XXV
Rain crackled against the window of the bedroom where lay Task, whose subconscious mind was currently (and baroquely) accusing him of a great many things. Thunder rumbled, awakening him from the troubling tableaux.
A digital clock told him it was just after two in the morning.
The slick grabbed his cellphone, sat on the edge of the mattress, and checked to see who had called, wondering if tonight would be the night he committed two acts of first-degree murder. There were no messages (other than one from Dingbang about a possible husband for Auntie), and Task was equally relieved and disappointed to find that homicide was not on his itinerary.
One week had passed since the meeting with Strembicky, and thus far, the consortium manhunt had yielded no fruit.
Loath to subject himself to any more nightmares, the slick decided to clean himself up and go to one of his parlors. Something cracked like a gunshot, startling him, and he soon realized that what he had heard was only an ambitious raindrop striking the air conditioner.
Task walked across the brown carpet, turned on his bedroom television, and raised the volume. Listening to a movie in which the residents of a small town tried to figure out why a bunch of bloodless corpses had perforated necks, he went to the toilet, urinated, washed his hands, shaved, and showered. The sheriff was asking a dwarf librarian for a book about vampires when the slick killed the power and left his apartment.
Hidden by the right leg of his mocha slacks and tucked into an ankle holster was his snub-nosed revolver.
Watching the shadows, Task descended the stairs to the lower level of the parking garage, approached his silver sedan, and seated himself. Darkness scurried as he turned on the lights. Purring, the car corkscrewed upwards to the street, where the windshield became a rippling sheet of water.
Wipers elbowed the rain as the slick drove southwest toward Preston Avenue. He was not sure when he had made the decision to go to this particular parlor, but it seemed to be his destination.
The yellow and white smears of street lamps and headlights swam across the windshield. Task turned on the radio and heard a blues-rock standard that his bar band had covered sixteen years earlier. This memory and the thought of the three dusty guitars that hung upon the paneled wall of his guest room sent his thumb to the power button.
The music vanished.
Listening to the rain and his thoughts, he drove through the wet city.
Task cornered onto Preston Avenue, reached the building that contained the parlor, and turned toward the entrance of the parking garage. The raindrops that fell between the car and the dark opening were changed into a curtain of diamonds by the headlights.
Soon, the silver sedan was out of the storm, trailing fluid as it climbed up the ramp. The slick claimed the open space next to the familiar purple compact, exited his vehicle, took the elevator to the second floor, walked to 243, bypassed the outer door, and turned the bolts.
Inside the airlock, he sent a text message to the manager. A reply came, and a moment later, two locks snapped.
The inner door was withdrawn by Karate John, whose face evinced concern. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
Task entered the lounge area of the parlor, shut the door, and twisted the bolts. Two longtime clients were sharing drinks on a sofa, and a third fellow was walking into the hollow refrigerator that led to the casino.
The manager appraised his boss. “You’ve come by early to check on things?”
“My apartment was feeling vast.”
Understanding came to Karate John, who then massaged his velvet beard. “Do you want to spend some time with Gabriella or Daniela?”
“Daniela?” Task repeated while thinking of his ex-wife whom he had seen four days ago at the funeral.
“Erin,” whispered the manager.
Preoccupied, the slick had momentarily forgotten the name that he had given the brunette butterfly. “I’m just interested in a drink. Maybe some conversation or cards.”
“Scotch?”
“Sure.”
Karate John opened the refrigerator and led Task through the recessed doorway into the gambling den, where soothing electronic music complimented the gold and blue track lighting. A politician, Chili, and an upper-level consortium guy named G.K. sat at the blackjack table, waiting for the return of the dealer. The members waved upon seeing the proprietor.
“Still raining hard out there?” asked the baseball player.
“Like bricks.” Task eyed Karate John. “See to them—I’ll help myself.”
Prompted, the manager returned to the waiting gamblers, all of whom had thick wallets and happy hands.
The slick went to the bar, poured an inch, and installed himself in a plush, royal blue chair. Preoccupied, he drank and stared at the blackjack table.
