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LENGTH: Mid Novel
SENSUALITY: Sensual

Cover art (c) Dan Skinner 2007
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When Conar 'Irish' Nolan abruptly vanishes and then reappears months later, addicted to heroin and near dead, only those closest to him believe his bizarre tale of having been abducted expressly for that purpose.

Detective Rhiana Marek does and knows whoever is behind the abduction is still a threat, but can she piece together the bizarre puzzle before its too late to save the man she loves?

IN THE TEETH OF THE WIND

By

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

© copyright May 2007, Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Cover art by Dan Skinner, © copyright May 2007

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Prologue

The thirty-seven-year-old officer had been with the Florida Drug Enforcement Agency only two years when his life was drastically altered one cold, rainy November night. The last thing he remembered before his ordeal began was hearing someone call his name while he was getting into his car outside the apartment complex in which he lived. He stopped, car keys in his hand, as footsteps came toward him out of the drizzling night.

“Hey, pig!” someone else snarled.

He turned and an ultra white light was thrust into his face, blinding him. He threw up an arm to ward off the painful brightness.

Someone grabbed him from behind, another from the front. A sharp, stinging pain jabbed into the flesh of his upper right arm, causing him to yelp in surprise. His world slowed.

He was vaguely aware of hands holding him, dragging him; the sound of a van’s door sliding back on its runners; other hands taking him, pulling him inside. The drug washed over him with such debilitating force all he could do was blink up at the men whose faces were hidden behind black ski masks.

“Gonna take you on a nice, long ride, pal.” The voice was chilling, deadly, full of threat, and he wondered who had ordered his death. The face of Kiki Camareno, a friend and fellow DEA agent, now dead and gone, slithered across his foggy mind.

They cuffed his arms behind him, tied his ankles together. One man leaned over him and taped his eyes and mouth shut. An overpowering smell of duct tape--sourly-plastic and musky--drifted under his nostrils.

They took him to a hot and musty place filled with a cloying stench. When the tape was ripped from his eyes, they watered profusely. The air reeked of fertilizer and burned his nose.

Four assailants dragged him across a dirt floor, his legs useless against the numbness invading his system. Hard hands gripped his upper arms, supported him as he hung helplessly between two of his captors. One man gripped his chin in a cruel pinch and his head tilted upward so that he stared wide-eyed at the masked face pressing in close to his own. “You wanna have a good time, pig?” asked the man, his accent unmistakably Colombian.

“He’s going to whether he wants it or not!” another man chortled.

His handcuffs were removed but he had little strength to free himself. He struggled--uselessly and ineffectually--before they pushed him onto his back and dragged his arms over his head. They snapped another cuff into place around his free wrist then he heard the rattle of metal against metal, the clink of the cuff locking as his wrist was secured to the top of the cot. His left wrist was jerked upward and chained to the cot, as well.

He whimpered as they removed his jeans and shackled his ankles to the foot of the cot.

The DEA agent cringed as the Colombian moved over him, putting out a hand to touch him.

“Nice,” the Colombian whispered, running his palm over the thick muscle of the agent’s thigh. He slid his hand between the agent’s legs, to the inside of a tense thigh, probing for just the right place. “Very nice.”

The agent thought he knew what was coming.

Thought he knew what they were going to do to him before they killed him.

As his torture began, he believed he would die before the night was over. He began to pray in earnest: “Hail Mary, full of Grace….”

He wondered if Kiki had done the same thing.

Long into the next few days, the agent lay where they’d chained him, wishing they’d kill him. He wanted them to put a gun to his head and pull the trigger or put a blade to his throat and, with one quick slice, end his torment. He hadn’t expected to live through the ordeal. He hadn’t wanted to. But he had. And he would later wish with all his heart that he had not.

Part One

Chapter One

Loud, tooth-jarring music bombarded Conor Nolan and Joe Cortesio as they pushed through the double-oak doors into the interior of the dimly lit and crowded roadhouse. The cacophony of whining guitars, piercing trill of a keyboard, and heavy thump of drums was deafening. The feedback from the band’s four huge speakers crashed through the over heated room like the blast-off from a lunar shuttle.

Overhead a dense blue haze of cigarette smoke hung suspended from the exposed beams of metal roof supports. The overpowering smell of spent tobacco attached itself to the men’s clothing. Accompanying the stench was the odor of sweat-slick bodies and sick-sweet marijuana. The combination awakened a nest of butterflies in Conor Nolan’s stomach.

