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“Did you . . .” he stutters. “Have you . . .”
“Killed Brad Black?” I ask. “Yes. He’s about as dead as The Brit.”
Eyes like saucers, Spittle struggles to his feet. “I think it’s time for me to go.”
“Sit the fuck down,” I shout, my fingers clawing into the arm of the couch to restrain myself. He drops like a stone to his arse, just as the door swings open and a guy appears, a young bloke, with dark eyes that contradict his pale blond hair. “Nolan,” Spittle says, rising from the couch again, out of respect I expect, since I’ve just told him to sit the fuck down.
“Thanks for coming, Spittle.” The guy, Nolan, grins at him, before takes me in, his broad chest lifting ever so slightly. “So what do we call you?” he asks, a sardonic smile on his face. I hear Otto huff his displeasure, and I roll my eyes.
I stand and, again, do what’s right. This guy, albeit young, maybe mid-twenties, works for Brad Black. There’s a reason for that. “James,” I answer, offering my hand.
He strides over and takes it, his assessment of me never wavering. “And everything meets your expectations?” he asks, motioning in the general direction of the house.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Your woman will be safe.” As he utters the words, a couple more men appear at the door, Ringo and another, who I’m yet to officially meet. And someone else emerges between them. A woman. A middle-aged lady with a friendly face and warm smile. “And cared for,” Nolan adds, smiling fondly at the woman. “This is Esther.”
She approaches and offers her hand. “Danny Black was my son.” Her British accent is as soft as her features. Was my son. “Anything you need, please, just ask.”
“Thank you.”
“British,” she says, smiling, truly pleased. “We’re taking over Miami, it seems.”
“We?”
Her lips purse, though she’s still smiling. “And what do I call you?”
“The Enigma,” Spittle calls, and we all cast interested looks his way. “Why’s everyone so fucking cool about the company we’re in?”
“Found your way around again soon enough, didn’t you?” Nolan says, looking at him like the piece of shit we all know him to be. “Bet you thought I’d asked you here for some help to find Brad’s killer.”
Spittle raises his drink and finishes it on a gasp. “Jackpot.” He slumps back down on the couch, waving his glass in the air before him. “As you were.”
Esther backs up. “I’ll go check on your lady.”
Lady. I smile to myself. Not Beau. “Thank you.” I don’t think I’ve shown so much appreciation in such a short space of time.
“What the fuck is going on?” Otto whispers, moving into my side.
“Yes, please do share,” Goldie pipes in. “I feel like I’ve stepped onto the set of The Addams Family.”
Brad Black strolls in and stops abruptly when he clocks Spittle on the couch. His arms come up, all welcoming. “Spittle, my friend, guess what?”
“What?”
He grins, and it’s fucking wicked. “I’m not dead.”
Spittle sags. “So you lured me here to kill me, I expect.”
Brad heads for the desk across the room, but rather than taking the chair behind it, he pulls another out from this side of the room, turning it and lowering. He catches my interested expression, but his face remains deadpan as he gives Spittle his attention. “So you sent The Enigma to kill me? I’m deeply hurt, Spittle. After everything I’ve done for you.”
“You’ve made my life a fucking misery, that’s what you’ve done.”
“I expected way more begging than this,” Brad says over a laugh. “So, The Bear?”
“What about him?”
“How friendly are you?”
“No one gets friendly with bears.”
“Well, that depends,” Brad muses, kicking his ankle up onto his knee, “on the bear.” He pouts. “But if you’re gonna be a bear, then be a grisly, eh?” He beams at Spittle, who is suddenly twitching. Actually twitching. His eyes start to roll, and his face starts pulling some pretty fucked-up expressions. Then, quite dramatically, he plummets forward and hits the carpet face first, his body thrashing around.
I stare at him, as does everyone else in the room, and for a few minutes, no one says a word, just watches him convulse. I cannot believe what I’m seeing.
“Take him,” Brad orders, and Nolan moves in, his muscly form preparing to drag Spittle’s short, sturdy frame out of the office. “I’ll decide what to do with him another time.”
Nolan doesn’t take Spittle’s legs. He takes his head, and starts yanking it, tugging him along in short sharp bursts. “For fuck’s sake!” Spittle cries, rolling onto his back. “Don’t you men have any humanity in you? I was having a fucking seizure.”
“You were having a brain malfunction, Spittle,” Brad seethes, standing from his chair. “A bit like when you ordered The Enigma to kill me.”
“I was cornered,” he argues. “For fuck’s sake, what was I supposed to do?”