A cellphone buzzed in his pocket.
His skin tightened.
Rain crackled like popcorn against the curtained window that sat on the west wall.
Task retrieved the buzzing device and saw that the caller was Dingbang, rather than Strembicky. Equally relieved and disappointed, the slick let his voicemail hear the Asian fellow’s late-night complaints.
Rain crackled against the glass as the storm continued.
Task got up and poured himself a drink that had one more inch than did its predecessor. Two hands of blackjack later, the scotch was gone.
The walls of the room shifted, and gravity tugged at the slick’s uneven head. Buzzed, he rose from his chair, found his footing, and departed from the casino. Things wobbled as he entered the lounge and reclined upon the sofa that his dead friend had favored for his catnaps.
Task let his eyelids fall. Some guys said something about a basketball team, and somebody laughed. The voices went away.
Suddenly, there was a warehouse.
The slick stood in front of this enormous gray edifice, pulling the handle of an impossibly large door until it was five inches from the jamb. Somehow, he squeezed through this opening and entered the building. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness.
Handcuffed to incredibly elaborate steel pipes were Nowski, Andrea, Mr. Bronowski, Mrs. Bronowski, Captain Alder, Mrs. Alder, Daniela, Strembicky, and the agent.
Task walked toward the captives, whose throats were pale and exposed. Held in his right hand was an open pocketknife.
“Are you okay?”
The prisoners became a sofa cushion, and the slick opened his eyes.
Leaning over the couch in jeans, a sleeveless green t-shirt, and matching flip-flops was Erin. Her big sloppy purse adorned her left shoulder, and a lime scrunchie kept her chestnut hair from her face, which was currently wrinkled with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Task sat up and glanced at his cellphone, which contained no new messages. “I’m fine.”
“You’re losing weight,” the butterfly remarked through a frown. “What’d you eat for dinner?”
“Scotch.”
“That’s it?”
Rain crackled on the window as the slick ruminated. “Some painkillers.”
“Wanna go to the diner with me?”
Task’s stomach made some puppy dog noises.
“Sounds like you need it,” remarked Erin.
“I’ve got work to do.”
“Can it wait? Or be done by somebody else?”
“I’ll do the roundup with Dublin,” Karate John announced from the far side of the lounge. “You should go eat.”
“I need to do the roundup,” replied the slick. “I’ll grab something la—”
“Go with her and eat.” Sadness shone in the manager’s gray eyes. “You haven’t been taking care of yourself since Nowski died.”
Task did not bother to dispute this statement. “I appreciate the offer…but I should go. The lowriders are still out there, and if something—”
“Dublin and I go to the firing range every Tuesday and are capable. Go have a decent meal. Please.”
“Fine. I’ll eat.”
The slick stood, wavered, and realized that he was still a little bit drunk. It took him fifteen seconds to put his arms through the sleeves of his mocha blazer and another ten to get the top button through the slit.
Karate John eyed Erin. “You’re driving.”
“Affirmative.”
The trio was joined by the Brazilian, and as a group, they proceeded through the airlock, across the second-floor hallway, and down into the parking garage, where they then divided into three units. Task walked alongside Erin, checking the shadows for lowriders, while Gabriella and Karate John went in different directions, casually waving goodbye to each other in an attempt to hide the fact that they slept together (even though their boss knew about their trysts and did not care).
Flip-flops slapped heels and scuffed the concrete as the butterfly led the slick toward her purple hybrid. Sliding across the ground were a rectilinear shadow and a curved one that had swaying hips. Outside the parking garage, rain hissed.
“You parked next to me,” remarked Erin.
Task nodded his head, wondering if this action was yet another meaningful decision that had been made by his subconscious. “Did you do well tonight?” he asked while minding his footsteps so that he would not weave.
“How drunk are you?”
“A little.” The slick disliked the feeling of being drunk unless he was about to go to sleep. “But it’s fading.”
