Chapter 7 Strangers at the Table

The bar was dark, closed, and still smelt like the last gig hadn't ended. Frank had the key. Said it belonged to a friend. Said that friend was out of town.

I didn't ask questions. Not anymore.

We sat in a velvet booth tucked between shadows and silence. A single candle flickered in the centre, casting long, slow-moving reflections in our glasses. It felt like a scene that didn't belong to us yet. Like something we'd stepped into by accident. Or fate.

Frank didn't speak first.

He never did.

So I did.

"They're working together. Rust and Celeste."

He didn't blink. Just sipped his drink and placed it carefully on the coaster, like it might break the silence if it landed too hard.

"I saw them," I added. "At the Biltmore. Room 1104."

"Planning something?"

"Me."

That got a reaction. Barely.

He leaned back, eyes narrowed. "You're sure it wasn't an act?"

"No," I said. "And that's the part that scares me."

Frank drummed his fingers once on the table. Then stopped.

"You want to know the truth?" he asked.

"I think we passed truth ten miles back."

He almost smiled. Almost.

"I've known about them for a while," he said. "Rust was her cleanup. Celeste was Bishop's leash. When they split from him, they didn't just take secrets. They took leverage."

I leaned forward. "And now?"

"Now they're building something. Or breaking something. I don't know which."

"But you think I'm part of it."

"I think you were part of it before you even stepped onstage."

I stared at him. "Then why help me?"

His answer was soft. Final.

"Because the bait doesn't always have to drown."

I got home just past midnight, shoes in hand, street too quiet for comfort. The kind of quiet that didn't wait for permission to be broken.

The phone rang as soon as I closed the door.

Old rotary. Sharp, metallic sound. Like it knew it was bad news.

I picked up on the third ring.

"Viv..."

Loretta's voice. Low, shaky. Her breath hitched on the line.

"They know. I don't know how, but they know. I saw a car outside my place. Same one from last week, the one with the dented bumper. They followed me from the club. I thought maybe it was Rust. Or Bishop's people. But it's worse. I think it's both."

"Loretta..."

"I'm leaving town. Tonight. I packed a bag. Just need to grab one more thing. Don't come looking, Viv. Don't call. If you see Frank, tell him to forget me."

Then a pause. A sharp intake of breath.

"They know what you did. They're going to use it."

Click.

The line went dead.

I tried to call back.

Three times.

No answer.

The fourth time, I didn't get a ring at all. Just silence.

The kind that tells you the phone's not off.

It's been cut.

I stood there in my apartment, receiver still in my hand, heart crawling up my throat.

Loretta was gone.

And whatever she left behind wasn't just her suitcase.

It was something that wanted to find me next.

The alley behind my building always smelt like piss and old rain, but that night it carried something colder in intent.

I was halfway to the dumpster, trash in hand, when I heard the footstep behind me.

Not rushed.

Just close.

I turned slowly.

He was leaning against the wall, half-lit by a flickering lamp above the exit door. Late forties, maybe. Grey at the temples. His coat looked too warm for July. His eyes looked like they didn't miss anything. But it was the scar that got me.

A long, pale ribbon down the side of his neck. Surgical. Precise. Like someone had tried to take his voice and failed.

"You're not hard to find," he said, voice gravel-worn and sharp.

"Do you always open conversations this way?"

"Only when the person I'm talking to doesn't know they're running out of time."

I didn't move. "Who sent you?"

"No one," he said. "Not anymore."

"You used to work for Bishop."

He nodded.

"I didn't know he hired messengers with a flair for theatre."

"I wasn't a messenger," he said. "I was insurance."

I looked him over. "You don't look like you held."

He smiled. Just barely. "I stopped caring what held. That's why I'm still breathing."

"Why now?"

"Because you're asking questions", he said, "but the wrong ones. Same mistake Celeste made."

I stiffened. "You knew her?"

"I knew of her. She played her part. You're playing yours."

"And what part is that?"

He stepped forward and handed me a small folded paper.

Inside was a name.

Halvorsen.

"Ask him," the man said. "Ask what the bait is worth once it's been swallowed."

Then he turned and disappeared into the dark like he'd always belonged to it.

I stared at the name on the slip of paper.

Halvorsen.

Didn't mean anything yet. But it would. That much I felt in my bones.

I turned, but the man was already gone. No footsteps. No second glance. Like he'd never existed, except for the voice still curling around my ribs.

I was halfway back to the apartment door when he spoke again, somewhere behind me, close enough to be real.

"You weren't the mark."

I turned.

He was in the shadows now, coat collar high, just his voice and the glint of eyes that had seen too much.

"You're the lure."

"Lure for who?"

"For Caruso," he said.

The name hit me harder than I expected.

"You're the one who pulled him out," the man continued. "He doesn't talk unless something matters. He doesn't move unless there's something to lose. You gave him both."

I felt the cold settle in my gut like ice cubes dropped in a glass.

"You think Bishop planned this?" I asked.

"I think Bishop doesn't care about plans," the man said. "He cares about results."

I took a step closer. "And what result does he want?"

"To find out how much Frank Caruso will bleed before he stops trusting you."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

There was nothing left to say.

And the man, like before, melted into the night, leaving only his words behind.

And the weight of them.

I didn't sleep.

Didn't undress.

I sat at the window with the lights off, the city leaking in through half-open blinds like static, and thought about everyone who had ever looked at me and smiled while lying.

Rust. Celeste. Charlie. Loretta.

Frank.

Each one thinking I was something else.

An asset.

A pawn.

A distraction.

A confessional booth with good legs.

But none of them saw the whole picture. Maybe not even me.

I pulled the bishop card from the wall and set it on the table. Drew a circle around it. Then one around Celeste. Rust. Frank. Myself.

All connected now. All moving.

Each watching the other.

I looked at the paper the scarred man had given me. Halvorsen.

Whoever he was, he wasn't outside the circle.

He was at the centre of it.

The phone stayed silent.

The city didn't.

And I knew the next time someone knocked, it wouldn't be for questions.

It would be for the finish.