Clustered around the dance floor at the north end of the cavernous room, four to six vinyl-covered swivel chairs were pulled up to each of the twenty-odd, cluttered, sticky, chrome-and-laminate tables. Nolan noted that every seat was full, some with more than one occupant.

The two men walked toward the East end of the room to a shadowed semi-circular nook with ten booths set on a raised platform. Each booth was separated from its neighbor by a five feet high fieldstone partition. Flickering light from electric torches looked like burning rushes.

Harried bartenders worked at feverish speed to fill drink orders. A dozen waitresses, dressed in short black mini-skirts, circulated among the tables and booths.

At the long bar, crowded two people deep, a twenty-something blonde woman observed the dancers. Watching intently, she swiveled from side to side on the barstool, sipping occasionally from a tall frosted glass, ignoring the come-ons that now and again obstructed her view. A faint smile stretched her full lips as her bored green gaze fell on Nolan’s tall frame and held.

“Are they up there?” Joe Cortesio shouted over the din. He blinked against the intrusion of heavy smoke.

“I can’t see a damned thing!” answered Conor Nolan. The flash of a strobe, emanating from the hard rock band light show, underscored his night blindness. The jerky movements and blue-white appearance of the people in the room made his stomach roil.

Cortesio stumbled as a drunk swerved off course and collided with him. He ignored the slurred apology and shoved the offender away, grimacing with distaste at the stench of vomit that assailed his nostrils. He reached behind him, felt for the bulge of his wallet in the pocket of his jeans and was satisfied it hadn’t been lifted in the encounter.

Nolan tapped Cortesio on the shoulder and pointed. Squinting, Cortesio nodded.

They threaded their way through the room, jostled and blocked with every step--disengaging playful arms thrown around them by bold women--the two men finally made it to the platform of booths.

“Where the hell you guys been?” snapped Neville “Trip” Triplett as Cortesio slipped into the booth at one end and Nolan the other.

Nolan glanced at his friend, taking in the thinning dark hair. “What’s with you? Turning forty still got you bummed?”

Trip shifted his six-foot, two-inch frame in the seat and drew a hand across his spreading middle. He fastened Nolan with a dark gray stare but let the good-natured jib drop. “We were beginning to think you guys weren’t coming.” Trip forced his gaze from Conor’s grinning face.

“Hell, Triplett,” said Cortesio, “we weren’t even breathing hard.”

Nolan leaned over to kiss the only woman in the booth. “How’s it going, pretty lady?”

Rhianna Marek was, indeed, a pretty lady. With her soft, dewy brown eyes and long, straight sable hair, she could pass for a teenager, and had when the New Gregory police force needed an insider at the local high school. Her soft Georgia accent further belied her age. She would be thirty-two on the next Summer Solstice.

“You’re late,” Rhianna complained, dark eyes glowing. She returned his quick kiss and laid her hand on his thigh as he put his arm around her and drew her close.

“Traffic was a bitch,” said Nolan. He glanced up at the skimpily clad waitress who placed two new napkins on the table. “How you doing tonight, Myra?”

“Okay. What’ll it be, Irish?”

“What’s cooking, Myra?”

“Same old, same old,” she shrugged. “How’s it hanging?”

“Eight inches and growing!” The Italian chuckled and waited for the collective groans of his friends to subside before reaching down to rub his crotch. “Make that nine.”

“Pervert,” pronounced Trip. Dave Donne, the man sitting between Trip and Cortesio, opened his mouth, stuck his finger in, and pretended to gag.

“How do you put up with him?” Rhianna asked Conor, shaking her head at Cortesio’s antics. “He’s as randy as a teenager.” She exchanged a taut smile with Trip. He knew how worried she was by some of the outrageous things Joey had been doing of late. Her main concern was Joey’s wife finding out about his indiscretions and putting an end to their fifteen-year marriage.

Nolan grinned. “I just never bend over when he’s close around.”

“When are you and me gonna get married, Myra?” Donne asked, reaching over to stroke the waitress’ arm.

“Why buy the beef when I already get the bull for free?” At his hoot of laughter, she picked up her tray, letting her hand brush Nolan’s, but when he pretended not to notice, she left with a sigh.

