Chapter 26 – Ethan
Twenty-Six
Ethan
S he’s gone. I crack before dinner because I miss her and I’m aching to check in on my favorite pot-bellied pig. Or look in on a quick online poker game. I fight the urge by drinking a beer and angrily re-reading Amanda’s note.
At Mallory’s tonight. I’ll be back.
She won’t come back. I acted like an immature pig. I should have been more specific. Now, she’s gone straight to Mallory, exactly who I warned her against. Fuck. I’m an idiot and Wyatt or Owen would have handled this much better.
I call Owen for advice.
“Don’t do it,” Owen says when he picks up. “Don’t go all in on that pig.”
“I’m not gambling.”
“What’s wrong?” Owen asks, laughing in disbelief, or maybe just outright mocking me. I don’t care. He’s a dickhead.
“My girl went over to her friend’s house… maybe for the night. I need someone to tell me it’s not a stupid idea to break in and bring her back.”
Owen laughs again. “Is this what you call laying low?”
Between the lines: Wyatt is going to kick our asses if you get into trouble.
“I don’t care if I go to prison.”
“You are fucked in the head. What’s wrong? What did you do to her?” He gets more serious, and I remember why I called Owen instead of Wyatt.
“Why are you assuming it’s my fault?”
“Because we’re brothers. And gamblers.”
“She’s in her head because I don’t trust her business partner.”
“You don’t trust anyone. You’re paranoid.”
“I’m not fucking paranoid. I investigated and watched Reed Hollingsworth pull the teeth off some fucking paisano from Pittsburgh…”
My stomach turns. Reed laughed the entire time, but I had to stiffen up to stop myself from getting sick. Darragh was all business about the situation, he didn’t even flinch. I’m not a bitch, but blood is goddamn disgusting. I would have run it a little cleaner so we didn’t have to get rid of all that blood spatter.
“Right. You found out there’s some mob family out in Pittsburgh that hates the Irish, hates the Italians from Buffalo, even if they’re all Italian… Who the fuck cares?”
“That girl could be from a mob family.”
“The black girl?”
“Are you fucking listening, Owen?”
“Can you calm the fuck down?” Owen growls at me, like I’m in the wrong somehow. My brother pisses me off sometimes.
“Not the black girl. Her friend.”
“Is her last name Italian? Does she gesture with her hands when she talks?”
“You’re not funny, Owen.”
“I’m paranoid.”
“What if she doesn’t have her father’s last name? What if she cut him off or something. Or her mom is a goomar”
“You are out of your mind obsessed with this chick,” Owen says. “Why don’t you get her tatted and calm down. Your paranoid thoughts will relax eventually.”
“This isn’t about me being possessive.”
“Have you tried talking to her?”
“Why the fuck would I do that?” I’m beginning to question my judgment for bringing this to Owen in the first place. When has talking to a woman ever made her see reason? I’ve been nothing but kind to Amanda. I even moved back to Boston with her and now… she’s gone and off with this woman I don’t trust.
Owen sighs. “You might get information without flying off the handle. Buy her some flowers, say sorry for being an asshole and get her to come back home.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m smart. Huge difference.”
“Does that work on Vickie?”
“Vickie works on me,” Owen responds. “And she needs a firmer hand.”
“You don’t know Amanda.”
“I know she must be an angel to put up with you this long.”
I grunt in response.
“Any sane woman would have made a few attempts on your life at least,” Owen responds. “Just calm down and go over there. Act like a teddy bear, not a grizzly bear.”
“This is stupid.”
“Relax,” Owen says. “Call back if you screw up.”
Before I can ask him why he would assume my screw up, Owen hangs up. Fuck…
The two choices sit before me – go crazy and drag Amanda away from her best friend’s house, or calm down enough to approach the situation like… a man who isn’t afraid of losing her even when it’s what I fear most in the world.
I get on my bike, but I don’t have time for flowers. I ride straight to Mallory’s place. Amanda thinks I don’t pay enough attention to know where her best friend lives, but Boston isn’t a confusing sprawl like Dallas or Los Angeles. The distinct neighborhoods are small, and the residents don’t venture far.
Mallory lives on the second floor of a large Victorian house since sectioned into four distinct condos. The house is about halfway down the block with a blue door. The side streets force me to slow down once I leave the main road.
But when I veer right to turn onto Mallory’s street, a large silver Chrysler blocks the road. Weird. The Boston PD gives out tickets like suburban moms give out Halloween candy. Parking is prime real estate in the city. Strange. I pull over behind a parked Prius and peer over my shoulder to see who the hell is sitting in the Chrysler.
He doesn’t look up from his phone. But whoever he is also wears a black ski mask, with just the bottom pulled down while he raps along to whatever song vibrates the Chrysler’s bass. I get off the bike. If this man is some type of lookout… I crouch behind the Prius after pushing the kickstand of my bike.
Fuck. Is this paranoid, or justified? I’m about five giant Victorian houses away from Mallory’s. Keeping low, I scurry behind three parked cars on the right side of the road, staying out of view of the dummy in the Chrysler. I stop behind a silver Rav-4 about two houses down from Mallory’s and peer through both windows at the street.
A black Dodge Caravan blocks the other end of the street. I might be paranoid, but those cars could be circling Mallory’s place. With Amanda inside. I’m already sweating bullets as my heart pumps so fast that I can hear the blood rushing past my ears.
I notice everything. A bike parked across from Mallory’s place. Then two men walking from the direction of the black Dodge dressed in black suits. They stop at the building’s front door.
They could live there, right? There are four units…
But my instincts know the truth. After all the jobs I’ve done over the years, I know enough to know that it’s no coincidence for there to be two getaway cars – or kidnapping cars – blocking off the street with random suits trying to get into a Cambridge condominium.
Something’s wrong…
I reach into my pocket and crouch behind the Rav-4 again, feeling like a crazy person as I try to call Amanda. What do I expect her to do? Jump out the window? Her phone rings. Three. Four times. She doesn’t answer.
Fuck. I look up again and the suits are inside the building. Two more cars pull up behind the black Dodge caravan. Three men get out of the black Mazdas that just pulled up, also dressed in suits. They walk straight through the front door without fumbling the handle. The first guys must have broken through.
Shit…
I try calling Amanda again, but she doesn’t pick up. I have to go in there.
The only problem with going in there is that I’m seriously outnumbered. Four men could kill me. But they could also kill Amanda… and I can’t let anything happen to her. Even if I’m right about that friend of hers Mallory being up to no good…
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