Carlotta remembered Jeremy’s nervous question to her about whether wearing the tuxedo before his own wedding was bad luck. She obviously needed to brush up on wedding superstitions.
Chapter Nine
“THANKS FOR MEETING ME,” Liz said.
Wesley nodded, afraid to speak. In the recent past he’d been tied to a chair, sliced up by a psychopath, robbed at gunpoint, and shot at on more than one occasion…yet this was the most scared he’d ever been in his life.
Liz looked pretty and pale in her black pantsuit and silk blouse, sitting across from him at a Midtown coffee shop. She sipped some kind of girly tea. He’d tossed back his espresso shot while waiting for her and now his leg was jumping under the table.
“How are you, Wes?”
He gritted his teeth. “I’ve been better.”
A small smile lifted her red mouth. “This must be a confusing time for you.”
“How’s my dad?”
Her eyes flickered with warmth. “He’s been better.”
Wesley grunted with frustration. “Jesus, Liz, tell me about him. Where has he been? Where’s Mom?”
“He’s fine,” she said quickly. “Just frustrated, like you. And unfortunately, I can’t tell you where your mother is.”
“Why not?”
“Because he hasn’t told me.”
“But she’s okay?”
“He hasn’t said otherwise.”
“When do we get to see him?”
“I explained to Carlotta—”
“Yeah, she told me about the paperwork, but that’s nuts. He’s right across town and we can’t see him!”
“I’m sorry, Wes, but it’s your father’s decision.”
He pounded the table with his fist and sat back in the booth.
Liz cleared her throat. “We have other things to discuss.”
His stomach cramped.
“How did your meeting go yesterday with your probation officer?”
He relaxed an iota. “Oh, that—it’s cool. She let me take another drug test.”
“And you’re sure it’ll be clean?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. And the drugs are behind you?”
“Yeah.”
Liz took a drink of her tea and Wes wiped at the perspiration on his upper lip.
“What about the other thing?” he blurted. “The thing you told me about on the phone?”
One winged eyebrow arched. “Oh, that.”
“Yeah, that. Are you still…?”
“Pregnant? Yes.”
He swallowed hard past a dry throat. “Is it mine?”
She hesitated. One heartbeat…two…three…
At four he thought maybe his heart had stopped altogether. His lungs also seemed to stall, trapping stale air in his brain.
“I believe so.”
His intestines cramped before her words sank in—there was a chance it wasn’t his. Then he frowned—how many other guys was Liz balling? But before his pride could be wounded fatally, self-preservation kicked in—hopefully, a lot.
“And you’re going to have it?” he asked.
She nodded. “That’s why I went away for a few days—to think it over. And I decided maybe this is a blessing in disguise.”
He begged to differ, but he wasn’t in her shoes.
“After all, I’m not getting any younger.”
He avoided that minefield. “What are the chances it’s mine?”
She pressed her lips together, obviously unwilling to share the number of her bed partners. “The timing says it’s yours, but I’m confused because you and I were always careful.”
Misery gathered in his chest and he wanted to cry. “There was a busted condom I didn’t tell you about…but it was just once.”
She closed her eyes briefly and puffed out her cheeks in an exhale. “Once is all it takes. Mystery solved.”
He leaned over and puked in the floor. Customers scattered, chairs scraping and groans sounding. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and mumbled, “Sorry.”
Liz sat frozen for a few seconds, then covered her mouth with her hand and leaned over to do the same. More groans sounded and customers began a mass exodus.
“Hey!” the barista shouted, bounding out from behind the counter with a roll of paper towels. “You two take your hangovers somewhere else!”
Liz stood and, holding a napkin to her mouth, tossed a ten dollar bill on the table, presumably as a tip for the cleanup. Wes followed her out to the sidewalk. “You okay?”
She nodded, her face as white as skim milk. “Just some latent morning sickness.”
He gestured vaguely to her stomach. “So…what do we do now?”
She put a hand to her head. “Let me get back to you on that.” She started to turn, then added, “By the way, we have an appointment to sit down with Detective Terry Monday morning to discuss how your prints got on that anonymous tip letter regarding the decapitated body in the morgue.”
Yet another shit storm he was going to have to navigate. “Okay.”
“Which means you have until then to think of a plausible story.”
“Okay. Liz?”
“Uh-huh?”
“When will you see my dad again?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe later today if the schedules align.”
“Will you tell him I’ve always believed in his innocence?”
A smile softened her mouth, then she nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”
Wes watched Liz walk toward a parking garage and felt utterly overwhelmed. He unlocked his bicycle from a rack with shaking hands and pictured a car seat strapped to the handlebars.
Jesus God.
He had no real ride, no real job, no real family, and no real prospects for anything real good happening anytime real soon. He could barely keep his own life between the lines, he certainly had no business being a father to anyone.
And what would his own father say when he found out?
And what would Carlotta say? (Okay, this he could guess.)
And—gulp—what would Meg say?
The sweet escape of an Oxy hit flitted through his mind—it would be so freaking nice to float away and forget about everything for a few hours…
But since the excruciating, near-death pain of withdrawal was still fresh in his mind, he pushed aside the traitorous thought.