“She keeps trying to get your attention, Irish,” Trip laughed. “The least you can do is pat her on the ass.”

“Not if he wants to keep his hand,” said Rhianna. She didn’t like the waitress and knew Conor had slept with her more than once. Hell, she thought, as she took a long pull on her drink, probably every man within a hundred-mile radius had humped the sleazy bitch.

Nolan bent toward Rhianna and nuzzled her neck. “The only ass I wanna pat is yours,” he whispered.

“Knock it off.” Rhianna dug her elbow into his ribs. When he moved away from her, grinning wickedly, she stuck her tongue out at him.

Myra squeezed her way through the barrier of customers lined up at the bar. She put her tray on the counter and leaned toward the bartender, shouting to be heard over the raucous music. She gave him the order, straightened up, and glanced down the length of the bar, waving at a few steady customers. Her attention encountered the blonde sitting a few stools away. Myra smiled nervously and was about to turn around when the blonde crooked a finger toward her. Myra’s smile twitched as she moved toward the woman. “Yes, Ma’am?”

“Who is the man in the black denim jacket?”

The waitress’ forehead puckered for a moment, then smoothed. She risked a glance toward the Irishman. “Nolan,” she answered. “Conor Nolan. His friends call him Irish. He’s a cop.”

“Conor Nolan,” the blonde repeated. Myra heard the satisfaction in the slightly-accented voice. “Who’s the chippy with him?”

The waitress’ mouth tightened into a fine line of dislike. “She’s a cop, too. They all are over there at number eight.” She saw the blonde’s gaze shift to the platform of booths before re-settling on Myra.

“What is she to him?”

Myra shrugged. “As far as I know they just work together. They all come in here every Monday night. Sometimes there’s a black guy who comes with them, too.”

The blonde nodded then turned to give the bartender a long, steady look. “Thank you, Myra,” she said. “That’ll be all.”

“About Irish, I...”

The blonde put a silencing finger to her lips.

“Don’t worry about it, Myra.” The blonde returned her green-eyed gaze to the bartender, dismissing Myra.

Myra turned and headed back down the bar. The bartender gave her a stern look as she retrieved her drink tray. “It don’t concern you,” he told her, reaching into his shirt pocket and taking out something. She frowned as he moved his hand over Nolan’s glass. Her gaze followed the descent of a small white tablet through the Canadian Club and Seven-Up.

“Stay out of it.” A silent warning flashed in the bartender’s dark eyes.

“Ain’t nothin’ to me.” Myra picked up the tray of drinks and turned.

Trip tapped Nolan on the arm. “How was your day, homeboy?” He had an eager look in his eye. “Productive, I hope?”

Nolan held the man’s gaze for a moment. While Rhianna and Joe Cortesio were talking across the table, Nolan hooked a hand inside his denim jacket. Withdrawing a small white plastic packet, he laid it on the table and covered it with his fingers. Trip bent forward, coming between Rhianna and the Italian, forcing them to lean backward to finish their conversation. Nolan slid the packet across to Triplett.

Dave Donne clenched his teeth and looked the other way as the transaction took place. It never failed to amaze him how bold Conor Nolan could be or how stupid Trip had become, but he figured cocaine did that to a man.

Triplett’s tongue flicked out and he licked dry, chapped lips as he pocketed the packet. His glance shifted past Nolan, swiveled about table--avoiding Dave Donne’s tight face--then jerked back to Nolan. He nodded his thanks then leaned back in the booth with a long, relieved sigh.

Nolan put his face close to Rhianna’s ear. “Wanna dance, pretty lady?” he asked just as Myra brought their drinks.

“Sure,” she answered, then looked up at the waitress.

“Which of you bozos is gonna pay for it this time?” Myra challenged, her disdainful gaze sweeping the four men.

“I will,” Nolan said. He shot out one long leg, dug his hand into his jeans and drew out a roll of money. Peeling off a five, he pitched it on the table. “Keep the change, sweetheart.” The Irishman took a long swallow of his drink, then held out his hand to Rhianna as she slid toward him.

“Jeez, now I can have that heart transplant,” Myra scoffed. Her eyes slid hungrily over Conor Nolan as he stood up.

“How ‘bout another round, darling?” Triplett asked the waitress. “On me.”

