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“Yeah, he tied it to the damn air conditioning unit,” Artie says, shaking his head. “Jesus. That thing could’ve broken away from the wall like that.” He snaps his fingers. “What’s wrong with him?”
I sigh, my pulse shimmering in my neck.
“Fucking Maury,” I growl. “At least it’s just his addiction that made him run and none of our boys were hurt. When I got the call, I thought maybe some rival family had broken him out. Or maybe one of his street contacts.”
“Nah,” Artie says. “Maury’s an idiot, but he’s not a traitor.”
I nod, glad that I didn’t tell Artie about the drug caches.
Honesty, always.
But that mantra only applies to my woman.
“What’s the plan?” Artie asks.
I put my hands behind my back, looking down at the younger, shorter man. A good leader knows that deferring to his trusted subordinates is one of the most important skills for success.
That’s why so many Families – so many businesses, for that matter – fail.
A leader needs intelligence, strategy, as much as he needs iron resolve.
“What do you think we should do?” I ask him.
Artie fiddles with his glasses. “We hunt down his street contacts. We make them tell us where he likes to hang out when he’s going off the rails. Shouldn’t be too hard. Why would they hide it? We send out some of the lower-level boys to comb every location.”
“Do it,” I tell him. “And send some boys out to the new builds, too, to keep an eye out. I’ve got a hunch he might show his face out there.”
Maybe I missed some of his drugs after all. It’s a slim chance, but it’s worth exploring.
Artie looks at me for a moment and then nods.
Just like I know when to seek his advice when things get tough, he knows not to ask too many questions.
He takes out his cellphone and paces from the bedroom, snapping orders down the phone.
I wander over to the window and look down at the bedsheets looped into the metal bracket of the air conditioning unit. I can see the wall crusting and flaking away from where the pressure almost became too much.
I shake my head in disbelief.
Artie was right.
He could’ve fallen five floors to his death.
The makeshift rope doesn’t even reach all the way to the sidewalk. It hangs just above the first floor, meaning he had to drop the rest of the way.
I should’ve posted more guards outside the apartment, but I didn’t expect him to pull a damn action movie move on me.
I follow Artie into the living room. It’s just as grimy as the bedroom, with two overflowing ashtrays.
The kitchen – separated by a room divider – is a mess of grimy dishes and reeking waste. We pay Maury enough cash that he could live in a penthouse if he desired.
I don’t have to guess what he’s been spending his cash on instead.
Artie hangs up the phone after barking some more orders, nodding to me.
“Now what, boss?” he asks.
“We go out there, too,” I tell him. “We search. We can’t just leave it to the troops.”
It pains me to say this, a near-physical tightening on my heart. I feel my seed writhe and rage in protest inside of me, demanding to know just what the hell I’m thinking.
Go back to your woman, some deep primal part of me roars. Claim her. Own her. Fuck her virgin brains out.
I have to bite down to fight away the urge. There’s nothing I’d rather do right now than return to my woman.
But at the same time, I have to think about what sort of man I want to be, now more than ever.
I’m going to be a father soon.
I’m certain we’re going to conceive our first child when Kimberly gives me her virginity.
Do I want my sons and daughters to be raised by a man who would allow a junkie to roam the streets, a junkie I’m responsible for?
I owe them better than that. I owe Kimberly better than that.
I owe the city.
Artie nods.
“You’re right,” he says. “Let’s get to work.”
But it’s fruitless work.
We spend the day searching our portion of Maury’s known hangouts, questioning the crack fiends and the junkies. I hate seeing how degraded certain parts of the city have become, how willing people are to sink into their depravity.
Artie and I return to my office at Mystique just as it’s opening up for the night, music pumping from above us, so loud it vibrates the walls a little.
I’ve always liked that. It helps me think, to blot out the background noise of my thoughts – of my father’s memory, of the Cartel man who assaulted mother – and focus on my work.
Artie sits opposite me, pouring himself a small glass of whiskey. He cocks his eyebrow and I nod, and he pours me a small glass. He always knows to just pour me a small glass.
