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“No one mentions to Brad that Bean’s been talking to Nolan.” Funnily enough, no one laughs this time. “I’ll handle it.”
“What the fuck are you going to do?” James asks. “Put a bullet in Nolan’s head and hope Brad doesn’t notice he’s gone missing?”
I’m hoping it doesn’t come to any bullets anywhere, but I have a horrible feeling in my stomach. I haven’t forgotten how shifty Nolan was yesterday. “No one mentions this to Brad,” I affirm.
“And the cop?” Goldie asks. “The last thing you want is to make an enemy of a cop.”
“Because they aren’t all enemies already?” I ask.
“I’m talking about personal vendettas,” she says.
“Bean made it personal when he let his son hear shit he shouldn’t have heard. We managed to keep who we are and what we do well away from Daniel and his education until Bean came along.” I can’t hand on heart say that’s true, given the kid’s retaliation. Pops’s gold letter opener. But still . . . “Now, my kid is out of school.” I unscrew the cap of my water and take a slug. “I promise I’ll handle it delicately.” I’ll use a shotgun instead of a rocket launcher.
“And the principal?” James asks.
“Will be having a civilized conversation with the barrel of my gun.”
“Rose will be delighted.” Goldie laughs.
“Rose won’t know,” I grate, raising my eyebrows at her. “Will she?”
Otto drags his laptop back to his side of the table. “Heads-up.” He nods past me, and I turn to see Brad’s arrived. Looking like he wants to kill something.
“Jesus Christ,” Ringo breathes. “Who shat in his cornflakes?”
“Well, it wasn’t you, Ringo,” I say, scrubbing a hand down my face, “because you only shit in the evenings, don’t you?”
“Fuck off.”
Goldie falls apart, and it’s a lovely sight. Bugged phones, the Black family emblem, dead Russians and Mexicans, a moody bastard cousin, a wife, baby, the kid. Trouble around here is like buses in London—you don’t see one for hours then ten of the fuckers show up at once. But, and I hardly want to admit it, I’ve missed this. Brainstorming. Picking things apart, putting the puzzle pieces together.
Brad swipes an orange juice from the fridge when he passes and swigs it down as he walks over, dropping heavily into a chair.
“All right?” I ask, getting ready to duck to miss his swing. What the fuck’s wrong with him now? Clearly his guest last night hasn’t loosened him up.
“Fine. What did I miss?”
I humor his need to swerve my question. “Nothing,” I say, giving everyone around the table a warning look. For fuck’s sake. Nolan? “Otto was just about to update us on?—”
“The Escalade outside the club?” Brad asks.
“Yes, that. What’s the deal with you playing kamikaze?” I saw the footage. Brad walked right into that, the prick.
“What the fuck did you expect me to do?”
“Call for backup.”
“I was busy dodging bullets, Danny.”
Or more likely trying to alleviate his stress in another way. Looking for a fight. A way to release the pressure, and I, of all people, know how much calm can be found in a kill. I snarl at Brad as he drags my cigarettes toward him. “Help yourself.”
“Fuck off.” He slips one between his lips and lights up, pulling hard and long and flopping back in his chair. “What are you doing back?” he asks Goldie. “Full up on ice cream or did you miss Ringo?”
I roll my eyes. The antagonistic prick. “Let’s have a little recap, shall we?” Make sure everyone is up to speed.
“I love your recaps.” James gets comfortable in the chair, which doesn’t look very comfortable at all, his big body bent and awkward on the small wooden seat. I can attest. I grimace and shift, wondering where to start. “Your phone,” James prompts.
“Bugged,” I say, pulling a rare expression of surprise from Goldie. “Any news on that?”
