Used by Marlee Wray

Chapter 11

Trick

Two weeks later, I’m up top in a VIP room at one of our raves. The slamming beats in the packed warehouse shake the walls. Tronex onstage is lit. He’s the third act C Crue’s backed, and he’s gone profitable even faster than the others.

The girls swarm around me, even trying to follow me when I step into the hall.

“Mill,” I say, inclining my head so he intercepts the girls.

Derrick Miller moves into their path and turns them back to the VIP room. I let myself into the small makeshift office.

A tap on the door, and Miller leans in. “Boss, there’s a guy and a couple girls who want to come up. Says he knows you. Name’s Jack Murphy.”

“Pushy motherfucker,” I murmur. “Prop the door to the VIP room open, so you can have eyes on everything. Then let them up.” I look at my watch. My night’s full, and it wasn’t supposed to involve another impromptu visit from Murphy. “Mill?”

“Yeah, Trick?”

“Send the girl in the purple skirt and her friends downstairs. Horn can’t keep his eyes off her. Remind him he’s working. While you’re watching the VIP room, Hornsby is watching the floor.”

“Five by five.” After a beat he walks away to follow orders.

At a distance, Miller could pass for me, and I’m going to use that tonight. C and Anvil haven’t mentioned that tonight there’s a meeting with Enzo because they know me and that I will want to at least be there in case something goes sideways and they need the best gun we have. Mine.

I shut the office door and look down on the floor where a couple hundred kids are dancing. Sipping Coke from a red Solo cup, I watch Tronex hop up and down in his aqua track suit, yelling into the microphone. I mouth the words to my favorite of his tracks. When it’s over, I look at my watch. In thirty minutes we’ll clear the VIP room, and I’ll swap clothes with Miller.

If Enzo Palermo takes the bait, he’ll come to meet Rachel in a field outside town. He wants her to return a missing flash drive and to sign away her assets. She wants her music journals back from the Palermo mansion where she used to live.

He can’t be seen giving her anything or his bitter family will lose their minds, so the meet is supposed to be private. Plan is supposed to be that they’ll broker a peace that will allow everyone to co-exist. But in private, our mole inside the Palermo house says Enzo holds Rachel and me responsible for Frank’s death and for the organization’s crashing fortunes. The asshole calls Rachel a whore and a traitorous bastard bitch. His real and unoriginal plan to keep her from claiming any assets is to kill her.

Normally killing’s a last resort, not something I look forward to, but I’ve been looking forward to tonight like it’s Taco Tuesday even though I’m not going to be the one dealing with him directly. Meanwhile, I’ve just put a digital nail in his coffin. In a four-move final play, I’ve taken over or destroyed the last of the Palermo operations in a forty-mile radius of Coynston. They’ve had to pull money from some New York partnerships to cover the payroll for their muscle in Coynston. I’ve heard they even let a couple of the old guys go, including Pauly Mangia. Enzo knows it was Mangia who flicked the first domino on my departure from the Palermo organization. I wonder how old Pauly’s feeling tonight.

I write him an email with a link to a site on how to prepare a resume and hit send. Mangia’s an evil bastard, just like Frank was. Before C moved up in the Palermo organization to become Frank’s right hand, that was Mangia’s post. And when C said no more recruiting or beating on young kids who screwed up, Mangia went behind our backs and beat the hell out of a kid whose losses I covered. Mangia broke that kid’s bones out of spite. Frank was going to let it go. Mangia thought I’d have to swallow that and choke on it. Instead, I left, taking money from Frank for the kid’s family. C and Anvil were supposed to hunt me down and kill me. Frank was right to think they were the only ones who could’ve found me or gotten close enough to do me in the first few days after I left. But he didn’t count on C deciding to go his own way.

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.

Taking the metal stairs two at a time, I hit the main floor. I’m not taking anything from the head of the Boston mob home with me, so I lock the gift bag in a downstairs closet before I walk out.

C Crue Range Rover Two takes me past the Palermo mansion, and it’s lit up like Christmas. Crime scene tape encompasses a large area. Was this something other than a C Crue operation? Or did my crue trick me into being safe from the blowback and from unknowingly bringing my FBI tail with me? I suspect it was C Crue because I’ve heard nothing from C in hours.

