12

SLADE

The noise of my cell phone buzzing on the nightstand pried me from my deep sleep. I reached over, my eyelids refusing to open. By feel, I brought it to my ear.

The only acceptable interruption to my sleep would be if it was the stripper I’d slipped my number to earlier before the shit hit the fan.

But it wasn’t.

“It’s me,” a familiar voice said.

“Jumaine?” I croaked and sat up. “What the fuck? You okay?”

“Remember Baxter?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s all he is. A memory.”

“Holy shit. Seriously?” I shook my head and lowered the cell phone enough for me to see it, as if I couldn’t believe I was hearing this. “Is this a joke?”

“No.” His voice was grim. Jumaine did what needed to be done, but he didn’t like it. “I found him outside of The Rusty Bucket. He was going to blow up the joint.”

“What? Why? They have the best sliders.”

“Yeah, well, I changed his plans for him. Let’s just say that his Beamer has a pretty big sunroof in it now,” Jumaine said. “Anyway, I need a favor.”

Instantly, alertness filled me. If one of my buddies needed something, then by god I was going to do it. “I’m listening.”

“I want you to go down there and check if anybody saw me.”

“You let someone see you?” My voice rose two octaves up.

“No, but you never know. Just pass by and check things out for me. Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” I breathed out. Part of me still wondered if Jumaine was serious. “You really took care of that little twerp?”

“Yes. Are you heading out?”

“Yeah.”

Questions tumbled around my head as I pulled on some jeans. Somehow, Jumaine had just stumbled into Baxter? Who, for some reason, was going to bomb Margo’s bar? That shit made no sense. But at least the story had a happy ending.

Gambini’s little bitch had caused us a major headache. We’d been trying to get our hands on him, but we hadn’t had any luck.

So yeah, I’d go check it out. Make sure my buddy had done the job cleanly.

And I hoped like hell I’d see a big crater in the street.