Chapter Nine
Eagle
Serafina’s name has been rolling around in my head all night. I didn’t get any sleep. The cold shower didn’t work and throwing myself into fixing the transmission on this goddamned classic truck isn’t either. The Iron Norsemen own three blocks of property in Holly Beach. After Katrina, we purchased several lots in our neighborhood and expanded our two businesses. Iron Specialty Bikes and Iron Mechanical are the life’s blood of my charter.
I drop a wrench on the mat on the floor and gaze up at Sunny. “I can’t wrap my mind around this shit. Take over for me.”
He grunts and wipes his hands on his pants, waiting for me to move out of the way. “What happened last night? Why’d the boys have to go looking for you?”
“I ran into alittleproblem.”
“How little?” Sunny stares at me, expecting details.
“Maybe five-three and wears a G-string.”
He laughs. “That’s more than a little problem.”
I strip off my blue overalls and hang them on the peg on the wall behind me. “Finest pussy I’ve seen in a long time.”
What else can I say?
Serafina Scala isn’t the kind of girl you just forget about. She’s worth a second try. Maybe a third. For now, that’s all the information Sunny is going to get from me. “How’s Annie?” I ask about his old lady.
“That’s fucked up,” he says, sticking his head under the hood of the ’67 Chevy. “Pussy and Annie shouldn’t be mentioned in the same sentence.”
“No? Your four kids say you’ve been hitting it regularly.”
“Eagle?” a prospect says from across the shop. “You have a phone call.”
“See you at the meeting tonight, Sunny.” I head to my office and close the door.
Line one is blinking on the multi-line phone. I pick up the receiver and press the appropriate button. “This is Eagle.”
“Motherfucker . . .” a familiar voice says.
Recognizing Bear’s tone immediately, my defenses turn on. “What the hell are you calling me for?”
Bear is the only relative left of Angelique’s in Holly Beach. He’s the vice president of our biggest rival, the Dead Dogs. Every so often he calls to gloat. To remind me of the mistake I made by not slicing his throat the way I did his brother’s the night he tried to kill me. Maybe its good timing, I need a sharp reminder of why I distance myself from women.
“Angelique’s five-year anniversary is next week.”
I lean back in my swivel chair and kick my feet up on the desk, disgusted by his audacity. Every year it’s the same goddamned thing. I attend Angel’s memorial, usually keeping to the shadows where no one can see me. “You’re going to celebrate her death—again?”
“It’s a club tradition.”
“A fucking sick one.”
“Thought you’d want to attend the service.”
I laugh bitterly. “Have I ever forgotten to show up before?”
“No.”
“Then why would I now?”
He sighs. “Five years . . .”
I hear the sorrow in his voice and for a split second I understand where he’s coming from. It’s not sympathy . . . but it’s something. Then reality slams into my chest and I remember his part in making Angel suffer. I remember why I hate him.