Swinging by the donut place where the off-going FBI team stops for coffee and crullers, I roll down my window, rest my elbow on the frame, and lift my middle finger to salute their van.

If the Rover had its way, I would drive to the castle to be with my crue. If my heart and dick had their way, I’d drive to Boston. But tonight I’m in need of invitations I don’t have, so I head home to quench my thirst.

At the apartment building, Rover Two goes in its caged spot. My new place is one floor down from the old one. It’s smaller, but decent. It’s not permanent, but I had to get out of Anvil’s studio, which had too little oxygen for me.

Inside the apartment, I leave the lights off, drinking alone in the dark. At least if Enzo’s dead, Coins is safer for Laurel. Scrolling through messages and call logs, I find one from C suggesting I come by. So he did reach out. There’s no hint of what’s happened. Of course there isn’t, but it still puts an exclamation point on the fact that I’m out of the loop.

Chugging straight Jack will get the job done faster than if I mix it with Coke, so I leave the Coke can unopened on the edge of my desk and drink from the whiskey bottle, guzzling like it’s water.

I text C back, saying I’m home, but I’ll come by in the morning to go over the numbers from the warehouse party and Tronex.

There’s a message from the treatment center. I talk to Monet Reilly a couple of times a week. She’s finally told a counselor about being raped at fourteen, which she confided to me the day before I sent her to rehab. I guessed there was something bad driving her to use, because that was the odds-on favorite. It took me exactly three questions to get her to spill. A counselor should’ve gotten there long before me.

I think about Kathleen, who was slated for a rape at fourteen, and about the ultrasound picture of my baby who’s got a fifty-fifty shot at being a little girl and will be fourteen one day. I think about the track marks on Monet Reilly’s arms and the way she sobbed when she told me what happened. My thirteen-year-old self struggled over the Hugh Murphy sniper shot. Thirteen years later, there’s no struggle. That asshole got lucky with the shot he never saw coming. To protect the Kathleen Patricks and Monet Reillys of the world, I could kill a thousand more Hugh Murphys, one every night, and eat blueberry waffles every morning without a wrinkled brow.

Playing Monet’s voicemail, it’s good to hear her voice sound lighter and more hopeful.

“Hey, Trick. It’s Monie. Sorry I missed you. I’m doing good this week. Went to therapy on Wednesday and group every day. Even talked a little in group. I’ve also got some big news… Ready? You were right. The lawyer you sent thought it was entrapment. And he, um, I guess talked to someone from the FBI about that and about what happened after, about how they got Laurel to help them and then botched the operation and lost her for almost twelve hours. Guess what? They dropped my charges! And guess what else? They want to talk to me about Milt. I think he’s in trouble. I, um, told Laurel. She was so happy about the charges. And super pissed about Milt. You were right. She had no idea about him planning it so I’d get busted. I know you said I shouldn’t mention your help, but if you hadn’t gotten me a new lawyer I’d still be in trouble. I wouldn’t even know what entrapment is. Hope you’re not too mad at me for telling Laurel the truth. Hey, speaking of sisters. I found your sister Ash’s Insta. She’s crazy pretty. And I saw that picture of you and them at the play thing. That’s super cool. I wonder why no one knows how close you are with your family? Is that cuz you have to always look tough for C Crue? Or to, like, keep your sisters safe? Just wondering. Anyways, hope you’re having a really good week. K, bye.”

Hearing from Laurel’s little sister is a double-edged sword. Monet staying in long-term recovery is good for all of them. But there are eighty-six thousand seconds in a day, and I already spend about half of them thinking about Laurelyn Reilly. More reminders are about as useful as a sprinkler system in a thunderstorm.

Swiping through pictures of her pushes me to open my contacts list. My finger hits the button to call her before my brain can veto the impulse.

And just like that, she picks up and the sound of her voice is in my ear again.

“Hey. I was just about to call you.” When I don’t speak Laurel says, “Scott?”

“Yeah, I’m here. How are you feeling?”

“Good. Hungry a lot, which is better than before. I made French toast with powdered sugar twice this week. You should’ve been here.” There’s a pause. “I’d like to see you. Would that be all right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Tonight?”