Erin pointed a small black rectangle at her car, which then chirped like a bird. “Nine in tips.”
“Wow.”
Karate John flashed a palm through the window of his black sports utility vehicle as he drove down the ramp.
“Any proposals?” asked Task.
“One.”
“Seems like you could make a career out of being an ex-wife.”
“I don’t really believe in alimony.”
“No?”
“Child support makes sense—and so does paying up front for sex—but reimbursing somebody for being your spouse seems to retroactively turn the entire marriage into a business transaction.”
“Interesting way of putting it.”
The slick and the butterfly reached the purple hybrid.
Standing beside the passenger door, Task surveyed the parking garage.
The dim gray enclosure was motionless.
At present, the slick remembered the dream in which he had carried a pocketknife across a warehouse toward the exposed throats of his friends, his affiliates, his ex-wife, a macho, and several corpses. His scalp tingled.
Dismissing the image, he opened the car door.
“Wait!”
Task froze.
Something crackled, startling the slick. Anxious, he looked around for the source of the noise.
“You okay?” inquired Erin, who had just pulled four inches of duct tape from the roll in her hands.
“Yeah.”
Adhesive crackled as the butterfly lengthened the strip. “Let me get the dog hair off of your seat.” She tore off the ten-inch piece and turned it into a loop. “You’re not allergic are you? To dogs?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Erin put the tape on her right hand, leaned into the car, and patted the passenger seat.
An engine purred, and Task watched Gabriella speed her dented black sports car down the ramp. “What kind of dog do you have?”
“Brussels Griffon, French Bulldog, Chihuahua, Yorkshire Terrier, and Bichon Frisé.”
“How many dogs is that?”
“Five. Small ones.” The butterfly rotated the loop of tape (revealing a side now covered with fur) and continued to pat the seat. “Can you throw those in the trunk?” She pointed to a stack of pillows that filled the foot well.
“Sure.” The slick claimed the pile. “What’re they for?”
“When I take the gang for a ride. They like put their heads through the window, feel the breeze, but they’re too little to get up there. Except for Wooferson—the Bichon.”
Task approached the trunk, which was silently opening on automatic hinges.
“I put that big fluffy pillow on the dashboard with bungee cords,” Erin added, “so that the gang’ll be safer if some asshole hits us.”
The slick put the pillows into the trunk, which contained five empty pet carriers and a large bag of gourmet dog food. “You’re a very considerate dog owner.”
“I don’t feel like I ‘own’ them—like they’re my property or anything. We just hang out. At home or in the park or cruising around, listening to music.” The butterfly stood up and pulled the loop of furry tape from her hand. “They’re into rap.”
Task closed the trunk. “That’s too bad.”
“Some rap’s okay—especially when there’s one of those buxom black ladies who can sing for real doing back-up—but that’s what they like. If I put on rock or pop or some other kind of music, Spazzington gets crazy.”
“Spazzington’s a good name.”
“Thanks.”
Erin followed her long bare legs into the driver’s seat, and Task closed the door behind her. Monitoring the parking garage, he circumvented the purple vehicle and entered on the passenger’s side. His right hand gripped the strap and shut the door.
The butterfly divided her breasts with a seat belt and slotted the buckle, which snapped. “You really think whoever robbed you is coming back?”
“It’s possible,” replied Task. “Especially if they’re stupid.”
“They outsmarted you, so they probably aren’t stupid.”
“Well…they surprised me, which isn’t the same as outsmarting me.”
Erin held up her hands. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t.” The slick eyed the rearview mirror. “But there’s a difference between two guys playing chess, and one guy taking a bunch of pieces off of the board before his opponent even knows there’s a game.”
“You’re right.”
“But still…there’re some things I should’ve done differently.” Task recalled Andrea saying, “You left him there,” and felt a flush of shame.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”
“Don’t worry about it.” The slick threw a practiced shrug. “What diner’s your favorite?”
Erin tossed her big sloppy purse into a space that a dwarf might have called a back seat. “I like Ed’s.”
“Me, too.”
