Web of Lies (Page 31)

I stared at the giants, with their big, buglike eyes and black suits that had probably taken a whole field of cotton to construct. No telltale bulges could be seen under their arms. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about them shooting me, if things went badly here. They’d enjoy beating me to death more anyway. Giants who worked for Elliot Slater were notorious for that.

And they just might get a chance, the way the hate and magic sparked in Jake McAllister’s brown eyes.

Jonah McAllister stood in the middle of the Pork Pit.

But instead of looking at me or even Sophia, McAllister’s gaze slid over the blue and pink booths, the faded pig tracks on the floor, the clean tabletops, the ancient cash register. His eyes resembled his son’s – flat, brown, hard – but without the fiery glint of magic. Jake must have gotten his Fire power from his mother. She died several years ago, from what I remember having read in Fletcher’s file.

Jonah McAllister didn’t say anything. I might as well not have even been in the same room with the man for all the attention he paid me. His arrogance annoyed me.

If that was the game he wanted to play, I was more than happy to participate. I sprinkled some more black pepper on top of my coleslaw, dug my fork into the colorful mound, and took another bite. Sweet and sour. Yeah, that’s the way things were going today.

Finally, after two minutes of intense perusal, Jonah McAllister turned his head to me. I got the same treatment he’d given the rest of the restaurant. A slow, thoughtful gaze that weighed, measured, and calculated my worth down to the last rusty penny.

"I assume you’re Gin Blanco, the owner of this fine establishment," McAllister said in a rich, deep, sonorous baritone voice that would boom like thunder in the closed confines of a courtroom.

I chewed another bite of coleslaw and tilted my head.

"I am. Don’t bother introducing yourself. I already know who you are, Mr. McAllister."

Jonah nodded his head back at me and gestured at the chair on the opposite side of the table. "May I be so kind as to take advantage of your hospitality?"

My lips twitched. My, my, my, he was slathering on the charm already, like sweet butter on a hot biscuit. "Sure."

McAllister unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat down.

Jake made a move to join us, but his father turned a pair of cold eyes in his son’s direction. "In the booth, Jake. Now."

Jake jerked like a dog who’d been whipped so many times all it took to make him cower was the faintest whisper of its owner’s voice. But he did as his father asked and slid into a booth by the front window – the same one Eva Grayson and her friend Cassidy had sat in two nights ago.

The two giant guards remained where they were by the front door. Hands loose by their sides, chests puffed out, spines as tall and straight as flagpoles on the Fourth of July. They could have been statues for all the emotion or interest they showed, although their pale, bulging eyes never left me, not even for an instant. Still, sloppy, sloppy of them standing so far away. I could have easily palmed one of my silverstone knives and cut Jonah McAllister’s throat before the guards took two steps.

Jonah McAllister turned his full attention to me. A thin smile pulled up his lips, although his face had been so sandblasted by Air elemental magic, no lines appeared anywhere. The curve of his lips did little to disguise the cold, calculating glint in his eyes. Still, he had a presence about him, a commanding sort of air that probably made people promise him their first-born, if only he’d give them a moment of his time. The hard stare made me want to chuckle. McAllister was nothing compared to some of the folks I’d been up against as the Spider.

"Now, Ms. Blanco," he said in a smooth voice. "Let’s talk."

"Sure," I replied. "Let’s chat."

"Now, I know about your difficulties with my son the other night, but you have to realize that he just wasn’t feeling like himself. Were you, Jake?"

Jake McAllister stared at the floor. "No," he muttered and kicked the underside of the booth opposite him.

Jonah nodded his head at the expected answer, no matter how sullen, fake, and reluctant it had been. "As you can see, my son feels terrible about his part in the incident on Monday night. I came here today hoping we could resolve this situation without any further interference by the police or the court system. What do you say?"

For a moment, I just stared at him. The man had a set of silverstone balls, I’d give him that. Jonah McAllister had nerve to spare, coming into my place of business and trying to talk his psychopathic son out of a lengthy jail term. I thought about stringing him along, pretending to be the weak, country bumpkin he so obviously thought I was. Letting him try to manipulate me the same way he did all those juries, all those people who tried to stand up to Mab Monroe. It’d be a hell of a show, if nothing else. But I had other things to do today, other problems to take care of, namely finding out why Tobias Dawson wanted Violet Fox dead. I didn’t have the time or more importantly the inclination to go along quietly. Besides, I’d never been good at playing the victim.

"Let’s be clear," I replied. "You’re asking me to drop the charges against your son, right? Recant my statement to the police, refuse to testify, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. That’s what all the eye contact, oily words, and fake charm are about, yes?"

Jonah McAllister frowned, taken aback by my blunt tone. His eyes narrowed, and I met his gaze with a level one of my own. Something in my gray eyes must have registered with him, because the smile dropped from his face. Time to change tactics.

"All right," Jonah McAllister said. "You want to be compensated for your trouble. I can certainly understand that."

He reached into his suit and pulled out a slim black checkbook and a matching Mont Blanc fountain pen.

"How much do you want?"

I laughed.

The chuckles rumbled out of my throat like motorcycle exhaust. Low, thick, black. Once more, McAllister’s lips tightened into a thin, hard line, even if the rest of his face couldn’t follow suit. The attorney didn’t appreciate being laughed at. Too bad. Because he’d just tickled my funny bone with his blatant bribery attempt, whether he’d intended to or not.

"Sorry," I murmured. "I didn’t actually expect you to bring your checkbook along, much less whip it out. You certainly have a style about you, Mr. McAllister, trying to bribe me in my own restaurant."

"I’m just trying to get this mess taken care of, Ms.

Blanco," McAllister replied in a smooth tone. "It’s not the first one I’ve cleaned up for my son, and I’m sure it won’t be the last, no matter how many reformatory schools I’ve shipped him off to over the years. So why don’t you just answer my question, and we can be done with this little charade."