Cohen smiled again as he set his bottle on the bartop. “This is just so bizarre. I have another uncle—Omer. He lives out west in Tarzana, and we used to stay at his house for family vacations, like when we’d go to Disney or to a beach out there.” He extended his hand with only his thumb and first two fingers sticking up. “He was missing two fingers from his right hand. I never had the guts to ask him about it when I was a kid, and my parents refused to talk about it. Then when I was a teenager, I finally got up the courage. I’m like, ‘Hey, Uncle Omer, what’s up with your hand?’ You know what he said?”

Nir just shook his head, wondering where all this was going.

“He told me he was special forces. You know, Sayeret. And that he’d lost the fingers during the First Lebanon War in ’82. I was in awe. Suddenly, my uncle was like legend to me. Once that ice was broken, he started telling me all sorts of stories about special forces operations and intelligence stuff. Some he was involved in but most he wasn’t. Anyway—and here’s where it gets to the weird part—he once told me if some guy with an Israeli accent ever sits next to me in a bar and buys me a beer… You know what he said?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“He said, ‘That guy is Mossad.’ Now, here you are, and here’s my free beer.” Cohen lifted his bottle again and took a long pull. “So what do you think of that, Mr. Double O Seven? Or should I say efes, efes, shiv’a?”

For being knee-deep into just his second bottle of beer, the security guard seemed on the verge of drunk. Nir wondered if he would find empties if he looked in the cab of the man’s truck.

Nir’s phone vibrated. Everything ok

He texted back. He made me but think I can still work it

“You calling in reinforcements?” asked Cohen.

Nir slid his phone back into his pocket. “No. Just telling my sniper he can lower his weapon.”

Chapter 39

CHAPTER 39

18:15 / 6:15 P.M. CST

The Italian Jew ducked and looked around the bar.

“Calm down. It’s a joke. So did Uncle Omer tell you anything else?”

“He said if it happened, it would be the best day of my life or the worst. Or both.”

Nir tilted his gaze back toward the TV. “Sounds like Uncle Omer was pretty smart.”

“He was smart, all right. Not lucky,” he said, putting up three fingers. “But smart. So is this my best or my worst?”

“That depends one hundred percent on you, achi.” Turning toward the man, he said, “Here’s what I have to offer you. First, you are currently a little over $63,000 in arrears in child support.”