Page 49 of The Triangle

I would have liked to start earlier, but while I have a loosely calibrated moral compass, I fear that attempting to pluck some petals off Christine’s rose before she turned eighteen would have driven Danny past the point of his tolerance. So for the last year, I’ve been working diligently to strip Christine of a handful of her thorns. Not all. But just enough that it leaves the proper amount of pain when we’re together.

Danny hasn’t had much to say about it. Which is not because, I don’t believe, he doesn’t have much to say. I rather more think Danny Fortnight is calculating what his role in our future might be. Deciding if there will be a place for him in our arrangements, long term. If he would simply ask, he would know that the answer will always be ‘yes.’ But he won’t ask. And I’m not inclined to volunteer.

But tonight. Tonight is a special night. Tonight is a celebration of who we are and what we’ve done. Tonight, I feel, for maybe the first time, like the claim my father made when I was a boy is true.

This world—all of it—is mine.

NOW

“Did you fuckin’ hear me?” Danny’s voice, next to me in the car. Christine climbed into the back seat when we started driving again. She fell promptly asleep. I’m concerned about letting her sleep knowing now that she’s suffered memory loss as a result of her fall, but I suppose, all being equal, that should be the least of my worries.

“I did not. Sorry. What?” He no longer has a gun out and/or pointed at me. Which is what, I imagine, is making it possible for me to reminisce so casually.

“You need to tell me what’s going on.”

“Bru, I wish I could. I do not know. I got word that Christine was hurt, I did a swift inventory of who was available that I knew I could trust to watch over her, I came up with an incredibly short list, and I called you. That’s what I know.” And it has the added benefit of being true, so that’s kif.

“Who was the target?” he asks.

“I told you. Jim—”

“Yeah, Jimmy fuckin’ Sotoro. Fine.” He looks out the window. After a moment he says, “What kind of shit are you into these days?”

“What do you mean?”

“What I said. Diamond business still holding up?”

“I mean… Yeah. They’re diamonds.”

“You’re not into anything else?”

“Such as?” He’s obviously leading me somewhere, but I’m not altogether certain where.

“Nothing. Forget it.” And he’s looking out the window again. And yet again, after another moment, “How long have you two been back together?” He nods to a sleeping Christine in the back seat.

“Back together how?”

“Fuckin’… whatever. How long has it been since you’ve been doing… whatever together again?”

I can feel my brow furrow a small amount before I glance at him and say, “Bru, we’ve never been apart.”

I put my eyes back on the narrow road ahead of us. We drive in silence for thirty seconds. There’s a great lot for us to discuss. But until we can get a better grasp on what exactly it is that’s bearing down upon us, it don’t matter much.

My mobile rings. I look. It’s Lars.

“Hey, man,” I answer the call.

“Are you with Christine?” He sounds worried.

“Yeah, bru. I’m with her right now. Why?”

“Because I went by the apartment to check on her and she was gone.”

“Fok are you doing going anywhere, man? I told you to leave her there and I’d handle it.”

“I know, I just—”

“When I tell you to fokken do something, do it the way I tell you, man. Is that fokken hard for you to process?”