“Anyway…”
“Enough.” Cal says. “I just need to know where everyone is, make sure all money’s been collected, the right kneecaps broken, and all protections are in place.”
Things fall apart otherwise.
I squirm a little in my seat. Because that’s a truth sitting a little too close to home.
“Just got some loose ends to take care of,” I say to the quiet question from Cal about where I am and what I’m doing.
“Like fucking what?” Seamus asks.
I glare up at Marlowe’s building. I could have driven around the block or found another spot. The SUV is like every other one in this neighborhood, big, clean, shiny, and black. It’s not quite eleven, but I’m not opposed to sitting here allnight. I don’t need to be anywhere until tomorrow—in Staten Island, to see a man about a payment he owes.
“Like,” I say, matching his tone, “following through on something.”
The phone goes from speaker to not as Cal’s voice rumbles into my ear. “Do not go chasing those fucking drugs, Dec.”
“It’s my problem.”
“Leave that mess alone.” It’s his “order Declan around” tone. One I’ve known since probably before I was born.
“Cal, I’m not a child.”
“Then don’t act like one,” he mutters. “And get the hell home.”
I’m guessing now’s not the time to ask what he knows about the Cinco Cartel. Or someone named Mario. Or the Marcello truck. Or a dead cop. Or the shootout in Queens. So I do the mature thing.
“What… that?” I say, pretending my call’s dropping out. “... Cal? I… can’t… hello?”
“For fuck’s sake. I’ll make you babysit if you don’t grow up…”
I hang up, then turn off my phone.
I glance at the building again, waiting in the shadows. Marlowe hasn’t shown up yet, but something tells me she might. While I sit, I doom scroll for news on the shoot-out. But all I can find is something about a car crash. And then I see another post, one on some neighborhood watch about gunshots. But the person only heard the shots in the distance, along with ambulances.
I frown at that. Surely someone saw something by the truckyard.
But maybe not.
People tend not to want to get involved in thatpart of New York.
I ditch the phone again and look up with a sigh. There she is, now wearing a dark jacket. Marlowe hurries down the street before hopping into a cab. I start the SUV’s engine and follow the cab.
Marlowe gets out at the Lowline Club.
I follow.
Inside, the club’s dark and loud, so loud my feet vibrate with every step deeper into the place. Electronica beats grinds with hard rock, making the atmosphere oppressive.
I scan the place. Marlowe’s fiery hair makes her easy enough to spot. I let my gaze wander down to the emerald green dress that hugs her in the right places. It shows enough of what I want to taste, but not enough to be distasteful.
Someone bumps into me and I move a little more to the side. Marlowe leans in close to a dark-haired guy covered in tats.
She looks upset. Scared.
Although I can’t make out what they’re saying, I know enough people reading to see it’s not good news. Whatever it is he’s talking about, Marlowe’s upset by it.
The guy reaches out to comfort her, and she pulls away.
