Welcome To Sugarland

Chapter 10

While returning the blue suede monstrosity, Lyon thought to hit up Marc for any information he had on Charles the night he died.

"Charles, sure. Can't say anything sticks out, in here pretty regular after all. But funny thing, that night, the night he offed himself I guess, he left with one Miss Rita Navarro. Only Miss Navarro didn't come in with Mr. Belmont. She came in with one Roger Ashley."

It was just the sort of hot gossip Marc could be depended upon to share with anyone who would listen. But for his old pal Nico, it cost an extra five francs.

Lyon left La Lune. A couple of those agents who'd burst in to grab a free Natasha Green show were outside doing nothing in particular, smoking. Lyon walked on by and they didn't cause a fuss.

He went across the street to that darkened building that used to be Delights. He read the sign on the shutters. Coming Soon. Not very likely now.

"Looking for something?" Lyon jumped at the voice. He hoped it wasn't noticed in the dark. When he turned, another agent from the raid, the one who'd been waiving the warrant around, was leaning against a palm tree, little red glow from a cigarette in hand. Lyon wondered if they expensed their cigarettes.

"You always loiter in the dark like that?"

"Hazard of the occupation." Came the reply.

"Oh is it?"

The agent tossed his cigarette to the ground–where it landed next to quite a large number of similarly discarded cigarettes–and stepped up to Lyon. "Alright wise guy, you want to tangle with the Chancellerie tonight?"

Lyon suppressed a laugh and stepped away, "It's been a long day. I'm heading home, another time, maybe." He started walking at a not too brisk pace in the opposite direction toward the lights of the Grand Lecinian and, hopefully, witnesses of stature. The agent stood on the sidewalk, experiencing a mental tug of war deciding whether or not to try and bust this guy tonight.

Crossing the street, Lyon was pretty sure he was in the clear. There was never a good night for Lyon to piss off a Chancellerie agent, the people he worked for would call that unwarranted risk and pitch a fit.

Footsteps on pavement behind him. Shit. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the two suits outside La Lune start to cross the street in front of him. Shit. He turned left at the sidewalk. Quickened his pace. The men trailing him broke into runs. Lyon made for the big concrete sign on the front lawn of the Grand Lecinian. The one that said, Grand Lecinian, lit by a floodlight, you know the one.

He felt an arm grab him, spin him around. Twice in one day. This never happened in his night job, oddly enough. The first agent pushed him against the sign. "Got somewhere to be buddy?" He asked Lyon.

"Whoa, who do you think you are?" Lyon asked, knowing full well.

"Ministry Agent, wise guy," the agent shoved a badge in his face while the other two agents caught up to them. Badge read Griffith. Lyon put his hands up while Agent Griffith patted him down, rustled through his pockets. Eventually he grabbed his wallet.

"Nicholas Cortez Lyon," Griffith spoke, derision in his voice, "Where are you supposed to be from?"

"Galveston, where do you think?" Lyon replied. He wasn't exactly trying to be polite. He had to end this quickly.

"And what were you doing in La Lune?"

"Getting a drink. Is that a crime?"

"Someone like you, I don't buy it." He kept flipping through Lyon's wallet, took out one of his business cards. "Private Eye... Are you working for Julian?"

"Who?" Lyon replied.

"Who are you working for?"

"I work for myself. My clients are confidential."

Griffith smirked and slapped Lyon across the face. It stung. "Tell me what you were doing in there before I haul you down to the headquarters."

"You're going to disappear me? Where did you train, Munich?"

Lyon was prepared for it but it still knocked his breath out when Griffith punched him in the gut. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He yelled into Lyon's ear as he crumpled, held up only by the two agents at his side. The Chancellerie had developed a certain reputation that certain members were sensitive about. Griffith punched him again. Lyon hadn' expected that one. "Start talking," he practically shouted.

One of the other agents tapped Griffith on the shoulder, drawing his attention to the hotel patrons on the path a couple dozen feet away who'd got caught up in the extremely well lit spectacle. Griffith backed off, straightened his appearance, tucked his hair back under his fedora, directed the other two to get Lyon to his feet. Lyon needed the assistance but didn't want it.

"Maybe we should take this somewhere a little more private." Griffith said.

"You can't take me anywhere, I was just crossing the street." Lyon said, a little louder than he needed to for Griffith to hear. Griffith looked angry, the other two looked uncomfortable.

Griffith relented. He shoved Lyon's wallet back into Lyon's jacket. "I know your name." He said. Lyon accepted the apology.

Griffith and the two agents walked away. Not back in the direction they came. Lyon caught his breath by the sign. The lookie-loos, who may have saved Lyon from a night in an interrogation room, show over, broke up.

That little stunt nearly had Lyon arrested which would have been very, very bad. An agent knowing his name and face, not ideal. But if Lyon was lucky, Griffith was just taking out his frustrations on an innocent victim who got in his way. He'd forget all about Lyon and Lyon would only have to be extra careful looking over his shoulder for a month or so. Lyon berated himself for another bad decision in a relentless torrent of bad decisions that day. First rule of clandestine work: avoid the authorities.