Authors: EC Sheedy
Phylly’s name hit the room like an arctic wind, chilling the room palpably, and Joe Worth’s interested gaze iced up along with it. “I know who Phyllis Worth is,” he said. “And I know
what
she is. What I don’t know is who you are or what your connection is?”
April couldn’t sit still any longer, so she got up and took her coffee mug with her to the window. His question was valid, but she wasn’t sure how he’d take her answer, or even if it was the right one. “You could say, I’m your . . . sister.”
He stared at her as if she’d handed him a live virus. “I might have a sister, but what I don’t have is a mother.” His face set to mean, like the poster in his outer office, he got up, came around to the front of his desk, and headed for the door.
He was going to throw her out—without hearing what she had to say. She didn’t intend to let that happen. She’d promised Cornie; she wouldn’t let her down.
She caught him by the arm and got in his face. “Yes, you do,
Joseph Jonathan Worth.
You have the same mother I do, and she needs your help. She’s in trouble.
Serious trouble
.” April played her ace. “Life and death kind of trouble.”
He stopped, looked at her long and hard, before dropping his gaze to where her hand still gripped his bicep. His very hard bicep.
She let go, and he strode to the door and opened it wide. “Get out of here, Legs—go tell someone who gives a damn.”
Chapter 2
Henry Castor was enthusiastic—about his new Seattle penthouse, his new Mercedes, his new everything, including the excellent scotch he was trying hard not to swallow in one boorish gulp. After tonight, he’d have the money to be a classy guy. He planned to act the part.
He made a silent toast to Victor Allan. After all, everything good that was about to happen to him he owed to anal old Victor. He’d even given Henry options, two surefire routes to mega-cash, but no contest really. The man in front of him—fancy on the outside, shit on the inside—was his kind of guy. A guy with a lot to protect and a lot to lose. Which made him plan A. Yeah.
But Jesus. Who’d have thought Henry Castor, the backroom guy, would be sitting in a library
—a goddamn library, for Christ sake
—being offered booze in a crystal glass by none other than Quinlan Braid. One of the richest men in Los Angeles. Hell, all of California. A man the newspapers referred to simply as Q, and the man who was about to give Henry his heart’s desire. A brand new life.
No more strong-arm stuff.
No more bloodied knuckles.
No more Victor telling him what to do.
Henry downed the last of his scotch, noticed the pulled threads on his suit cuff, and tucked his arm inside the chair.
“Are you comfortable, Henry?” Q said.
“Yes, sir, Mister Braid.” Might as well be respectful. Not that it mattered, because when this meet was over, it would be Braid calling him sir. Yeah.
“Good, then we can proceed.” The tall, imposing man smiled down at him. At least Henry thought it was a smile. Odd how the rest of Quinlan’s face didn’t join in with it, though. Like it wouldn’t dare a wrinkle on his smooth California tanned skin.
The man with eyes so dark they looked black had to be over fifty, but looked ten years younger.
Money did that
, Henry thought sourly: Fancy spas, lots of good sex, the best food, the best of everything. Not for Q, the sweaty back-alley gym, wilted salads in the local diner, and a case of cheap beer on the weekends. Or worse yet, one of those celebratory bottles of crap wine Victor handed over when a job went to his liking. Wine that had gotten even worse since old Victor’s business started going downhill, while Quinlan here lived larger than large and looked like a movie star while he was at it.
Henry couldn’t wait to do the same. Although given his five-feet-eight inches of height and super-sized muscle mass, he’d have his challenges.
Deciding it was time to get things rolling, he held out his glass. “Any chance of getting this topped?” He liked the idea of Quinlan pouring for him.
“Certainly.” Q poured the amber liquid—to the halfway point—and smiled again. Funny that smile. Looked like it was cut into his face with dull scissors.
Q sat opposite Henry on a fancy leather sofa, about a thousand feet long, and sipped from his glass. His black eyes studied Henry over its rim—like he had pus on his face or something. “You mentioned Victor Allan’s name,” he said. “Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say you used the name as a ticket to my study.”
“That I did. Yeah.” Henry took a swig of scotch, and ignoring the coaster on the fine cherry wood side table, set down his glass—ready to talk business. “Always good to have a mutual pal, huh?”