The butterfly slotted the key into the ignition. Attached to her right elbow was the ball of furry tape.
Task removed the hirsute parasite, which he then stuffed into a cigarette compartment.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll throw it out at Ed’s. Unless you’re saving them up to build some kind of canine collage.”
“I’m not.”
The engine chittered three times and rumbled.
Anxious, the slick eyed the mirrors.
Erin shifted into reverse, and the gray wall retreated. Spinning the fuzzy purple steering wheel, she lifted her foot from the gas and braked. The vehicle stopped in the middle of the ramp.
Task looked through the windshield.
One hundred feet below loomed the bluish-black swatch that was the exit.
A glance at the dashboard clock told the slick that it was five thirteen.
Leaning forward, he raised the cuff of his right pant leg and withdrew his revolver.
Erin fingered the button for the high beams, shifted into drive, and accelerated toward the dark opening.
“Be careful,” warned Task, whose heart was thudding.
“How about fast?”
The engine changed keys. Concrete pillars and parked automobiles whooshed past the purple hybrid. Headlights shot through the exit into the rain.
The windshield crackled and became an opaque sheet of water as the vehicle left the parking garage. Unable to see, the slick stopped breathing.
Erin activated the wipers and dialed the steering wheel clockwise. Headlights swept across layers of falling tinsel.
Preston Avenue was empty, excepting the line of dark automobiles parked along the opposite curb.
Relieved, Task inflated his lungs, returned the revolver to his ankle holster, and patted the dashboard. “You know how to handle this thing.”
“Thanks. Though I drive a lot safer when I’ve got the gang.”
“My life’s not as valuable theirs?”
“Don’t be offended when I don’t answer that.”
Blinking yellow dots and luminous smears swam upon the windshield as tires cut water. The digital speedometer soon reached fifty.
“How does Diego feel about the gang?”
“He’s allergic.”
“Does he take pills or something?”
“No—I moved out and got a new place near Kingfisher Park. Queen Evil—the French Bulldog—already knows how to get there on her own.”
“You’re still seeing Diego?”
“No,” Erin said while keeping her eyes on the road. “We broke up.”
Task felt the atmosphere change. The air thickened, and the sounds of the storm grew louder. Nobody said anything.
Four years earlier, the slick had stopped having physical relations with his butterflies. His decision was not because he had a moral problem with taking care of his physical urges in this manner, but because the chosen women had been disappointed when he had not treated them any differently in the workplace. This unfulfilled expectation had created tension and eventually caused one very valuable commodity to quit.
Erin was now making Task reconsider his self-imposed rule. She had a lovely face, creamy skin, and a lot of great equipment, but the thing that really made her exceptional was the fact that she was so together. This was not how the slick would describe any other prostitute he had ever met, and he doubted that she would remain in the sex industry for very long.
Eventually, Task broke the silence. “Ending it with Diego seems like a good move.” This comment did not sound nonchalant, despite the hopes of the commentator.
The butterfly squeezed the fuzzy purple steering wheel. “I just couldn’t look at his worthless, lazy ass any longer. And I’ve always wanted dogs like this—a gang of littles.”
“I’d like to see them sometime.” This request had launched itself out of the slick’s mouth without any permission from his brain.
Erin eyed Task and then returned her attention to the road.
Outside, the storm roared.
Using an index finger that had green glitter nail polish, Erin pulled a loose chestnut curl behind her right ear. “We’ll see.”
A blinking yellow light swam across the windshield.
“Music?” asked the butterfly.
“Sure.”
The seat belt slid between Erin’s breasts as she leaned toward the radio.
Task felt the warmth of a budding erection. Deprivations, alcohol, and the qualities of the nearby woman were conspiring against his professional boundaries.
A rap song thudded into existence, and Erin fingered the middle preset button. Filling the car was a New Wave pop song that had been manufactured in the nineteen eighties by European robots who wore skinny ties and exclusive jackets.
The butterfly leaned back in her seat and gestured. “This good?”
“Much better than rap.”
