My personal cell buzzes, and I can’t resist checking to see if there’s something from Laurelyn. She started sending random short messages about a week ago, usually once a day. I already got today’s, but she’s got me trained like Pavlov’s dog, salivating over any contact from her.
It’s not her, so I play the message from two days ago.
“Spin class started with a song called ‘Disco Inferno.’ Know what was wrong with the 1970s? A lot, it turns out.” Smirking, I play the next day’s message. “The new spin instructor is part screech owl. It’s like… after ‘Disco Inferno,’ haven’t we been through enough?” Then I open my text messages.
Laurel:Quit spin class
Laurel:P.S. our cookie dough’s half baked.
I tap the picture of the sonogram and zoom in.
Trick:Baby looks like a thumb
Laurel:Makes sense. It’s a little hitchhiker.
I try without success to get my smile to quit. Tossing my phone in a drawer that locks, I glance around the dark room.
‘Vil and C are likely already in the field with a couple of other C Crue guys. Rachel’s safe in the C Crue compound, probably reading depressing poetry to baby Irina. Time for Uncle Trick to swap clothes with Derrick Miller, the only C Crue guy who can pass for me. Then Miller will hang out in a corner of the darkened VIP room. Through the window, lights will catch him now and then. And my personal cell will get all its incoming texts and calls while in the drawer, pinging off the nearby tower.
I step out into the hall where Miller’s waiting. “It’s time.”
“Hornsby says we should check the scanner. Cops are working a crime scene. There was a big fire at the Palermo house. Cops found a couple bodies.”
What the hell? Did C target Enzo at home? That would mean C had people feed me misinformation so I’d show up at an abandoned field. If so, it was a smart play to keep me out of the mix. He knows me well enough to know I wouldn’t be able to stay away. But this change up grates on me. It’s the first big C Crue operation I haven’t helped plan and execute.
I may be a legend, but I guess I’m going the way of plenty of other legends. I’m becoming obsolete.
“All right,” I say. “That’s a change of plans for us then. Can you shut the place down for me, Mill?”
“Of course.”
I send a message from my burner to kill the diversion I had planned to distract the feds tonight. No need to waste it.
Shoving my personal cell in my pocket, I walk out and lock the office door.
Murphy appears in the hall. Hands empty. Miller’s eyes are locked on him, but I don’t signal so he lets Murphy approach. Jack Murphy’s implied he’s got some evidence from his brother’s shooting. He claims he’s not looking to burn me with the cops or anyone else, but of course the threat’s implied. What he wants is to broker a deal. Once upon a time, everyone was happy to stand back and let Frank kill us. Now they want to talk.
“Quite a party,” Murphy says, extending a hand.
I shake it.
“Fiona,” Murphy calls.
Did he really bring his seventeen-year-old niece to Coynston for a C Crue rave? Sure enough she and a friend step out. Fiona’s got carrot-colored hair and eyes that bulge past their sockets like they’re ready to run away from her face. She holds out a big green gift bag.
Taking it with my left hand, I give her a smile I don’t feel. Inside there’s a bottle of Top Shelf Jameson’s whiskey, along with a couple of blue Tiffany boxes.
“From Joe Sullivan. Last Christmas, Joe gave all the girls something, but you and yours missed the party, so we thought since we were coming here, we’d bring it along.”
“I have to head out. Enjoy the rest of the party.”
“Thought we’d have a drink of the Jameson’s. All our families go way back. We should get together more.”
“Our families do go way back.” My gaze on Jack Murphy is flat, but I warm it up for Fiona. “Nice to see you, Fiona. Have fun tonight, but not too much.”
She beams up at me, and I wink at her as I move past.
On my nine, I catch Miller moving to take position on my six. I like when he shows me he’s mastered what we taught him.