Dave Donne turned to watch Trip scoot out of the booth and head for the men’s room as soon as Nolan and Marek were on the dance floor. He let out a disgusted snort then lifted his beer and drained it before pushing the stein toward Myra. “Make it a boilermaker this time, darling, so long as the asshole’s payin’ for it.”

“Did you get me an address on that broad from last week?” Cortesio demanded, drawing Dave’s attention.

Donne hitched one thin shoulder upward. “Do I look like the City Directory to you, Cortesio?”

“Piss off, then,” the Italian grunted. He turned to watch the dancers and chuckled when his gaze fell on Nolan and Marek. “That fucking Mick can move, can’t he?”

Myra glanced at Nolan as she wove her way around the periphery of the dance floor. God, yes, the man can dance. Her gaze fastened on his ass in the tight confines of faded blue jeans and she stopped, fascinated by the shifting of his body, the grace with which he moved. No matter where he danced, his undulating, mesmerizing body attracted attention, his lean physique attracting every female gaze in the place.

Nolan was thirty-seven or eight. Myra wasn’t exactly sure. His hair was a lustrous deep dark brown that shone beneath the revolving overhead lights. His eyes were amber-brown and he had a way of looking at her that made her feel like she was the only woman in the world. Lean in the hip, flat in a belly that rippled like a washboard, broad in the shoulder, and well enough endowed to satisfy any woman’s prurient interests, Conor Nolan was a sexy man.

“She’s watching you, again,” Rhianna said as Nolan brought her close to him, her mouth at his ear.

“Who?” Conor’s hands slid down to her rump and molded her to him, encouraging her to feel the music as he did.

“Your little friend, the barmaid.”

“Let her,” was his negligent reply. He pushed her away from him and spun her beneath the arc of his arm, then snapped her forward into him, enclosing her. He ground against her, dipping his knees and sliding his body along hers like a cat against a scratching post.

“You’re shameless.” Rhianna laughed. She liked dancing with him. The man moved like a jungle cat, but sometimes his lack of inhibitions embarrassed her. Glancing around, she saw other women staring at Conor and knew she was the envy of every female in the room. When he rubbed against her again, she pushed at his shoulder. “Cut it out!” she told him. “You wanna get us thrown outta here?”

“I’m horny.”

“I can tell.” She eased out of his embrace. “Behave yourself, Nolan.”

As badly as she felt he wanted her, and as badly as she wanted him, neither had made an effort to consummate the relationship, but she knew it was only a matter of time. She knew that when it happened, the sparks of their joining would set fire to a passion that would never diminish as long as they lived. And she feared it.

He slid his body down hers once more and she laughed as she shoved him away. “You are an animal!”

The Irishman shrugged. “You wouldn’t like me tame, Marek. I’d be boring as hell.”

The music ended and the gyrations stopped. Nolan threaded his fingers through Rhianna’s and led her to the table as the next jarring, discordant blast of what was supposed to be music rocketed through the roadhouse.

Myra was dispersing the second round of drinks when they returned. The waitress watched Nolan down his drink in three long gulps. “Go easy on that, stud. It ain’t soda pop,” she reminded him in a hard voice.

Surprised, Conor Nolan jerked his head around and looked into the woman’s scowling face. A slow, insulting smile stretched his lips. “Don’t tell me what to do, Myra,” he replied, his smile widening as she stiffened. “I’ll take another C.C. and 7.”

“Why don’t you let that one settle?”

Nolan tightened his jaw. “Why don’t you mind you own business?”

“You drink too much,” Myra said between clenched teeth.

“And you whore around too much,” he shot back. “Do I tell you not to do it?” He stared at her until she spun on her heel and stormed off.

“Asshole!” they heard her say. “Just forget it!”

Triplett chortled, spewing his gin and tonic from twitching lips. He cast Nolan an admiring look. “That’s no way to treat an old girlfriend, Nolan.”

“There you go again spoiling it for the rest of us, you snotty Mick,” complained Cortesio.

“Thanks a lot, Nolan!” snapped Donne. “I can kiss that piece of ass goodbye tonight.”

Nolan’s teeth sparkled in the faint candlelight. He shrugged. “She ain’t that good, Donne.”

“You should know,” said Cortesio. “You Micks will fuck anything that stands still.”