When he jumped on his bike, though, he had the urge to do something else—flee. Leave all his problems behind. Ride his bike to a train station, take the train to the Greyhound station, jump on a bus to the West Coast…maybe Vegas. He could get a job in a casino, build up his poker-playing credentials, and make a name for himself. Who would miss him?
Carlotta? Only when it came to meal time, since he did most of the cooking.
Liz? Unlikely. She might even be glad he was out of the picture.
Meg? Maybe at first. Then she would concede that her father was right about Wes, that he was an unsavory sort who couldn’t be trusted.
His dad?
The thought of not getting to talk to his father gave him pause. On the other hand, if anyone understood the impulse to run from his problems, it would be Randolph.
He stilled. Was this how his father had felt all those years ago, overcome with problems that seemed insurmountable to the point that the best solution was to disappear?
A horn blasted into the air, jolting him out of his reverie.
“Get out of the road!” a driver yelled from a mini-SUV that had stopped inches from Wes’s rear bike tire.
Wes realized he was sitting like a statue in the lane next to the curb. He gave the driver an apologetic wave and pushed off, pedaling toward the agreed-upon meeting place with Mouse.
Mouse was one of The Carver’s henchmen who had smoothed the way for Wesley to be folded into the loan shark’s organization under the guise of paying off his own gambling debt. Unaware that Wes had agreed to infiltrate the group to gather information on The Carver’s drug-running son Dillon, the big man had taken Wes
under his wing, had even taken it upon himself to kidnap Wes and force him to go through drug detox in one weekend.
But that didn’t mean Mouse wouldn’t tie a cinder block to Wes’s dick and drop him in the Chattahoochee River if he found out he was the one who’d sent the anonymous tip to the police about the headless body.
At Grindhouse Killer Burgers, the black Town Car was already sitting in the parking lot. The driver side window zoomed down to reveal Mouse wearing a makeshift bib of several napkins and wrecking a massive cheeseburger.
“I thought you were on a diet,” Wes said.
The big man held up the burger. “It’s on a potato bun—that’s a vegetable.”
“I stand corrected. You look skinny already.”
Mouse popped the trunk. “Get in, smart ass.”
Wes circled around to stow his bike, and paused—once he’d found a severed finger inside.
And just like that—a memory smacked him up the side of the head.
The severed finger had belonged to the man who had also become separated from his head…and the finger had been wrapped in his jacket Mouse had yanked off him once when he was trying to get away. Mouse had warned him they were keeping the blood-soaked jacket, which conveniently had Wes’s monogram on the inside pocket (thanks, Carlotta) in case Wes decided to sell them out.
Christ, if he told Jack what he knew, the finger, literally, would be pointing back to him.
Wes’s heart was jumping as he lifted the trunk lid, but the only item in the carpeted interior was a big honking golf club.
“Bring the driver with you,” Mouse called.
He removed the club, then stored his bike. “New hobby?” he asked as he swung into the passenger seat of the Town Car.
“Nah,” Mouse said through a mouthful of burger. “I broke my old club over the head of a deadbeat sports gambler. Had to buy a new one.”
Wes fingered the TaylorMade SLDR driver. “This is a pretty nice club to be swinging at someone’s head.”
“That’s what the salesman told me. So I signed up for lessons.”
Wes blinked. “Really?”
“Thought golf might help me lose a few pounds.”
“Only if you actually learn how to hit that little white ball.”
“You play?”
“Used to, when I was a kid.” Wesley stroked the shaft of the shiny driver. “My dad took me.”
Mouse polished off the last of the burger and ripped off the bib to swipe at his mouth. “Is your old man dead?”
“No. He was just gone for a while. But he’s back now.”
Mouse frowned. “How long was he gone?”
“Ten years, give or take.”
From the intense expression on Mouse’s thick face, he could tell the big man was doing math in his head. “So you were just a pup when he left.”
“I guess.”
“Where’s he been?”
“I don’t know. He was a fugitive.”
Mouse stared. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Was he captured?”
“Not really—he’s been outsmarting the police for years. But my sister was in trouble, so he came out of hiding to save her life, and got caught.”
Mouse gaped. “For real?”
“For real.”
“Where is he now?”
“They’re holding him at the federal pen across town.”
Mouse winced. “Federal, huh? That’s no good. Why’d he run in the first place?”
“They say he stole a bunch of money from a bunch of rich people. He was an investment broker.”
“Wow…so you’re the son of a con man?”
Wes scowled. “He didn’t do those things.”
Mouse nodded, but looked unconvinced. Then his eyes widened. “Does this have something to do with the bug we found in your wall?”
“Maybe. I don’t know yet. The feds won’t let me see him.”
“I know a couple of guys on the inside if you want me to find out if he’s okay.”
Wes perked up. “Yeah, Mouse, that would be great. His name is Randolph Wren.”
