The Devil's Due by Monique Martin Page A

faith.” Simon said as he tossed aside his napkin.
    “You do?”
    “In you.”
    ~~~
    Jack didn't usually drink before noon, but people didn't exactly go to Jilly's for the ambiance. The place stunk of stale beer and even staler people. Even compared to other speakeasies, Jilly's was a pit. It used to be one of Benny Roth's best joints, a place to get a cold beer and warm girl. Now, all that was left were the dregs — faded pictures over the bar, peeling wallpaper stained with too much cigarette smoke and a clientele one step up from the drink tank.
    Jack hunched over his drink and recreated in his mind's eye what and who was around him. It was an old habit and a damn good one for a spy to have - he'd memorized the room as soon as he walked in. He stared down into his drink and replayed what he remembered.
    A man gently snored face down at a table behind him. His arm was wrapped around his beer glass like a child holding his teddy bear, and a racing tip sheet stuck out of his front right jacket pocket. Another sat at the far end of the bar, unshaven, unwashed and staring blankly at the dingy mirror beneath a faded picture of Lillian Gish. Flat soulless eyes stared back in his reflection. Jack had seen that look often enough. Too often. First in the Depression and then in the war. It was a man who'd been carved out. Life had scraped away any last bit of hope and all that was left was a shell.
    Jack sipped his whisky and let the burn of it as it trickled down his throat remind him he wasn't one of them. He was playing a part. Just a part. No one paid attention to a drunk, especially one who was already liquored up before lunch. Jack mumbled to himself and scratched his stubbled cheek.
    He'd heard that Benny Roth made the rounds each day at about noon. Check on the till, throw his muscle around, make sure people knew his face. Benny liked to be in the spotlight. But in this hole it was pretty dim.
    Right on cue, the bright California sunshine raced into the room through the open door and ran away as it shut. It took Jack's eyes a minute to adjust from the flash of light. Two men had entered. One with muscles for brains and the other was Benny Roth. He swore under his breath as he looked around the bar.
    “Waste of damn time,” Roth said to no one in particular. He yanked a chair back from a table and brushed away the dust and crumbs with his hat before sitting down.
    The bartender, a flat-nosed man who reeked of cheap cigars and camphor oil, nodded and ducked into a back room. Roth's bodyguard took up sentry position at the door. Jack could feel his eyes boring into him. The last thing he needed was trouble. His stomach rumbled. The eggs he'd had for breakfast must had been as old as the waitress who'd served them. The bodyguard kept staring and Jack met his gaze with a confused squint, and then offered the idiot a sloppy smile and a loud burp. It seemed to do the trick and the bodyguard turned his attention elsewhere.
    The bartender came back into the room and handed Roth a sheet of paper. Jack could smell the fresh glass of whisky on the man's breath across the room. The man rubbed the back of his sweaty neck and waited nervously. Whatever he'd handed Roth, it wasn't good news.
    “Pathetic,” Roth said when he'd finished reading. “I thought we'd at least get a few more months out of it.”
    “Yeah, well,” the bartender said, “beer's always been our best seller and—”
    Roth slowly turned in his chair and looked up at the man whose voice trailed off helplessly.
    “You think I'm stupid?” Roth said.
    “No!”
    “You think I don't know what tomorrow means?” The man started to protest, to try to dig himself out of the hole he'd dug, but Roth didn't give him the chance. “Get out of my sight.”
    The man hurried behind the bar and busied himself with polishing a stack of dirty glasses. Roth took out a silver cigarette lighter and set fire to the piece of paper. He held it in the air in front of him as the