“And some that don’t!” Donne guffawed and chomped down on a chunk of ice. He grinned nastily at the Italian cop. “Least we don’t do it with sheep!”

“Baaaaaaaa!” Triplett laughed as Myra brought Nolan his second drink.

“I hope you choke on it,” the waitress fumed, slamming the glass down. “Two fifty.”

Nolan didn’t even look at her. “Take it outta the tip I gave you.”

Myra didn’t miss a beat. She leaned over, across Nolan, and locked her angry gaze on Rhianna. “I hope he’s better in the sack with you than he was with me.”

Rhianna just smiled, refusing to accept the challenge. It was none of Myra’s business whether or not she’d slept with Conor. It was no one’s business, though most everyone they worked with thought she and Conor were lovers.

“He show you that trick he learned in Mexico?” Myra pressed, trying to get a rise out of the policewoman.

“I don’t discuss my private life, Myra,” replied Rhianna.

“I wouldn’t either if the bastard I was humping couldn’t....”

“Get outta her face and leave her the fuck alone,” Nolan said softly, menace in his deep voice. “I mean it, Myra.”

Myra jerked her glower to the Irishman and when their gazes met, she saw a budding anger in his dark stare that made her straighten up and step back. Without another word, she wheeled, shouting for one of the other waitresses to take the table.

“Ah, shit.” Trip groaned. “Now you’ve gone and done it, Nolan. We’re gonna get Wanda!”

With a disgusted grunt, Joe Cortesio turned his attention to the dancers and nodded in rhythm. “Wanda ain’t half bad if you get her drunk,” he mused.

“Let’s dance, Irish,” Rhianna said, feeling the tension beginning to build in him.

“I’m gonna call it a night,” the Irishman said. Cortesio turned to stare at Conor.

“Already?” asked Rhianna. “After one dance?” She knew how much Conor loved to take his frustrations out on the dance floor.

Nolan looked around, shrugged, then said, “It’s been a long day, pretty lady, and I’ve got a bitch of a headache.”

“That means I gotta go, too,” Cortesio complained with a long, put-upon sigh. “I’m riding with him.”

“I’ll take you home,” Trip said.

Donne and Cortesio exchanged a look. The Italian shook his head. “Thanks anyway, man. I want to get home alive.”

“I’m going his way,” said Donne. “I’ll take him home, Irish.”

“You’re a prince of a fella, Davey!” said Cortesio.

Nolan knocked back the last of his drink, reached out to squeeze Rhianna’s hand, then looked directly at Dave Donne. “You taking Rhianna home, too?”

“If you trust me not to molest her.” Dave chuckled.

“You know what’ll happen if you do,” said the Irishman. He cocked his head toward Trip. “Take him, too.”

“Ah, hell, Irish,” Trip complained. “I can drive myself.”

“Ah, hell, Trip, no you can’t.” Nolan held out his hand. “Give me your keys.” He waited until Triplett dug into his jacket.

“I ain’t that wasted,” Trip murmured as he handed them into Nolan’s keeping.

Rhianna glanced at her partner and wondered if he was using. She frowned. “Damn it, Triplett,” she growled. “Are you high?”

“Don’t sweat it,” Nolan told her as she turned her eyes to him. “He’s cool.” Bending over, he nuzzled her neck, moved back from her playful slap and got up. Turning from the booth, he collided with a female and had to struggle to keep from falling.

“I’m sorry!” The Irishman reached out a steadying hand to the woman he’d bumped. “Did I hurt you?” He strained to see the woman through the mist of smoke, but her head was down and all he could make out was a golden sheen of long, wavy hair.

“Of course not.” The voice was as intoxicating as the perfume she wore. The hand, pressing against his chest came away with a deliberate slide over his jacket. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“I’m not usually so clumsy,” he said, wishing she’d look up at him. Then she did.

A pale oval face, perfectly formed with a slight point to the delicate chin, took his breath away. Green eyes gazed back at him from a smudge of spiky lashes beneath thick, soaring and precisely arched brows. Full lips, the bottom fuller and more luscious than the upper, were stained a bright scarlet and glistened in the reflected glow of the table’s candlelight. She ran a delicate pink tongue along their expanse. Her cheekbones were high, chiseled, and her nose was slightly tilted at the end with wide, flaring nostrils. The lobe of one shell-shaped ear, adorned with a swinging hoop of intricately-fashioned gold wire, peeked out from a heavy sweep of tawny hair. Unable to keep his eyes from moving down, he found high, rounded breasts barely contained within the bodice of her dress. Her shapely body had a tiny, pinched hourglass waist, pale slender arms and long, tapered legs, one of which could be seen through a slit in the silk dress that hugged her like a second skin. The overall effect was stunning and Nolan found himself tightening in the constriction of his faded jeans.

