"You look familiar."
"Maybe you've seen me around. I come here sometimes."
"I would have remembered."
I echoed his words back at him, and his smile widened.
"Flattery will get you everywhere."
"I wasn't flattering you. I was stating a fact."
"A fact."
"Yes."
He picked up his glass and took another sip.
"What's your name?"
"Bunny."
"Bunny."
He said it like he was tasting it, rolling it around on his tongue.
"Is that your real name?"
"It's the only one I have."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I'm giving."
He laughed—soft, almost under his breath.
"Fair enough."
Matt was watching from the other end of the bar.
I could feel his eyes on me, the weight of his attention, the silent question in his stance. He didn't trust the man in the suit. I didn't either. But something kept me rooted to the spot, my hands resting on the bar, my eyes locked on his.
He set his glass down and reached into his jacket pocket. My hand moved to my waistband—the knife was there, always there—but he only pulled out a card. Black. Simple. A name and a phone number.
"In case you ever need someone who's good at finding things."
"I'm not looking for anything."
"Everyone's looking for something."
He set the card on the bar and stood up.
"Thanks for the scotch, Bunny. I'll be back."
"I'll be here."
He walked to the door, and the bell chimed, and he was gone.
18
