Locke suddenly remembered something.
He parked the car.
"By the way," Locke said, stepping out and looking at Gwen as she exited the passenger side. "Remember Kim's boyfriend from the dance not long ago? The one from Trinity... Jack? Or was it Jason?"
Gwen blinked. "Jason?"
Locke snapped his fingers. "Right, him. How come Kim hasn't mentioned him lately?"
Gwen shook her head. "They broke up. Apparently, the guy had another girlfriend back at Trinity. He got caught."
Locke: "..."
Clearly, this was the handiwork of the "daughter-con" Bryan Mills. It was a safe bet that the moment Bryan saw Jason picking up his daughter, he used his connections to dig into the boy's life until he found the dirt.
Poor Jason. You're lucky you were just two-timing; if you'd had a criminal record, a breakup would have been the least of your worries—you'd probably be turning yourself in at the NYPD right now.
Lesson learned: To cherish life, stay away from Kim.
...
"Good evening."
The waiter at the entrance of Chester's already recognized the owner's friend and his car. He greeted Locke with a smile and led them toward their table. "The usual spot, Mr. Broughton?"
"Yes."
"This way, please."
As the temperature plummeted—especially with today's snowfall—the restaurant was more crowded than usual. By the time Locke and Gwen reached the second floor, several tables were already occupied.
After sitting down, Locke looked at the waiter. "Where's Clint?"
"The boss is in the kitchen," the waiter replied.
Locke nodded. He'd wait until things slowed down a bit before heading back to find Clint. He had ordered something online that was due to arrive tomorrow or the day after. Originally, it would have been delivered straight to him, but since the competition had been moved up, he needed Klin to sign for it.
It wasn't contraband, though. Locke did buy illegal goods, but he never used his real name or a traceable address on the dark web. Besides, about 80% of the information on the dark web these days consisted of bait set by the FBI or DHS, just waiting for some idiot to bite.
Especially since tomorrow was the start of the last month of the year. It was year-end; even federal agents needed to boost their performance stats to secure a fat holiday bonus.
"Mmm!" Gwen tasted the steak on her plate and looked at Locke. "Even though we've been here so many times, every visit feels different."
Locke smiled. "Klin's beef doesn't just come from one place or one breed." Different origins, different flavors. Different breeds, different textures. Perhaps that was why this place consistently ranked at the top of New York's "must-visit" lists for couples.
A while later, Locke saw the waiter wave to him from a distance. He nodded and turned to Gwen. "I'm going to see Clint for a moment."
Gwen nodded. "Give me the keys; I'll go start the car and warm it up."
Locke handed her the keys and followed the waiter into Clint's office, which was tucked away behind the kitchen. The office was simple: a twin bed, a desk, a computer, and a vintage poster of a cowboy riding across the plains.
"Tsk, tsk." Locke walked in and looked at Clint Chester, who looked like a hairy, bearded version of the "Kung Fu Hustle" Beast. Then he looked at the handsome cowboy in the poster and shook his head. "No matter how much you stare, you aren't going back to your 'Golden Age'—the era when a man could pick up a girl just by being a cowboy."
Clint pulled a cigar from his drawer and tossed it to Locke. "I'm way more handsome now than when I was young. I have money now."
Locke toyed with the authentic Cuban cigar and nodded in agreement. "I made a fair bit last month too."
"A fair bit?" Clint's lip twitched. "What you made is enough for most people to squander for half a year."
Locke just smiled.
Clint shook his head and lowered his voice. "It's good that you're laying low for a while. This is New York, not Texas. I'm still counting on you to take care of my funeral one day."
Locke's lips curled up. "Had another fight with your daughter?"
Clint scowled. Clearly, that was exactly it.
Locke didn't push the subject and got down to business. "I bought some things online, but I'm heading to Maine tomorrow for about ten days. I changed the shipping address to your place. Remember to sign for them."
Clint looked at him suspiciously. "They better not be illegal. I'm telling you, I'm finally retired; don't tempt me with that stuff."