“I was at a party. Been drinking, so I can’t drive there. But I’ll come tomorrow. Right after a business meeting in the morning. Should get there by noon.”

“If you’ll be up, tonight could work. I have a bodyguard. He hasn’t been to a party. Are you at Connor’s? Or at home?”

“Home, but I don’t want you in Coynston tonight.”

“Oh—a party—right. No, I shouldn’t assume anything. You’ve probably had enough women around you.”

My mind’s hazy from the booze and from how glad I am to hear her voice. It takes a few seconds to process her words. “What? No other women are around me. I’m not cheating on you, Laurelyn. I wouldn’t.”

“We’re not exactly together.”

Exhaling, I lean forward. “Yes, we are.” I suck down the last of my drink, my head buzzing plenty hard.

“All right then. I’ll delete all the flirty texts I sent to my new Pilates instructor.”

A low whistle escapes my lips. “Only seven weeks pregnant. Still safe for Daddy to spank Mommy long and hard. Want a date with the wooden paddle?”

She chuckles. “No more dates with the wooden paddle.”

“So be a good little girl.”

“I could be a very good little girl tonight. You sure you want to be alone?”

“I never want to be alone.” My cock is hard and does not care about crime scenes or their fallout. There’s a beat while my thoughts line up, and I decide which are allowed to give rise to speech. “There was a house fire at the Palermo mansion. Since Enzo and I had the dust-up, the police could want to talk to me. When I see you, I don’t want to be interrupted.”

Her silence makes me regret mentioning violence. Will it cause her to pull back? That would be tough to take right now.

When she speaks though, her voice is soft and sweet. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m good. I’m not involved in what happened tonight. Rock-solid alibi.”

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Definitely. Hey—?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t have to go. Tell me how work’s going. Heard they gave the green light for you to work remote.”

Her soft laughter makes me smile. “I knew you had him reporting back to you.”

“Not me. The reports go to C.”

“Oh. Lovely.” She coughs. “And C tells you?”

“No, I told him not to.” I rub the bridge of my nose. “But then, every couple days, I go in the system and read them.”

Her laughter is louder now and makes the air worth breathing. I walk to the window and look out.

“So work?”

“This is why—I think I blame Kathleen.”

“What?”

“I met your sister Kathleen for lunch.”

“Did you now?”

The smile’s evident in my voice. Kathleen and I are cut from the same cloth. The second I told her about Laurel, Kath was angling to meet up with her. I counted on Kathleen making that happen. Kath knows nothing about the FBI sting Laurel was involved in. So unlike my crue, she isn’t out to mistrust her. And Kath can steamroll anyone’s reservations about me, being unabashedly Team Trick.

“And you know what I realized about you?”

“What’s that?”

The phone beeps. C on call waiting. I don’t switch over, which is one for the books.

“You lived with all those women who were counting on you. That’s why you’re so good at figuring out what people need and getting it for them.” After a pause, she says, “Three women, including Ash who I hear talked nonstop as a baby. I guess you couldn’t help but become a good listener, whether you wanted to or not.” She chuckles. “You always make me feel heard. Though you don’t always use your powers for good. Listening like you do makes people fall in love with you, and then they can never fall out.”

The call waiting beeps again.

“Including you?”

“Presumably yes.”

Soul-crushing. All she had to do was leave that presumably off. Still, as bait goes, it doesn’t get any fucking better. “Hmm. I’d like to learn more about myself from someone more expert than me—”

She laughs. “God, I miss you.”

And that hits the fucking mark like nothing else can. “I miss you too. Listen, there’s a call I have to take. Let me call you back.”

“All right.”

I swipe over to C.

“Fuck, Trick. Since when do I have to call twice?”

“What’s up, C?”

“Come to the house.”

I straighten, wondering what’s wrong. “I’m pretty hammered. Shouldn’t drive.”

“Hammered on what?”

“Jack and Coke.”

“No worries. I’ll swing by and pick you up. Thirty minutes.”

“Yeah, sure.”

I call her back, while gathering some stuff. “Hey, I changed my mind. Will you come tonight?”

