It wasn’t. Whether or not Miller thought it was okay,Ididn’t.
But I also didn’t want anyone in my crew getting the idea that I had any interests outside of work. I had to keep my head down and my guard up.
Christ. For a horrible second, I understood why Sandro had kept his relationship with Renny Caruso quiet, even from me. It was hard to trust anyone in my line of work. I could hardly blame Sandro for feeling the same.
I shook off those old regrets and tried to find a compromise. I couldn’t take Miller with me. That would be dumber than dumb. “I’ll ask Fred—uh, a friend—if he can cover for me tonight. He’s doing one run; he can make it two.”
“No,” Miller said again, decisively. “I have the gun, JJ. I’ll use it if I have to.”
I actually believed him this time, but still— “I don’t wanna leave you alone tonight.”
“I know,” he said, reaching for my hand. “I know you think someone’s coming after me. I’ve been wondering about it, too. But they don’t know where I am, if they’re looking for me in my Dad’s house.”
“Trouble—”
“Please,” he said. “If we’re going to work together, you need to be able to trust me to take care of myself. I’ll use the gun if I need to.”
I didn’t like it, but I gave in eventually. It was only after I’d dropped Miller back home that I wondered exactly what he meant by “work together.”
Work together to solve his sister’s murder?
Or…work together in another sense?
* * *
I found out the reason Legs wanted me in East LA pretty fast. I had a shadow, someone from the crew who was following me around, watching me work. I thanked my lucky stars that Ihadn’ttaken Miller along with me, and ignored my shadow as I ran the work as fast as I could. Freddy usually had this patch, and he was a popular guy, judging from all the questions I got about his absence that night. Then I got to the bar in a bad part of town, where I knew Freddy got the most pushback. One look at me—the new guy—and the owner told me to go fuck myself.
We moved into the back kitchenette, where the conversation escalated.
I’ll be the first to admit that I was on a hair trigger that night, that I’d beenlookingfor an excuse. But just after I shoved the guy’s head into a sink full of greasy brown water to let him think about his life choices, I caught sight of my reflection in the grimy mirror at the side of the room.
I was better than this. I was better than a shitty brawl in a back room with a guy who was quibbling over a few thousand dollars.
I pulled the guy out of the sink and threw him up against the wall. “Pay me. The fucking. Money.”
He paid.
As I was leaving, I saw my shadow chuckling as he snapped a photo on his phone of the proprietor, who was dripping and slimy after his dunking. There was a time when I might have found it amusing, too.
That night, all I felt was disgusted at myself. At the whole damn Family.
When I arrived at the sandwich shop to give Legs Liggari the so-called protection money I’d collected that night, he’d received the photograph from my shadow, holding it up like a trophy as I came in. If there had been fewer people there, I might have taken out my frustrations on Legs. Reminded him just who I was.
But that was the thing.
I didn’tknowwho I was anymore.
I put up with the bullshit and I got out as fast as I could. As I left the back room, Freddy was coming in with his cut from West Hollywood.
“Glad I caught you,” he said in a low voice as we paused to greet each other. “Those burglaries you asked about? I hear the Bernardis are moving into that line of business.”
“Okay,” I said. “And what about this guy they pulled in for the Beaumont murder?”
“There’s something going on there,” Freddy said, narrowing his eyes. “The guy they nailed for it is a middleman drug runner who’s been in and out of the Big House, but never for violent crime. He’s going down for it, whether or not it was him. Cops got a warrant to search his place on pretty thin evidence, but they just so happened to find a shotgun under his bed that matched up with the weapon they were looking for. A few witnesses put him out in the Hills on the day of the shooting; maybe they did see him, or maybe they got paid to see him.” He shrugged.
“And the DNA?”
“Autopsydidcome in fast,” he conceded, “but you know they bump celebs up the line. C.O.D. was a shotgun blast to the face, as reported, and both DNA and fingerprints confirmed identity.”
