Page 74 of Property of Whiskey

Then he turns and heads upstairs.

His boots cross the kitchen overhead.

A door opens.

A few seconds later, his voice filters faintly through the basement ceiling.

“Mama?”

I move toward the stairs until the chain draws tight.

“Need you to stay with Wren.”

Wren?

There’s a pause.

“No, Mama. I ain’t hurt.”

Another pause.

“It’s club business.”

My attention sharpens.

Of course it fucking is. Everything with these men is club business even when somebody winds up bleeding.

“No. Don’t come over here.”

His voice gets firmer.

“Don’t you dare come over.”

I strain to hear him through the floorboards.

“Wren’ll be in school tomorrow. I’ll pack you a bag. You can pick it up off the porch.”

Wren again.

Who the hell is Wren?

“No, I ain’t shot.”

Pause.

“Nobody stabbed me either.”

Despite the gag, a sound escapes me.

Half laugh.

Half disbelief.

His mother apparently asks enough questions to qualify for federal interrogation work.

“I said I’m fine.”

Another pause.