“Information?” he sputtered.
“Yes. You’re going to tell me what I want to know, or you will die right here in this bar. See the gloves I’m wearing? Nobody will know. Not a shred of DNA.”
He glanced down at my hands, covered in some cheap leather things I’d found in another shop.
“Okay,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
“A man was in here earlier. Showed you a symbol. Remember?”
He paused and then nodded.
“Speak. Don’t nod. I might cut you open if you move too fast,” I whispered.
He whimpered like a little bitch. I couldn’t believe he was being such a pussy. All men die sooner or later.
“I remember,” he said.
“Who are they?”
“I can’t say.”
He was on the verge of crying.
“You don’t seem to understand what’s happening here, Dan.” I spoke slowly and menacingly, hoping he understood. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I’m going to murder you right now. Do you think the kind of person looking for men like them wouldn’t?”
“If I tell you, they’ll kill me.”
“That’s not my problem. But at least in that case, you can get a running head start.”
He whimpered again as I pressed the knife harder against his skin, nicking him ever so slightly.
“Okay, okay. Please don’t kill me,” he groaned. “I’ll tell you.”
“Start talking.”
“They’re like a gang, old blood, been around this area for a long, long time. They have a hand in everything that happens around here, from business to politics and everything in between.”
“The mob?”
“Worse. More like a cult. They practice some freaky Voodoo shit. They’re going to know I talked.” He began to cry.
I couldn’t believe how afraid he was of them, almost more afraid of them than he was of my knife against his throat. That was some serious mojo, and it proved that these people were not to be fucked with.
“What are they called?” I asked.
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Say it or die.”
He sighed. “They’re called the Broken Hearts.”
I let that sound linger. “Where do they meet?”
“Nobody knows that. I swear I don’t know.”
“Give me a name now.”
“I can’t. I don’t know any.”
“They’re a local institution, right? You know everything about this area, right? You know a name.”
“Please. I’ve told you too much.”
“One name and you don’t have to die tonight.”
“This is all I know. I can’t run away.”
“I’m losing patience, Dan.”
I could feel him trembling as he began to internally war with himself. He was clearly thinking that if he gave up a name, he really would have to leave town, and for good. He couldn’t decide if that was worse than dying.
I decided to help him along. I kicked the back of his knee, sending him to the ground. I grabbed his hair, pulling his chin back, exposing his throat. I kept the knife right against his jugular, ready to bleed him like an animal.
“Eli Reddington,” he said quickly.
“Thank you, Dan.”
I released his hair and he tumbled forward. Before he could even turn around, I was back out the door, disappearing into the shadows.
As I moved away, jogging at a good clip to give myself some space to maneuver in case Dan decided to call the cops, I had a bad taste in my mouth. It was unpleasant to bully a perfectly decent person, or at least a normal person. I didn’t actually want to hurt Dan, and likely wouldn’t have, but I needed him to think I was going to.
But now I had my name. Eli Reddington, member of the Broken Hearts. Apparently they were some scary, small-town cult of powerful community leaders. Scary enough for Dan the barman to fear them more than his impending and immediate demise.
As I climbed back into my car, parked well away from the bar, I realized I had more questions than answers. For example, what was a local outfit like them doing running a pirate operation? It seemed highly unlikely that they would rob a local tourist company. Unless they were specifically targeting Jonathan’s boats, but even that seemed far-fetched. They couldn’t have known that the boat was empty of tourists, and there was no way they’d attack a local boat full of tourists and risk the bad press. They didn’t want to lose the tourist dollars.
It just made no sense. Why would Dan be so afraid of them if they were so clearly amateurs? The Broken Hearts probably had years of mythology behind them, to the point where the local idiots mistook community power and influence for real power and ability.