Page 90 of Jonesing for a Spy

The chief turns to me as if Dad didn’t speak. “Son, I take my job seriously. I have great respect for your father and the people in this town. I have no intention”—his eyes drop to my throat where yellow and green marks hide under the collar of my shirt—“of letting anyone get away with anything in my patch. If they take me out, they do it because I have the integrity to stand for what’s right.”

Something about the weight in Gene’s tone makes me feel younger than I’m used to. “I appreciate that, but I don’t want you on the receiving end of his violence or the working end of whomever is protecting him.”

“That’s my job.”

“Make no mistake, I want justice. O’Neill should rot for this.” I tip my chin. There’s more to say, but none of it is urgent.

Dad sets his sandwich on his plate just as Gene’s meal is delivered to the table. Napkin unrolled and fork aloft with a sturdy bite atop it, Gene murmurs, “Heard rumors about EP this week. What’s going on over there?”

“Never seen anything like it,” Dad starts. But I over talk him, my words hushed but urgent. “Sure feels like we’re, or I’m, being targeted.”

“I’ll poke around. You both have stellar reputations in this town. Do whatever it takes to keep that. Heads down. Smile and nod. Keep going as if nothing is amiss.”

“Easier said than done,” Dad pipes in before taking a huge bite.

The chief simply shakes his head. “Drawing attention is not good. Trust me.”

Dad nods. I already know he trusts Gene. The man is sticking his neck out on the line for me, and I have no reason not to listen and trust what he’s saying.

“Hard not to when every eye is on us,” I offer quietly. Then, so people can overhear, I change the topic and speak at a normal volume. “Conference playoffs this weekend. You have any favorites?”

We chat around, leaving the seriousness of the previous conversation behind us, and I fish my phone out of my pocket. “Excuse me.” I push my chair back and step toward the entrance and into the crisp early afternoon.

Unknown

This is the obligatory “if you mess with my sister, I have to kick your ass” text. Don’t fuck her over.

But, seriously, congrats. I like you.

It would be a shame to bury you alive in the desert like a cartoon with only your head sticking out for the birds to eat.

And I’d be grouchy if it came to that. No one wants me grouchy. Capiche?

Did you just mafia phrase me?

And who is this?

It’s Mikey, man. Didn’t you figure that out from the desert reference? Jamie would throw you in the Bay. Skipper would take you to a farm. The desert reference should’ve been obvious. I need to talk with my sister if you blatantly confuse us.

I pause long enough to let that sink in. He’s right. What little I know of each of them, those are spot on.

So Johnny and Davie are pacifists?

Mikey

Hardly. But they’d both do something sneaky and far less obvious. None of us would ever know, and they’d never tell.

Great. So watch my back with the youngest two. Got it.

How’re you? How’s Mirren?

And thanks for the text. Shit day. Total shit day. I needed the laugh.

Who are we throat-punching? I’m ready.

For at least the tenth time in the last week, I reach up to protect my neck and throat. The worst of the bruises have faded, but the sickly looking gold remnants remain.

If we’d known each other in high school or college, we would either have matching X-Rays or arrest records. I like it.