Scar wagged his head slowly. “You’re so fucking dumb, you don’t have a clue.”

“You her baby daddy?”

“Ruben didn’t have no baby.”

“Yes. She did.”

“News to me.”

“You help her kill it?”

“You’re fucking nuts.”

The more I watched, the more repulsive I found the little weasel.

“Where is she?”

“I haven’t seen the bitch in three years.”

“That so?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“She moved on.”

“With who?”

“Tom fucking Cruise. How should I know?”

“That make you angry? Ruben taking off like that?”

“It’s a free country.”

“Did Ruben mule for you, Scar? That it? She leave you with a gap in your distribution system?”

“The dumb cunt didn’t have the brains to pick her own nose.”

“Or was it the lost revenue? One less whore paying for the right to do back-alley blow jobs?”

“The kid was a whale. Not worth piss.”

“Did you cap her? Use the hit to send a message?”

“You really are. You’re fucking crazy.”

Sensing fault lines in the tough-guy bravado, Ollie offered silence.

“Look, I hope nothing’s happened to the kid. Honest. I wish I could help.”

Ollie leaned back and folded his arms. “Tell me what you know about her.”

Scar looked as though the request confused him.

“Is Ruben Francophone? Anglophone? Aboriginal?”

“She spoke English.”

“Where’s she from?”

When Scar wagged his head, I could see moisture glistening on his upper lip.

“Who’d she hang with?”

“I heard she lived with a chick named Foxy.”

“If Ruben left Edmonton, where would she go?”

Scar raised his hands and eyes to the ceiling.

“How would she travel?”

“Jesus, man. I’m telling you. I don’t know. I never get involved in the girls’ personal lives.”

That did it. My anger boiled over. “This runt-ass bastard hooks kids on drugs, makes them whore to feed their addictions, bullies them, exploits them financially, but he’s not involved in their personal lives?”

Ryan clasped the upturned palm I’d thrust toward the screen. For a moment our eyes locked. He looked away first. I disengaged and dropped my arm to my side.

It went on like that, Ollie asking questions, Scar insisting he knew nothing, me fighting the urge to reach through the monitor and throttle the little turd.

At seven, Ollie gave Scar the old saw about not leaving town. Abruptly, he rose and left the room.

Scar flung curses at Ollie’s retreating back. Before the monitor went dark, he shouted one last zinger at the door.

“You’re so fucking clueless, you might as well be working right between your cheeks.”

* * *

We spoke little during the drive to the airport, the check-in process, and the brief wait at the gate. By some fluke, our flight boarded on time. Thanks to a malicious god, I drew the seat next to Ollie.

We were buckling our belts and powering down our mobiles when the pilot’s voice came over the speakers. I knew right away that he did not have good news.

Mechanical problem. Thirty-minute delay.