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“Yes, two hundred million.”
I laugh and pull the pockets of my trousers out. “Everyone empty your pockets. Let’s see how much we can scrape together.”
“Pearl’s laid up,” James says, standing. “She can’t go.”
“I know,” Brad grates. She wouldn’t be going even if she wasn’t lying battered and bruised in Brad’s bed. “I’m thinking.” He scowls at the rug.
“Let’s just tell him she’s not a virgin anymore. She’s not worth shit to him, so why the fuck would we pay him?”
“And risk pissing him off?” Brad barks. “He has my fucking son, Danny!”
I hold my hands up in surrender, and Brad takes a breath. Yes, King might be pissy, but I think two hundred fucking million would ease the sting. Fuck.
“And the last thing we need is King handing over the guns that Sandy and Luis need to take us down.” James adds, reminding me of that little issue too. “We need to remember why King went to them in the first place.”
Because he can’t take us down on his own. But now he’s trying. Why? Why not just get his money from us, give Sandy the guns, and fuck off back to London? “If money’s all he wants, he could get it from Sandy for the guns,” I say. Brad’s right. This isn’t making sense. Now he’s trying to do a deal with us, no Sandy or Luis involved.
Pearl’s phone dings and Brad opens the message, his jaw tight. “The fucker,” he breathes, turning away, holding the phone out. I take it from his hand and look at the screen. Nolan. Gagged. Battered. God damn that dipshit, he put up a fight. I give the phone to Otto, and he gets straight to work. “Get Leon,” Brad says. “Tell him to start getting the cash together.”
My shoulder drops. Fucking hell. “Brad, I don’t know if we have that much to hand.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s not counting two hundred million on the spot, is he?” He throws a hand up, walking up and down.
“And Bean?” James asks. “What’s the deal?”
“Uncle Carlo went through a fishing faze once, didn’t he?” Brad asks, swerving James’s question, going to the office door and leaving.
James and I look at each other like what the fuck? “Did he?” James asks.
“Yeah, about fifteen years ago.” I get up and go after Brad, James flanking me. “It lasted two weeks. He didn’t catch anything, and the peace he was promised eluded him.”
The front door is open when we make it to the foyer, and we break out into the late afternoon sunshine, seeing Brad heading around the side of the house toward the garages. “What the fuck is he doing?”
We go after him and find him rummaging through the shit piled high at the back of the garages. All shit Pops bought during one of his peace-searching missions. “Found it,” Brad pants, knocking some buckets and a jet washer out the way. He holds up a rod and a case, and marches back between us. “Let’s go fishing.”
60
BRAD
* * *
James’s and Danny’s bewildered expressions were understandable as they followed me back into the house. They’re still watching me now, an hour later, as I divide my time between the fishing hooks and my Scotch, while Otto remains on the couch analyzing the footage King sent through. I hold up a hook. “Rusty,” I muse, laying it on the desk.
“Think I’ll have another drink,” Danny says.
“I’ll join you.” James pulls a chair over and sits, watching me lay out the fishing hooks meticulously.
“Brad, what the fuck are you doing?” Danny finally asks, dropping down into his chair and passing James his drink.
“Have you got Leon sorting the money?”
“Yes,” he answers shortly.
“Anything?” I ask Otto without looking.
“Nothing.”
I grit my teeth, looking at my work. Then I relax back in my seat and ponder . . . everything, unraveling it all. And James and Danny let me. Waiting. Showing patience but clearly not feeling it. Thank fuck they trust me.
