“Alone?” he calls, the suspicion in his tone palpable.
“Yes, alone.” I need to talk, and there’s no one around here who’ll understand. “Keep the Rose thing under your hat.” I don’t know when or where will be the right time to share the news, but I do know it’ll cause some serious worry, because everyone who knows me knows how fiercely I’ll protect my wife. Now that she’s pregnant? I’m a man more on a mission than I’ve ever been.
As I pull away from the house, the heavens open and the windscreen gets pelted with fat, relentless raindrops. The freeway is clear. It’s probably a good thing, since my mind is elsewhere. It’s one of those journeys you make that when you get to your destination, you stop for a moment and try to recall any part of the time it’s taken you to get there. And can’t.
Through the sunroof, I see the sky swirling, moving fast, carrying away the last of the gray clouds. The rain comes to an abrupt stop.
I get out and remove my jacket, slinging it on the driver’s seat before taking a slow walk into the graveyard. His grave has settled, grass now covering the mound of dirt that was made three years ago. A few daffodils scattered. A headstone that reads simply “Mister.” It was a sensible choice. There are many things I wanted to have engraved, but knowing the world I’m in, once they’d discovered where the notorious Carlo Black, my father, was buried, he’d be dug up. His grave vandalized. I wanted to ensure he really did rest in peace for all time.
“Well, what a turn up for the books, eh, Mister?” I say, settling on the grass and lighting up. He always wanted a kid and not a woman. So he took me. What would he think if he was here to see me wanting a kid and a woman? He’d tell me I’m stupid. He’d be right. But stupid feels good on me, and what I’m going to do because of a woman is definitely stupid. Plain, cold dumb. Dumber than faking my own death ever was.
My mobile rings. Brad. “Worried about me?” I ask when I answer, knowing he’s probably shown up at the house and found me missing with no explanation from anyone of where I am. Alone.
“How many times do we need to go over it? Never, not ever, should you venture out on your fucking own, Danny.”
“That’s a yes, then,” I say, smiling as I pull another drag. “I’m fine. Just visiting Pops. I’ve got a lot to fill you in on.”
“James told me.”
Oh, good. Saves me a job. But . . . “What exactly?”
“About our new friend Spittle Junior,” he replies, and I breathe out. Brad is going to shit bricks what he finds out about Rose. “But he hasn’t told me your plan because you’ve kept your mouth shut on that little detail.”
“Do you trust me?”
“No.”
I smile. “I’ll meet you at the club later.” I hang up before he can browbeat me into spilling. Now’s not the time.
And what the hell is that I see on Pops’s headstone?
I slip my cigarette between my lips and push myself up, my forehead heavy as I move in closer. There’s a piece of folded paper resting on top, held down by a metal paperweight.
With a bear engraved into it.
“What the fuck?” I breathe, turning on the spot, searching the graveyard high and low. The silence is suddenly eerie as I reach behind me and pull my gun, flicking my cigarette aside. I pocket the paperweight and take the note. Only the bottom of the paper is wet. The top is dry.
Splitting my attention between unfolding it and keeping an eye on my surroundings, I open it to reveal a phone number. Nothing else, just a number. The problem isn’t only where the hell that paperweight and note came from, but how the fuck they knew where to put it. I don’t need to ask myself when. I glance around me again, calming my breathing to a point I may as well be holding my breath, and with my jaw tight, I head back to my car, pulling my jacket out and throwing it onto the back seat before getting behind the wheel. I sit, staring at the graveyard that’s now basked in sunshine. No more rain. I start the engine, pull away, and I keep my eye on the lane ahead. I take a left at the junction, heading back toward the city. Then an immediate right. A three-point turn. I pull over and leave the engine running, and I wait, sunk into my seat, eyes peeled, a constant sneer on my lips.
Five minutes pass.
Ten minutes.
Twenty.
Patience.
Half an hour later, a Lexus appears from the lane that leads to the churchyard, and I breathe in calmly, shifting in my seat, squinting to see better, but the glare of the sun on the windscreen is hampering my view. The car turns toward the city, and I pull out slowly, turning right at the junction. I keep my distance and dial Otto. “Take this license plate number and see what you can find.”
“Got it.”
I reel off the digits. “Gray Lexus,” I add before hanging up and dialing the number left on my father’s grave. He answers with silence, and I relax in my seat, my eyes rooted on the car up ahead being driven by . . . who? “What can I do for you?” I ask calmly.
“I have a proposition for you.” A voice distorter. Fucking coward.
“What might that be?” An offer to crawl into his corrupt fold? A request for clemency?
The silence drags again, the tension in my car building. His inhale crackles down the line. “I’ll give you peace in my city,” he says calmly. There’s a certain emphasis on my that I ignore—the deluded fuck—and I wait, patient, because I know there’s a catch coming. “If you give me The Enigma.”
My surprise is very real, but I still smile. His move is a huge red flag. An indicator of his frame of mind. He’s losing, and he knows it. Men like this don’t offer peace. “It’s my city. So, it’s a no from me.”
“What is it, Black? You don’t make deals with the Devil?”
I smile at the road ahead, my skin prickling with irritation. “I am the Devil,” I say quietly. “And I’m about to take you to the lowest level of Hell.” I hang up and realign my focus on the Lexus, following it back into town. It pulls into a gated underground carpark, and I curse under my breath, being forced to park across the street. I glance up at the apartment block. Ten floors high. At least ten apartments wide. “Fuck,” I curse, getting out and wandering across to the intercom by the main entrance. Eight buttons across. Ten down. Only numbers, no names.
I call Brad and go back to my car. “He left a note on my father’s grave,” I say when he answers. “A phone number.”
“Did you call it?”
“Yes. He offered me a deal.”
“Then take it and let’s get back to business. What does he want?”
“James.” I get into my car, not surprised that Brad’s next words are delayed.
“Fuck.”
Indeed. “The note was wet. Only on the bottom where it was resting on the headstone. The top was dry.”
“Meaning?”
“It only stopped raining when I pulled up.”
A brief silence as I stare at the carpark entrance. “Where are you, Danny?”
“I followed the Lexus to an apartment block in town.”
“For fuck’s sake. Where? I’m coming.” There’s a collection of sounds in the background, and all I can think in this moment is . . . What would James do if the boot was on the other foot? I could hand over The Enigma on a silver platter and walk away. Go back to St. Lucia. Give Rose what she wants. Raise our baby in peace and safety. I rake a stressed hand through my hair, my mind in chaos.