Altered States by Paul J. Newell Read Free Book Online Page B

lock-up in town, tied to a chair. They wanna make sure he gets to court for his hearing.’
    ‘Understandably. Isn’t that what you want too? Get your boss’s bail money back?’
    ‘Well, yes.’
    ‘So, why are you telling me? Snitching on your boss for kidnapping ain’t going to put you in his good books – if indeed he has any good books.’
    ‘Because I don’t trust these goons. I think this way he’ll either end up missing or dead. I’d feel much more comfortable if the cops happened across the lock-up and took Burch in for his own protection. Besides, is it so hard to believe that some people actually prefer operating on the right side of the law?’
    Conner shrugged in response. He generally finds it best to assume that they don’t.
    Kent continued. ‘Look, I just want to see Burch get to court, and the more people with that aim the better. As soon as that money’s back I’m outta this town.’
    Conner contemplated these details as he finished off the last crumbs of his single-serving cake. Eventually, he gave a consenting nod.
    ‘Give me the address of the lock-up. I’ll sort it.’
    Kent returned his coffee shakily to its saucer again and wrote the address on a scrap of paper. Conner motioned to leave then stopped himself.
    ‘Have you talked to anyone else about this?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘ Any one? Priest, wife, men in suits?’
    ‘No. Do I look like the kind of man that would be religious ... or married?’
    ‘It’s the suits I’m worried about. Has anyone other than me come asking questions: about Burch, about who bailed him ... about me?’
    ‘No.’ He shook his head in the first confident motion Conner had observed.
    ‘Okay. So it’s my turn to trust you. But if I discover you’re lying, rest assured I will come visiting. And you won’t need to worry about me acting like your buddy. Far from it.’
    Conner pegged Kent as way too weak and stupid to be trying something on – whatever something might be. So, he left. Unfortunately, the knowledge he left with deposited him squarely on the horns of a dilemma.
    Being a cop he should do exactly what Kent expected him to do. Call in the boys in blue, rescue Bigby and keep him safe till court time. But the clerk had come to the wrong cop, because all Conner wanted was Bigby back on the street, doing his job, leading him to the big boys in the rug trade.
    He needed to make some decisions but he didn’t have much time. Worse, his mind returned to what had been troubling him earlier. It was troubling him more now that time had passed. He knew he had to resolve that issue first, before he could make any informed decision as to his next action. Who was he trying to kid? Any decision he made would be a long way from informed. If he could achieve anything above complete ignorance he’d be well chuffed.
    There was only one thing for it. He had to go on a date.
     
    That evening Conner waited for his guest in the Crown Liquor Saloon – the best of the seventeen so-called Irish bars in town. Having never left America he had no idea as to the bar’s authenticity, but he liked it, and that was all that mattered. The exterior was exquisitely decorated with polychromatic tiles and stained glass. The interior was even more elaborate. Complex mosaics spilled across the entire floor. Every surface of the walls, fixtures and ceiling coalesced into what was effectively a single, highly-decorative wood-carving; as if the room had been whittled from the centre of a massive tree trunk. The altar-style bar-top that stretched the length of the establishment was made of a deep-red granite. And the whole place was lit by polished brass gas lamps. But the best feature of all were the carved wooden booths – or snugs as they called them – each with its own little door, originally designed to accommodate the more reserved patrons of a Victorian era.
    It was indeed spectacular. It was also, of course, fake. A modern replica. A cheap imitation. The product of cold-blooded