Never Cry Mercy Read Free

knowledge.
    "Jack Smith," the older cop said, "of New York City." He paused deliberately between each word.
    The identity was as basic as I could make it. A name with thousands of matches. Several hundred in New York alone. Once anyone determined that the address was bunk, they'd waste days trying to figure out which Jack Smith they were after. And if they narrowed down too far, I'd simply say that I go by Jack instead of John.
    "I'm gonna ask you again," he said. "What the hell are you doing in my town?"
    "I'm gonna tell you again," I said. "I'm just passing through. My Jeep broke down. Some old guy offered to help, put me up while his cousin's shop fixes it."
    The two officers shared a glance, nodded. Maybe they check out the garage from time to time. Saw my Jeep. Asked Herbie's cousin a couple questions. The older guy handed back my ID.
    "Keep to yourself, Mr. Smith, and you'll do all right here." He started back to the cruiser, stopped, turned toward me. "Believe me, you don't want to go mixing with the locals around here. They see a city boy like you, and start thinking they can take advantage, if you know what I mean."
    "I believe I do. And I don't want any trouble while I'm here. Gonna do my couple days, then be on my way out."
    I'd made it half a block before the car doors finally closed. The engine revved. Headlights swept past me, steady at first, then cutting to the left and disappearing. The rumble of the V-8 faded as they drove in the opposite direction.
    I continued on, heading into the wind. I passed two dozen or so shops and nondescript buildings before reaching my destination.
    The bar's faded neon sign buzzed like a drunken house fly, flickering off every few seconds. Through the window I saw that a couple tables were occupied. An empty bar top stretched the length of the establishment. A wave of hot air saturated with beers and burgers washed over me as I pulled the heavy door open. The patrons at both tables repositioned to see who'd entered. The middle-aged couple at the nearest table glossed over me with little interest and went back to their conversation. Two large biker-looking guys didn't. Their gazes followed me as I crossed the room. The one with his back to me turned to his friend, who nodded.
    I anticipated a confrontation, but instead the two focused their attention on their burgers.
    I took a seat at the end of the bar where there was nothing to block me from an escape. The mirror along the wall left me with a view of the bar. Beer taps partially shielded me from that same view.
    The swinging door at the other end of the bar burst open. An older guy with a bald head and a thick salt and pepper beard came out from the kitchen and made his way toward me. Through narrowed eyes, he sized me up. Perhaps he determined I was a threat, because he stopped six feet away and asked me what I wanted. I ordered a pint of Revolver stout, and a ribeye cooked rare. He nodded, poured my beer, and then disappeared into the kitchen again.
    The room felt still. No chatter. No clanking of silverware against a plate, or the soft thud of a mug hitting a table. Just the light whirr of the ceiling fans.
    I kept the reflection of the biker guys in my peripheral, anticipating that one or both would come over at some point. The guy facing my direction glanced over a couple times, his hand covering his mouth in a veiled attempt to hide the fact he was talking about me. They remained seated, though, and I considered them a limited threat.
    For now.
    The kitchen door swung open. The big guy emerged with my steak. He slowed halfway, inhaled the scent of seared meat, then set the plate in front of me. It was a healthy cut, heavily marbled, sitting in a pool of juices.
    "Need some A1?" he said.
    "You seasoned it, right?"
    "Come on, you gonna insult me like that? This ain't Oklahoma, man. 'Course I seasoned it. My own rub. Best damn recipe in Texas."
    I cut into the steak and sliced off a piece of half-meat, half-fat. Held it in