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Logan
“They ain’t here, boss,” Spider says. “I don’t know where the fuck they are. I’ve checked and ... goddamn, boss. I just don’t know. Cora’s gone, too.”
“Goddamn it!” I snarl. “God fucking damn it! Get the fucking men, all the fucking men, gather them at the club and get them ready. It’s time to go to war.”
I hang up the phone and kick my bike. I’m about to ride off, fire in my veins, when my cell buzzes again. I answer, thinking it’s going to be Spider, but the voice which sings across the phone doesn’t belong to my MC. It’s Moretti, sounding smug, victorious.
“Hello there, Logan,” he says. “How are you doing this fine afternoon?”
“Fucking animal!” I snap. “Fucking prick!”
“I’m the animal? I’m not the one growling. Calm down, please. Listen to this.” There’s silence for a second, and then a noise which seems to leap from the phone and burrow into my brain. She screams loudly, in pain, screams which make me feel weak and useless and impotent, screams which make me feel like I’m the one causing them for letting her out of my sight.
“I’ll kill you. I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”
“Sure, sure. Okay, Logan. You’re a real tough guy. You asked what I wanted. Now let me tell you. I want to torture this tight little whore until she gives me her money, and if she doesn’t feel like giving up the money, I’m sure I’ll have a good time anyway. Look at her. How can women think they can cover themselves in tattoos and not attract men like me, Logan? Can you tell me that? My father once told me that tattoos are for men what the weak antelope is for the lion. It’s a signpost, telling us that she’s a freak, she’ll do anything we want. Why else would she get them?”
“Because she wanted to get them, you fucking lunatic.”
“Wanted. They never want anything. They just do things. See you later, Logan. Have a good day.”
“Wait.” I listen closely, past Cora’s crying and past Moretti’s smug breathing—only he could make breathing smug—to the sound of construction workers beneath it all. They’re down the street, it sounds like, a drill and a truck backing up, the familiar beep-beep-beep.
“What?” he asks. “Are you going to sing me a song?”
“Just let her go. Do you want money? I can get you money.”
“I want money. I want her money.”
I scan my mind, thinking back over the past week of riding about town. Where are they doing construction? I flounder for a moment and then my mind settles. I remember. There’s a place a few streets over from the club, a block of apartments which is being demolished to make room for another block of apartments.
“We can work this out,” I say.
“Work it out? I’m winning. Why would I want to work it out when I’m the one in the lead? I’ll see you around, Logan. Don’t lose too much sleep thinking about what’s happening to your tattooed little whore.”
He hangs up the phone. The urge to toss my cell at the wall comes over me, to kick my bike, to punch the brickwork of the nearby bakery until my hand swells to twice its size. The urge to shout and shoot and kill. But I fight it all. I have to be calm now. I have to be deadly.
I call up Spider. “It’s time to go to work.”