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Otto shakes his head. “I’ve got a feeling it’s something to do with the cops hanging around outside Hiatus.”
“What cops?” Goldie asks.
“The ones that scared off the Escalade that pulled a drive-by on Brad.” I chuckle, hearing the words aloud. We’ve dealt with so much more, sure, but . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. My brain doesn’t seem to want to work and help me out with how to solve this puzzle. “That was after Higham showed up and presented us with a few photographs of dead Russians and Mexicans with the Black family emblem carved into their chests.”
Goldie’s frown is monstrous. “And I’m assuming you didn’t carve the emblems?” She nods at me and then Brad.
“Correct,” Brad confirms, looking blankly into thin air.
“Correct,” I murmur, studying him. He’s here but not here. This is fucking important. “Brad,” I snap, irritated.
He blinks and looks at me. “What?”
I can’t deal with him right now. For fuck’s sake. “We also have a cop who’s been shooting his mouth off and, consequently, had Daniel thrown out of school.”
Goldie slides down her chair. “Oh.”
“Yeah, oh.” And then we have Nolan talking to the Bean cop. Can’t mention that in Brad’s company. Not that he’d hear me.
“So in summary,” Brad speaks up, eyeing me with a curled lip. He takes a drag of his smoke and exhales, making Goldie cough and call him a few choice words. “Two Mexicans and two Russians turned up dead with our family emblem etched into their chests. One would assume either Danny or I did that, but Higham, smart and observant fucker that he is, has identified that whoever scratched the Black emblem into the chests was left-handed, and neither Danny nor I are left-handed. So whoever did it has failed in their attempts to get the FBI on our backs. They haven’t, however, failed to get the Mexicans and Russians on our backs. They’ll be gunning for us. On top of that, Danny’s phone’s been bugged, and I was shot at outside Hiatus.” Brad slips his Marlboro between his lips and holds it there while he pulls at his tie, eyeing me again, like . . . see? I’m here. I’m present. “The police conveniently showed up as whoever was in the Escalade aimed a machine gun at me, scaring them off,” he continues. “On top of that, Beau’s suspicious. She knows one Russian fucker walked away from the shootout when Dumb Fuck here”—he points his Marlboro at me—“went after Sandy alone.”
“And there was me thinking you’re unfocused,” I say, slightly stunned.
“I’m perfectly focused.” He pulls his tie from the collar of his shirt and exhales smoke, still holding it between his lips. “The cop obviously has an ax to grind and has dragged the kid into it—big mistake—and I would hazard a guess that he also has something to do with the cops loitering around outside Hiatus.”
So the fuck he had last night worked after all? Good. I feel reassured by that. He needs to be on the ball. “You missed one point.”
“What’s that?”
Two, actually but, again, can’t mention Nolan. “I’ve hardly left the house for weeks, and if I have, I’ve only been here or to Hiatus.”
“So whoever bugged your phone is in the fold,” Brad says, popping open the top two buttons of his shirt as everyone hums their thoughts on that, everyone looking around the table to each other before looking out to the yard, thoughtful. Brad’s wondering who. Everyone else at the table thinks Nolan has some explaining to do. “And there’s nothing on the bug?”
“Nothing.” Otto closes the lid of his laptop, frustrated. “It’s got to be government issued.”
“How sure are you?” Because if that’s the case, it means we have the cops on our arses, although why the fuck we have the cops on our arses is a fucking mystery since we’ve all been rather good recently. A bunker full of firearms and a club full of illegal cash aside, of course. The point is, we’re inactive. And someone’s clearly trying to change that. Fuck me, Nolan? Are they blackmailing him? Do they have something on him?
James is clearly thinking the same, given his expression. And then we both look at Brad, wondering how the hell we deal with this. He’s now undoing his trousers, standing from his chair, cigarette still hanging out of his mouth as he wriggles out of them before finishing on his shirt. And we all just watch as he strips down to his boxers.
“Tell me you’re going out on the water,” James says, just as Leon hurries in with Brad’s wetsuit.
“I’m going out on the water.”
“I thought you were quitting to join the girls on the stage at Hiatus.”
Brad pinches the Marlboro between his thumb and index finger, gyrating his hips. I laugh lightly, happy to see the Brad we know and love, as he takes the wetsuit, flicks his cigarette away, and turns away from us, walking off in his boxers, giving everyone in the café an eyeful of his sharp physique.
And the red, angry scratches all over his back. Jesus. “I think he’s cured,” I murmur. “His back’s nearly as gross as yours.” I look at James. He doesn’t retaliate.
“Ready for the water?” he asks.
I check my watch. God damn it, I’ve missed my opportunity. “Nope. I have a meeting.”
James’s face is a picture of indignation. “With whom?”
I get up, scoop my Marlboros off the table, and walk away from him. “Beau.”
“What?”