“May I ask the nature of your relationship to Victor?”
“Business partner.” He pressed two fingers tight together, held them up. “Like this.”
“Really?” Q sipped from his glass. “Odd Victor never mentioned you.” Q eyed him as if he were a crumb on his shirt front. Like Victor always did.
Because Victor didn’t think I was good enough for the front office as he called it. Always telling me my blood ran too high, that I had “anger-management issues” or some shit. Like that didn’t work for him. Yeah. I was the hired help, the backroom hammer, the guy who kneecapped the seriously overdue and pulled out fingernails when a monthly installment was missed. “You’re my enforcer, Henry. My back-alley guy. No point in you mixing with people not of your ilk. Plus, you look like shit in a tuxedo.”
Henry never did get that “ilk” thing.
Remembering Victor’s words, all the crap he’d taken, Henry’s mood darkened.
All those fuckin’ years . . .
and the bastard turned on him, tried to phase him out.
“Times have changed,” he’d said. “New blood, Henry, that’s what I’ve got now. Fresh, young talent, who can set things up, make things happen.”
Years of resentment lodged in Henry’s chest like a heap of coal. “Not surprised he didn’t mention me. No.” He jumped back into the conversation game. “I more or less worked in the field, you know. Wasn’t around much. Yeah.” He smiled, even though he didn’t like either the guy’s tone or his pointy eyebrow—made the back of his neck heat. This asshole was Victor all over again, looking down his skinny nose at him, thinking because he had muscle he had no brain. Well, he’d showed Victor and he’d show him.
“And now Victor is gone,” Q said, not looking as if he gave a shit.
“Six weeks now. Yeah.” Henry said, as happy at the thought today as he had been sitting in the dumbass’s study watching him bleed out. “That’s why I’m here.”
Quinlan cocked his head. “I see.”
“Here’s the thing. I’m not sure you do
see.
But I’m going to set that to rights.”
“And how will you do that?”
“Like I said, Victor and I were partners. Shared everything, you know. Like those two musketeers—”
“Three. There were three musketeers. You’ll have to excuse me, I like exactitude.”
Henry didn’t get it but neither did he care. “Whatever. The thing is we were ‘all for one and one for all,’ or however that goes. If you get my meaning.” Henry met Quinlan’s eyes. He expected a trace of alarm, instead he saw amusement.
Cold cocky bastard.
He added the clincher, something sure to get his attention, “You remember that big safe of his? Behind the sliding wall in his office? Damn door in that baby was thick enough to take mortar fire.” He shook his head in real appreciation. “And now—since Victor’s sad passing what was in that safe is all mine. Yeah.” Henry’s heart thumped a couple of times before it settled. He held the fancy scotch in one hand and gripped the chair arm tight with the other.
Here we go . . .
“Including some stuff about a young Quinlan Braid. Interesting
—illegal
stuff.”
After a few seconds of silence ticked by, Q smiled again. This time the smile actually warmed his tan, tight-skinned face. “You killed him,” he said, his voice soft as cotton.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Q got up from his chair and walked the few steps to the fireplace. He set his drink on the mantel, and looked down on Henry. “Sooner or later someone was going to do it.” He nodded approvingly. “And, yes, as the chosen one, you’d do nicely. Exactly who Victor deserved.” He rested his eyes on Henry, looked him over good. Henry couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a trace of respect. “What do you want?” Q asked.
“Two million.”
The rich asshole didn’t even blanch. Didn’t answer either.
He pressed on, “A one-time payout, and I’m on a sunny island a million miles from here,” He waved a hand around to encompass Q’s fancy digs. “Out of your face.
Forever.
You go along with things, don’t make trouble, and you’ll never see this mug of mine again. Yeah.”
“Do I look like I was born yesterday, Henry?”
“I mean it. Two mil and I’m gone. Chump change for the big Q. A new life for me.”
“Beside the fact that two million dollars is never ‘chump change,’ I see no cause to concern myself with providing you a new life.” Q looked at his watch, like he had an appointment or something, like Henry was keeping him.
