“I’ll tidy up my shit, Zeth, when you tidy up yours!”
I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about now; I lived like a goddamn monk before she showed up. Didn’t even own the TV. I had enough furnishings to make sure I had somewhere to keep my stash of aged whiskey and I had somewhere to sit and drink it, and that was about it. Suited me just fine. I indulge Lacey, though.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” she says, wrestling her way off the couch, snatching up her stuff as she goes. “That you should just quit pacing around this place and go and fucking get her! And after that, you should get an early night and not keep me awake with all your freaky sex noise. I have an appointment in the morning and you”—she stabs me in the chest with her index finger— “need to drive me.”
“What kind of appointment?” I already know what kind of appointment. I know exactly what kind—the only kind Lacey has ever had in the six months she’s been squatting like a vagrant in my living space. The kind that involves that Newan bitch.
“Don’t play dumb, buster,” Lace growls. She’s hilarious when she tries to act tough, but I approve of the attempt. It’s way better than when she locks herself in her room and stays so quiet that I think she might actually, really be dead. “It’s at ten am. I already got Sloane to make an appointment.”
“How? When did you speak to her?” I ask the questions way too quickly, like some fucking school kid quizzing his friends about his fucking crush. I need to get a grip. “You didn’t mention anything to her in the car.”
Lacey reaches into her pocket and pulls out her cell phone. She raps me with it right between the eyes. I think about killing her. “I used this. She’s pretty good at responding. But first you actually need to text her first. You can use mine if yours is broken.” She slaps the phone into my hand and then hustles down the hallway toward her room, kicking along the errant clothes that escape her pile as she goes.
******
“Hey, man, what’s up?”
“Just calling to let you know I found Rick.”
I haven’t called Sloane. I’ve pounded the shit out of my heavy bag, swearing with each and every hit, using the extra anger to smash my fist into the worn fabric just that little bit harder. It’s one a.m. when Michael calls.
“Yeah?” I wipe sweat from my face, stopping it from running into my eyes. “Where was he? What did he have to say for himself?”
“He was in three pieces in a dumpster a block away from Disneyland. And he wasn’t really in a talkative mood.”
I take one final, furious swipe at the heavy bag. The impact jars all the way up my arm, ringing bells inside my head. “Fuck. Fuck.”
“Yeah, boss. It was pretty bad. And when I say bad, I’m talking internal organs.”
Shit. Yeah, so I didn’t really like Rick, but I put him in Anaheim. I told him to wait there for me. And it was my stupid admission to Julio that sent his boys down there to investigate. I might as well have just shot him in the head back on the docks when he met with those bikers. Would have been a far more pleasant demise by the sounds of things.
“Where are you now?” I ask Michael.
“Already back at the other place. I’m just doing some…housekeeping.”
The other place. My crazy sex pad, as Sloane calls it. She’s the last girl I fucked inside those four walls; no further gatherings will ever be hosted there. It’s just a ridiculous suck on my funds now that it doesn’t serve a purpose. I should sell it.
“Okay, when you’re done there, do me a favor and slip by the girl’s place. Make sure everything’s quiet over there?”
“Sure thing.”
“Let me know as soon as you’ve got eyes on the building.” I end the call, and I quit on the heavy bag. I start on the chin-ups instead. I’m bench-pressing when Michael calls back an hour later.
“Got eyes, boss.”
Weirdly it feels like a weight’s been lifted from me as soon as he tells me this. That weightless, light feeling lasts all of five seconds, though. Michael continues. “I’ve got eyes on the place and it’s totally empty. She’s not here. The place is sealed up tight. No lights. No car. No Sloane.”
No lights. No car. No Sloane.
Each one of those statements feels like a huge hit to the stomach. “Well, where the fuck is she then?”
Michael makes a brief, strangled sound on the other end of the phone. For all of the world, it sounds as if the motherfucker just laughed. “There was a note under a rock on the front doorstep, boss. It’s not addressed to anyone, but I’m pretty sure it’s for you.”
“Tell me,” I grind out.
Another strangled coughing sound on the other end of the line. “It says, serve you right if I were dead, asshole.”