“Are you hurt?” she asked with a throaty laugh.

He had to mentally shake himself to understand her question. His gaze had returned to her beautiful eyes and he stood there lost, unable to look away. “No,” he finally answered, his body as tense as a hormonal sixteen-year-old’s. “I’m all right.”

Her gaze crawled over him--from the top of his head to the scuffed toes of his black boots--then slowly lifted to settle on his mouth. Her wide smile gave evidence that she liked what she saw. Her attention shifted to his eyes.

“Felicity,” she said to his unasked question. “Felicity Rogers.” She held out her hand.

Cortesio’s brows shot upward as his partner took the proffered hand. Not that he wouldn’t have himself, he thought with a slight niggle of jealousy, but there was something about the woman holding Conor’s hand that sent shivers of unease through the Italian’s short, squat body. He couldn’t understand it and didn’t try to analyze it at that moment, but the guardian angel who’d always ridden Joseph David Cortesio’s shoulder did a short, agitated little hop on that bony protrusion and gained Joey’s attention. “Hey, Conor?” Cortesio shouted. “You going, man, or what?”

“Conor,” the woman said and his name on her lips was a caress that sent a stab of pure lust through Nolan’s belly. “A Celtic warrior’s name.” Her tongue flicked at the right corner of her mouth. “A very virile name. It means ‘Lord’ in Gaelic and Lord, are you an eyeful!”

A hot rush of blood flooded Conor Nolan’s face and scorched his cheeks. His embarrassment made him duck his head and, at that moment of breaking eye contact with Felicity Rogers, he was able to regain some of the composure he’d lost. “I gotta go,” he said, feeling bereft and cold now that he was no longer held prisoner by her seductive gaze.

“I guess you do,” she answered and slipped her hand from his. Her smile was fleeting, just a slight pout of glistening red lips. She moved away, the cut of her expensive gown out of place among the grunge-dressed patrons squirming and writhing on the dance floor. In a moment, she was hidden from view.

“Earth to the Celtic warrior!” Rhianna called, waving a hand in front of Nolan’s face. The others at the table howled with laughter. “You can come up for air, now!” She grinned as Nolan scowled down at her.

“Up yours, Marek,” Nolan grated through clenched teeth.

“In your dreams,” Rhianna shot back. She knew damned well her dreams tonight would be of Nolan and the fire he’d ignited in her body.

From her place in the arch of the hallway, leading to the restrooms, Myra Willingham watched Conor Nolan leave. She wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to keep warm. She chewed on her lower lip, her teeth worrying a small gash in the thin flesh without her being aware of it. Her nervous gaze twitched about the room.

She surveyed the room for a few moments longer then made up her mind. Turning, she thrust her hand into the pocket of her mini-skirt, took out a quarter, and dropped it into the chrome slot in the telephone.

“I owe him,” she said in a bitter voice as she punched in the number. Myra’s right palm was so slick with moisture as she gripped the receiver, pressing it almost painfully against her ear, that she had to shift hands and run her wet palm down her skirt while she waited for the call to go through. The insistent ringing began at the other end and she swallowed convulsively, already regretting having made the call. “I owe him,” she repeated, clenching her jaw as the recorder answered, and the hollow sound stabbed her ear.

“This is Nolan. Leave a message.” She heard a loud trill, then hazy static.

“Look, Irish,” Myra began, knowing it wasn’t necessary to identify herself. “I just wanted to warn you. You’ve always done right by me and I owe you.” She nodded to herself as though to firm up the words in her own mind. “Don’t let her in, you hear? You know that blonde woman from the bar? Don’t let her in your place, okay? She’s bad trouble, Nolan. Fucking bad trouble!”

She paused, wondered if she should say more, decided she shouldn’t, then hung up the receiver. Glancing around, she hurried out of the hallway, pushed through the crowds, and made her way back to the bar.