks in a heavy Brooklyn accent.

“No, nothing,” I reply. “Nothing.”

Shrugging me off, he moves back to his table in the corner. “Where the hell’s my san’wich?” he asks his waitress.

“Don’t bitch at me,” she warns. “They’re backed up in there.”

Convinced the waitress is going to spit in his food, I’m content to let him study his box scores. But just as I’m about to look away, I see him lay his folded-up newspaper back on the table. It hits with an unusual thud. That’s when I see it. There’s something hidden inside the paper. The tip of it peeks out toward the top. Like a thick black Magic Marker. Or the top of a walkie-talkie antenn-A cold chill runs down my back. Son of a bitch. That guy’s FBI.

I look away as fast as I can, pretending I haven’t seen anything. Just then, the front door swings open, shooting a flash of sunlight into the dark bar. When it closes, one person’s standing there. The guy with the red shirt who bought the popcorn. The sunglasses give him away. More FBI. Any minute now, Vaughn’s going to walk in that front door. And the moment he does, every agent in this room is going to be all over us.

My mind’s racing. The guy in the red shirt is heading toward me. Like it or not, I’ve got to abort this meeting. As quick as I can, I hop off the stool and head for the door. The agent with the walkie-talkie stands up at the same time, his chair screeching against the beer-stained floor. One in front of me; one on my right. They’re both moving, just in case I run. No matter how fast I am, I’m not going to lose them without a distraction. I point at the agent with the walkie-talkie. “FBI! He’s FBI!” I shout at the top of my lungs, assuming Vaughn’s listening.

Instinctively, the agent does exactly what I was hoping he’d do. He pulls his gun. That’s all it takes. Instant chaos. Everyone’s screaming. Both agents are mobbed by the crowd’s mad rush for the door. I’m about to join in when I feel someone grab me by the back collar of my shirt. Before I realize what’s happening, he throws me through the swinging doors of the kitchen. I crash to the ground in front of the industrial refrigerator. Stumbling to my feet, I get a quick look at my attacker. It’s the bartender.

“What’re you-”

He grabs me by the knot of my tie and drags me to the back of the kitchen. I’m trying to fight, but I can’t get my balance. My flailing arms are pulling pots and pans from every counter. “Sorry, kid,” he says. In one quick movement, he kicks open the back exit and shoves me out into the alley behind the restaurant.

Across the alley, the door to the building next door opens. “In here!” someone shouts in a Boston accent. I limp in, still struggling to catch my breath. Once inside I see that I’m in a dingy gray hallway that has all the charm of an unfinished basement. A single fluorescent light twitches from above. In the background, I hear the hum of two people talking. Like a movie. At the other end of the hallway is a metal door. Judging by the location, I’m in the emergency exitway for the Uptown.

Leaning back against the wall, I slowly sink to the floor.

“Having fun?” my host asks.

As soon as I look up, I recognize him from his mug shot. Finally. Vaughn.

He whips out a gun and presses the barrel against the center of my forehead. “You have exactly three seconds to tell me why you killed Caroline Penzler.”

What the hell’s going on?” I ask.

“One…!”

“Are you nuts!?”

“Two…!”

“I didn’t kill her!” I cry as he pulls back the hammer on the gun. “I swear, I didn’t kill her! Why would you-”

“Three!” he shouts. “Sorry about this, Michael.”

His finger tightens and I clench my eyes shut.

“Itwasn’tme! Itwasn’tme! Iswearitwasn’tme!” I shout.

He pulls the trigger, but there’s no shot. Just a hollow click. I open my eyes. The gun’s empty.

Vaughn stands over me, studying my reaction.

“Are you insane?” I shout. My chest’s heaving and the sweat’s pouring down my face.

“Had to see for myself,” he says, stuffing his gun in the back of his pants.

“See what for yourself?”

He doesn’t answer, but whatever the test was, I passed. I think.

Unlike his mug shot, Vaughn no longer has the tiny mustache and the slicked-back hair. Today, he’s all style. Sharp haircut, Gucci loafers, and a slightly creased but otherwise beautiful silk shirt. His pants also look expensive but way too wrinkled. Like they’ve been worn too long. Or slept in.

“Sorry ’bout the mess,” he says like nothing happened. He points to his clothes and flashes a toothy grin. “Things’re a little tense since I’m… on the go.”

“Don’t you mean, on the run?” I ask.

“You got that right,” he agrees. “Now what kept you so late?”

“Talk to your popcorn clients-those kids had me waiting for a half hour.”

“No, no, no,” he says in full Boston accent. “I don’t sell to kids. Ever.”

“Oh, so you’re one of those dealers who cares?”

“Listen, shortie, if some rich little college girl wants to shove daddy’s money up her nose, I don’t sweat it for a second. After all their years of shoving the peace pipe into my neighborhood, I figure that makes us even.”

“You’re a real humanitarian.”

“Shit, man, you work in the White House. Who you think’s putting more poison out there, me or you?”

I refuse to answer.

“No fun bein’ judged, now, is it?” Vaughn asks. “’Sides, if you’re countin’ brownie points, you’re the one should be thankin’ me.”

“Thank you?” I ask. “Why should I thank you? For setting me up? For sneaking in under my name? For killing Caroline Penzler and acting like I’m the one who-”

“Stop where you are, pretty boy. Don’t blame that shit on me.”