“Yes, I’d love to.”

“I’m going to C’s. Could be a lot of basement meetings for me, but no one will bust in unannounced and you’ll be safe there if I have to go out. Not your favorite spot in Coins, I know, but if you come, you can name your price.”

“My price? You can’t buy me.”

“Can I rent you?” We both laugh. “Kidding. Listen, I promise to get us back to the apartment as soon as I can. But I really want to see you.”

“Yes.”

“Good girl. Text me when you get on the road.” I end the call and toss more stuff in a bag.

I check my gun and strap it on, then put on a jacket. Grabbing the packed duffle, I head down five minutes ahead of when C’s due. Laurelyn’s ring is in the glovebox of the Rover, and I want it on me.

Retrieving it, I shove it deep into my pocket. Coming out of the cage, I glance around. An engine’s humming somewhere, but it’s not the other crue truck. Someone getting back to the building or about to leave maybe? But also, maybe not. The duffle’s not in my right hand, but I drop it nonetheless. Two hands, just in case.

Un-clicking the holster, I step out so my view’s not obstructed by the cage around the car. A figure rises from between cars. Black mask. Gun raised. He’s ready. I’m not.

Jerking my gun free as he fires, I try to move off center to my right. The bullet catches my left arm. I get off two shots as I fall.

Rolling over and over again, I move close to a line of cars for cover. I look through the spaces beneath undercarriages. Tires block part of my line of sight.

Where are your legs, you son-of-a-bitch?

Then I clock him. He’s flat on his back, unmoving. Shuffling to my feet, I walk over. The first shot was off, clipping the side of his head, maybe an ear. But the second was on the mark, the bloody hole in the mask is exactly where I intended. The black trousers and black sweatshirt are wrong for someone who works for the Palermos. Bending forward, careful to keep my left arm back so I don’t drip blood on him, I push the mask up with the tip of my gun.

Fuck.

Milt fucking Schager. FBI agent gone rogue. Again.

I transfer the gun to my left hand a second and pull his hood back into position. Then I step back. The left arm of my jacket’s getting heavier as I bleed into it.

C pulls up, levels a gaze on the scene, then gets out of the truck.

“Ambushed me.”

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Fed. Schager.”

C exhales audibly. “Is that blood?” He stalks to the spot where I went down. “You hit, Trick?”

Nodding toward my left side, I see C clench his teeth.

“After you were hit, where’d you walk? Show me.”

I walk the area with a finger extended.

“Get in the truck.” C goes to the back and takes out a chemical bomb for DNA. He pulls gloves on and walks around splashing the brew on the area. Then he recaps the jug and sets it in the crate where it sits. A second jug is missing. C Crue’s been busy.

C gets back in the truck and drives us out. “It’s your building. Any blood anybody finds can be explained in a hundred ways. Cut your hand at the gym or while cutting some vegetables. Hell, the FBI knows you shredded your knuckles on Enzo’s guy who tossed Laurelyn in the pool. A hundred ways to get your blood and DNA on the floor of your own parking garage.”

C doesn’t need to tell me. He’s mostly talking it through out loud. Then he falls silent.

“How bad are you hit?”

“Seems all right.”

“This isn’t Frank’s crew. It’s mine. If you need a hospital, fuckin’ say it and we’ll go.”

I smile at C getting paternal. Frank refused to let anyone go to a hospital ever. We watched ‘Vil almost die from a gut shot. It was not a good time.

The adrenaline’s wearing off, and my arm’s throbbing like a bitch, but I don’t plan to be one. “Let’s go to the house. I’m sure Raven Nightingale can nurse me back to health. ‘Vil will love that.”

C barks out a laugh. “He’ll put a pillow over your face first is more like it.” A beat passes. “Man, what a night.”

“So I hear.”

C leaves that alone. It’s not a discussion for here and now. “And what about you? You’re supposed to be hammered. Ambushed and still upright? Why am I chauffeuring your ass around town? Seems like you could’ve driven yourself,” he jokes.

“Party was lit. Wore myself out dancing, what not. Don’t feel like driving. Feel like being lazy.”

“Sure.” C smirks. “Lazy. That’s you all over.”