Rage balled in Henry’s chest. He rolled his head; even Henry Castor knew it wasn’t the time to let his temper get the best of him. “Look, I know an ace when I got one, and I know enough not to waste it. So let’s not bullshit each other. I saw your file in Victor’s safe, and I checked you out. You’re a busy man—a big man, with big-time friends. You got what they call a public profile. Hell, you’re developing half of California. Everything legit as hell. The way I figure it, you livin’ here in the Hills”—he again waved a hand around the fancy study—“you won’t want the likes of me showing up, splintering kneecaps . . . bothering your rich buddies, interfering in your day-to-day business. So I thought, Henry, the smart thing here is to lay down the ace. Do a one-shot deal. Let Q get on with his business.”
Nothing in Q’s expression changed. If anything he looked like he was going to laugh. “And why,” he asked, “if Victor had such an ‘ace,’ do you think he never played it, Henry?”
Victor was a spineless asshole, that’s why—and you scared the shit out of him. You and your millions.
But not Henry Castor. “Saving it for a rainy day maybe. Yeah.”
“No. He didn’t play the ace for two very good reasons, first because he didn’t have one”—he leveled a clear-eyed gaze on him—“and second, he understood considerable harm would come to him should he try.” Quinlan stepped away from the fireplace. “Now if you’ll finish your drink, I’ll show you out.”
“Not ’til I get what I came for.”
“You’ll leave with what you came
with,
Henry, a potentially fatal case of greed.”
It was Henry’s turn to smile, and if it was smug, who the hell cared. He was about to rattle this frigid asshole’s chain. “I got a lot more than that. I’ve got schedules of payment— times, dates, places—from you to Victor mostly. Big payments for bad stuff. Coke. Crack. The big H. Yeah. He sourced it. You moved it—a lot of it. And you know, Victor liked that ‘
exactitude’
idea as much as you do, because he kept records of everything, always writing in those journal things of his. Insurance he called it. But”—he shrugged—“your business being mostly drug deals, you’re right, not much proof other than old and, very dead, Victor’s scribbles.”
Henry had wasted weeks going through those fucking journals. He’d been looking for a pot of gold in what Victor called B & E Inc. The initials stood for blackmail and extortion. If Henry hadn’t been involved in one way or another with all of Victor’s clientele—until the new help had arrived—he wouldn’t have made sense of any of it. But he did, and what he found was that most of what was in the journals was useless crap. Outdated. Yesterday’s news. Half the clients were dead, for God’s sake. Victor didn’t need new
staff,
as he liked to call his new hires, he needed fresh meat, new victims. There was only one real payday in the whole mess, and Henry was looking at him. “And it’s not like you and Victor did the UPS thing and signed on a dotted line or anything,” he said, getting back to business. “One of your high-priced legal types would make the drug crap disappear like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“Your point—if you have one?”
“My point is I’m not talking about drugs, low-level shit. I’m talking about a bit of stink that
nobody
can make go away . . . except yours truly here.” He took an easy breath, starting to enjoy himself. “You remember that shipment you and Victor planned to send offshore?” He watched Q’s face closely. No expression. “Turns out that shipment never left the great US of A. Seems Victor fucked-up big time, but didn’t tell you. Figured what
you
didn’t know wouldn’t come round and bite
him
in the ass. Said best to let dangerous dogs sleep or somethin’ like that.”
Pure yellow-belly, old Victor.
Henry let his words sink in, saw the first crack in Q’s plastic face, a tiny tic in that steely jaw of his. He savored it a moment, before going on, “That shipment? She’s what? Maybe thirty something now. Probably seriously pissed about what happened back then, her taken from her mommy and all. And now, being all growed up, she’s likely ready for a little revenge.” He shook his head. “For a man like you, all legit and all, that’s big-time trouble.” He nodded his head, rubbed at his jaw. “Get that kind of pissed-off female talking to the press—about that career you and Victor set up for her . . . Yeah, trouble.” He left the rest to Quinlan’s imagination.
Henry gave him credit; he didn’t waste time on denials. “And you know where the
shipment
is, I take it.” His eyes didn’t narrow, they pierced. Sharp black lights, with an even blacker center.
Henry considered whether to flat-out lie and say yes or tell the truth. He looked into Q’s hard face and stone cold eyes, and opted for truth. “Let’s just say I’ll know if I need to know. Won’t take more than a co uple of days at most.”
And I’ll have her singing like a canary an hour after that
—
if you don’t cough up the two mil.