Locke laughed. "Just nineteen bottles of twenty-year-old Lightning Bourbon. You know I'm only sixteen."
Clint's brow furrowed. "Oh, now you remember you're only sixteen?" 'When you're out killing people, you certainly don't act sixteen.'
Locke shrugged. "The last batch of Lightning Bourbon I bought when I moved to New York was confiscated by the NYPD. I have no choice but to restock. Just keep them safe for me."
Clint paused. "Your girlfriend's father?"
Locke nodded.
Clint opened his mouth to speak, then just shook his head. "Whatever. You're a sharp kid. Just be careful; don't let that cop catch you with any leverage."
Locke tilted his head. "That's why I gave the credit to George. Him sitting in an office is good for him, and good for me."
Unfortunately, George didn't seem like the type who could stay behind a desk. Every time Locke ate at Gwen's house, George would mention his "Peerless Assassin" alias. Locke was genuinely afraid that one day he'd have a lapse in concentration, hear the name, and instinctively draw on George. That would be a disaster.
Locke checked his watch and stood up. "Anyway, that's all. Nineteen bottles total. Four of them are for you. Keep the other fifteen for me; I'll sneak them home eventually."
Locke never expected that being monitored by his father-in-law regarding alcohol would be such a problem. Within a five-kilometer radius of Star Tower, not a single bootlegger dared sell booze to minors anymore—especially not Lightning Bourbon. They treated it like a manhunt.
Locke was annoyed; he'd be seventeen after this year, only four years away from the legal age. Why bother? Was George afraid he'd drink and hit Gwen? Impossible. He was so gentle he wouldn't even hurt a rabbit.
...
"I'm off."
"Mhm." Clint stood up, but as Locke opened the door, he remembered something. "Wait."
Locke turned around.
Clint pulled two exquisitely designed tickets from his drawer. "A customer gave these to me. I know you won't come see me on Christmas, so just take these and go have fun with your girlfriend."
Locke took the tickets. "What are these?"
He looked down.
The Poseidon.
Maiden Voyage.
Luxury 75-degree Sea View Suite.
December 23rd: Pacific Rim Maiden Voyage!
'Good grief. Pacific Rim?'
Locke's eyebrow twitched as he tried to hand the tickets back. "No way. I'm not crazy. I'm strong on land; why would I go out to sea for no reason?"
His skills were all land-based. At sea, his effectiveness would be cut in half, and there'd be nowhere to run.
Clint took the tickets back with a sigh. "Fine. I heard these two are worth 500,000 dollars. I'll just give them to someone el—"
Locke blinked. "Wait, how much?"
"Over five hundred thousand."
"Uh..." Locke stood there, thought for a moment, then reached out and snatched the tickets back with a determined expression. "Chester, you are my mentor. Christmas is a vital holiday; you should be with your family, not floating on the ocean with a bunch of strangers. If someone annoys you out there, you'd have nowhere to run. I'll go. After all, I'm a loner."
You don't go poor by eating or dressing, but you can go poor by failing to plan.
Five hundred thousand dollars? Even though Locke was financially free, half a million was no small sum. Look at George; he'd have to work his tail off for three years just to earn that much. Unless he took bribes, but George wasn't that type—if he were, he wouldn't have a family of six squeezed into an apartment half the size of Locke's place.
Clint laughed, blowing at his beard. "Just take them. Take your girlfriend and have some fun. Don't go hiding in your house all through Christmas."
Locke waved him off. "I'm going. Don't steal my bourbon."
With that, Locke turned and left. Thank him? No need. The old man was counting on Locke for his retirement; if Locke said thank you, the old guy would probably think he was about to get shot.
He got into the car and saw Gwen on the phone with Helen. He smiled, buckled his seatbelt, tossed the two tickets aside, and drove off.
As they crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, Gwen hung up. "My mom wants me to bring back some smoked sausage. Let's stop by 13th Street first."
"Sure."
Gwen put the phone away and noticed the tickets. She picked them up. "What are these?"
Locke: "..."