fancy?â
âHamburger. Twenty minutes?â
âSee you there.â
Seven
The Pink Bicycle is renowned for its great selection of mini sliders, but I havenât known Pinch long enough to be sure of how sensitive he is to the vertically challenged aspect of his stature. I mean, heâs not that short. And as a girl whose Barbies preferred my neighborâs G.I. Joe with Kung Fu grip over the leaner and more emasculated Ken doll, Iâve always found shorter men to be more appealing.
Erring on the side of caution, however, I assume itâs never smart to insult a hired killerâ even unintentionally.
âWhat do you recommend?â he asks, looking up from the menu.
âThere are no wrong choices here. Itâs all good.â
âWhat about the sliders?â
I grin, relieved at the opening. âFantastic. We could share the variety platter of six with yam fries on the side.â
âAnd a salad?â
âIf you need the roughage, sure.â
Pinchâs eyes dance with amusement although his lips barely twinge. He closes the menu. âSo whatâs the ulterior motive?â he asks.
âDoes there need to be one?â
âNo, but there is.â
The waitress arrives and we order. After she leaves, I lean across the table. My bust is so small that my shirt barely puckers. Disappointedly, his eyes donât even attempt a sneaky peek.
âYou ever heard of the Red Swan?â
Pinch doesnât blink, but neither does he answer.
âKrasnyi Lebed,â I continue. âHeâsââ
âI know who he is,â Pinch interrupts.
âI want to meet him.â
âBad idea.â
âItâs for a story Iâmââ
âStill a bad idea.â
âHeâs a news junkie. Heâll like me.â
âHe might, but itâs better to be off his radar than on.â
I lean back again. âYou ever work for him?â
âNo comment.â
I narrow my eyes and shake my head. âNo, you havenât, have you? If you had, you wouldnât be living here.â
Pinch tilts his head to one side, a move that neither confirms nor denies my claim.
âPeople in your profession donât retire,â I continue. âYou disappear someplace where people donât know you. You picked San Francisco because you did most of your work on the East Coast. Am I close?â
âNo comment.â
I lean forward again. âIâm not expecting you to give me an introduction; I just need to know how I go about meeting him. Your name will never leave my lips. I hope that Iâve proven that to you.â
Pinch nods. âYou have.â
âSo will you help me?â
The waitress returns with our platter of assorted mini burgers and lays it on the table. A basket of crispy yam fries, chipotle mayo dip, and a carafe of ice water quickly join it. After she leaves, Pinch tucks his napkin under his chin and picks up the first burger: Angus beef with aged white cheddar.
I donât tell him the napkin makes him look darn cute.
âWeâll talk after we eat,â he says.
I agree and dive in.
Iâm lifting my second sliderâa teriyaki and green onion pork patty with pineappleâto my lips when a businessman in a bold pinstriped suit collides with our table and his elbow smacks my hand.
Like something out of a Max Payne video game, time slows. The burger leaves my hand, the top half of the bun accelerating faster than the bottom. In the same instant, the carafe of water is blasting off at an angle that would make NASA hit the self-destruct button.
I push my chair back in an attempt to avoid the worst of it, but out of the corner of my eye I see Pinch moving forward, his hands imperceptibly faster than the unfolding disaster. While his left hand plucks the glass carafe out of the air and lands it upright with barely a splash, his right hand intercepts the catapulted burger and slams it