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up the pressure and what I could do about it. Other than kill the bastard. Which would only cause
more problems for me, in the end.
Did you send everyone home with pay already? I asked. Is that why there s nobody here but you?
Um-mmm. Sophia s grunt foryes .
The Goth dwarf started stirring the dressing into a mound of chopped green and purple cabbage and
carrots, even though there wasn t going to be anyone around to eat it. A shame, really.
Finn wasn t due to show up for a few more minutes, so I decided to fix myself a plate of food while I
waited. Nobody else was going to be clamoring for barbecue today.
A barbecue beef sandwich, baked beans, iced blackberry tea, some coleslaw from the dwarf s metal
vat. I took my food and sat at one of the tables in the middle of the restaurant, so I could watch for Finn
coming down the street and still talk to Sophia.
I was halfway through my food when the bell over the front door chimed. I looked up, expecting to see
Finn.
The man wore an impeccable business suit and polished wingtips, but that s where his resemblance to
Finnegan Lane ended.
His gunmetal gray hair was parted on the side, with a thick doo-wop that curled up, down, and around
his forehead like a scoop of vanilla soft serve. Given the gray hair, I would have put his age at around
sixty. But he had the face of a much younger man smooth, clean-shaven, and curiously free of wrinkles,
even around the corners of his brown eyes. My guess? The finest Air elemental facials and skin
treatments his hefty retainers could by.
Debutantes and trophy wives weren t the only vain folks in Ashland. He d left his hair au natural, though.
Probably thought the silver color made him look more distinguished.
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Still, for all his youthful vigor, the man radiated awshucks charm the way a snake-oil salesman might.
Shake his hand, and you d be wiping the grease off yours for the next ten minutes. And wondering where
your wallet went. I recognized him from his many pictures in the newspaper and Fletcher s thick file on
Mab Monroe and her flunkies.
Jonah McAllister, Ashland s slickest attorney and personal counsel to Mab herself, had just walked into
my restaurant.
And he wasn t alone.
Jake McAllister strutted in through the door behind his old man. Rock-star jeans, vintage T-shirt, heavy
boots, a black leather coat that skirted the floor. Another punk getup.
Two giant bodyguards also stepped inside the restaurant, taking up all the available space by the front
door.
The goons were probably on loan from Mab Monroe, via her other number-two man, enforcer Elliot
Slater, who was a giant himself. Even if I d had a customer today, she wouldn t have been able to get
inside with the two behemoths blocking the entrance.
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,
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