“Hm…sounds familiar. Wait.” He snapped his fingers. “Wren—of course. I read about him in the newspaper and didn’t make the connection. They call him ‘The Bird.’ ”
Wes’s chest puffed up. “That’s right. The Carver isn’t the only criminal to have a nickname.” Then he blanched. “Not that my dad is a criminal…or The Carver either, for that matter.”
“I’ll make a couple of phone calls today, and ask my contacts to find out what they can.”
“Can you make sure he knows it’s me asking?”
“Sure thing,” Mouse said, then wrinkled his nose. “You smell like throw-up.”
Wes looked down at his splattered shirt. “Sorry—something didn’t sit well on my stomach.”
“Are you still sick from the withdrawal?”
“Nah. I guess it’s my nerves—my dad being back and all.”
Mouse grunted. “I’ve been a little nervous myself, wondering if you had anything to do with sending that anonymous letter about our dead guy to the police.”
Wes swallowed hard. “I told you I don’t even know who the guy is.”
“Good.” Mouse leaned over, removed an aerosol can of air freshener from the glove compartment and doused Wesley.
“Hey, watch the eyes!”
When the cloud cleared, Mouse steered the car away from downtown.
“Where are we going?” Wes asked.
“Driving range in the ’burbs. The two late-paying butt-cracks we’re collecting from are on the Georgia State golf team, and their roommate said they’re out improving their swing.”
“Ergo the golf club.”
“What the fuck does air-go mean? Is that a golf term?”
Wes cracked a smile. “Yeah, Mouse.”
They headed north on Georgia 400—and instantly hit a wall of slow-moving cars spanning every lane.
“Man, this traffic sucks,” Wes said. “I would kill myself if I had to deal with this commute every day.”
“You get used to it.”
Wes’s head snapped around. “You live up here?”
“What can I say? The schools are good.”
“You have kids?”
“Boy and a girl.”
Wesley really didn’t want to know that much about the man’s personal life, but now he was intrigued. “So…how do you like that?”
“Like what?”
“Being a dad.”
Mouse smiled. “It’s the best. My daughter is a dancer, and my son plays baseball. I don’t want to miss out on anything they do.” Then his smile vanished. “Sorry, Little Man, I wasn’t thinking. I mean, I’m sure your dad—”
“It’s okay,” Wes cut in. “It’s cool that you enjoy being a dad.”
But he knew what the man was thinking—how could Randolph Wren abandon his kids?
Maybe because Randolph didn’t feel as if he’d be missing out on anything.
Carlotta had been almost an adult when their parents had left—they had gotten to see her grow up, and probably assumed she would marry Peter and be fine.
But what about him?
Wesley bit down on his tongue and turned his head toward the window lest Mouse see the offhand comment had gotten to him.
Randolph had been a good athlete, and Wes always felt as if his virile dad was disappointed with his bony bespectacled son who was more comfortable with a book in his hands than sports equipment. Maybe Randolph had thought Wesley didn’t need him.
And vice versa.
Wesley’s thoughts fast-forwarded to his own impending fatherhood. What kind of father would he be? It wasn’t as if he’d had an example.
“You okay over there?” Mouse asked.
“Yeah,” Wes said, straightening in his seat.
“Hey, what’s going on with that girl you have a crush on—Maggie?”
“Meg,” Wes corrected, realizing too late he’d wa
lked right into that little confession.
“Meg, right. So you two are an item?”
“Uh…no. That’s not going to work out.”
Mouse frowned. “Why not?”
“We’re just too different,” Wes said.
Which was true. Meg was the kind of girl who had the world by the balls…and he was the kind of guy the rest of the world had by the balls.
“So what’s the plan?” Wes asked to change the subject, pointing to the sign ahead for the driving range.
Mouse handed him a creased flyer featuring the smiling Georgia State men’s golf team. Two of the headshots had been circled with a red crayon. “The plan is for you to strike up a pleasant convo with these two big spenders—Darrell Plank and Tom Morrow—and collect at least a fiver from each.”
“Or?”
Mouse nodded to the driver Wes held. “Break it in for me.”
Wes hefted the club, indulging in thoughts of spending weekends on the golf course with his dad once all their problems were behind them. He really did need to practice his swing. His dad didn’t need to know how he’d developed his technique.
Chapter Ten
“PETER, IT’S FINE,” Carlotta assured him over the phone as she walked on the sidewalk toward the exhibition hall. “The young man’s death was tragic, but there was nothing sinister about it.”
She should know—hadn’t she tried to turn it into a homicide?
“Still, I don’t like it,” Peter said. “You’re supposed to be resting and giving your shoulder a chance to heal. What if the guy had some sort of virus and you catch it?”
“If that were the case, I’m sure the CDC would be all over it.”
He made a frustrated noise. “I worry about you.”
“Don’t,” she said, then realized her tone was a little sharp. “I’m fine,” she soothed. “How are things at the office?”
“A little strange. The partners have been scarce, and when they come in, they sequester themselves.”
“Has anyone mentioned Randolph to you?”
“Only Brody Jones. Walt told him you and I had gone our separate ways.”
“And?”
“And…he said he thought it was a good career decision.”
She knew that—but still, it stung. “Anything else?”
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