“What do you like?”
“Blues and rock. Jazz when there’s some unity, and it isn’t just some pretentious heroin addict ‘exploring his instrument’ while other dudes wait for him to finish.”
The seat belt cupped Erin’s left breast as she leaned forward and fingered a different button. A blues song crawled out of the speakers.
“This kinda stuff?”
“Sure.”
Thunder rumbled as the butterfly sat back, flicked the turn signal, and spun the fuzzy steering wheel. The purple hybrid veered, carrying the blues and its two quiet listeners onto a cross street.
Focusing on the music (which was mediocre but had a strong bass line) kept Task from thinking about how Erin had looked upon the stage of Cherry Red while spinning around a sparkling pole in high heels and a thong.
Wipers swung back and forth, elbowing clear spaces upon the windshield.
“You play an instrument, right?” asked the butterfly.
“Did.”
“Guitar?”
“Yeah.” Task eyed Erin. “Why’d you guess that?”
“That’s the type of guy you are. Guitarist.”
The headlights of an oncoming city bus sparkled in the butterfly’s eyes and turned her thin green shirt into some kind of brassiere bas-relief. Amidst these lines were the raised circles of her areolae.
The oncoming vehicle zoomed past, and the interior of the car darkened.
At present, the slick returned his gaze to the road. “What type of guy is a guitarist?”
“It’s not an insult or anything.”
“I’m curious. You seem to have things figured out.”
Rain thickened, and Erin ratcheted a knob, which hastened the vacillations of the wipers. “There’re some exceptions, but yeah, I’ve got it figured.”
“Let me hear it.”
“Okay.
“Singers have to get a lot of attention. They need for other people to think they’re profound or special or sexy—kinda like actors. They crave validation, and’re often really insecure. That’s not the kind of guy you are.
“Drummers are usually loudmouths and sort of primitive. A lot of them have anger issues and stupid ideas that the rest of the band just tries to ignore. You aren’t that kind of guy either.
“Bassists aren’t doing all that much—they just kind of help things along, filling in the cracks. Half the time they’re playing, they look like they’re fishing for trout. That doesn’t fit you either…though it would’ve been my second guess, since sometimes they secretly run the whole show.”
The butterfly slowed the car and cornered. “Guitarists are different. Most of them study music and write music. And when they’re on stage, they don’t tell people who they are or what they’re thinking like a singer does, they show people who they are with the things that they create. With their ideas.”
For a moment, the slick wondered if plots that involved the creep, six black guys, and cement-filled postal boxes had superseded music as his primary mode of creative expression. “Sounds like you’ve been around some musicians.”
“A few.” Erin glanced at Task. “Why don’t you play anymore?”
“I’m doing this. My business.”
“Can’t you do both at the same time?”
“Not to my satisfaction.”
“Were you good?”
“Decent.”
“You think you’ll play again?”
“I plan to.”
A very lovely thing happened to Erin’s face. “Good.”
“I need sunglasses for that smile.”
Grinning, the butterfly patted the slick’s left thigh.
The feelings of guilt, dread, and pain that had filled Task for the past week were momentarily pushed to the perimeters.
Erin returned her right hand to the steering wheel.
“How does Spazzington feel about blues?” asked the slick.
“Don’t know.” The butterfly scratched the back of her head and shrugged. “Maybe I’ll find out.”
Task felt a gentle tug in his insides.
The wipers swept across the windshield, revealing a neon turquoise rectangle floating in the air. A halo of rain shimmered around this familiar sign, which was for Ed’s.
Headlights materialized.
Task glanced at the oncoming vehicle (which was a yellow station wagon) and realized that his nerves were far calmer than they had been at the beginning of the trip. The idea that the lowriders had identified the passenger of the purple hybrid and trailed him across the city without being noticed seemed preposterous, if not impossible.
Green glitter sparkled as Erin snapped the turn signal and turned the steering wheel clockwise.
“I like your nail polish.”
“Thanks.”
Tires splashed in a hollow, and the hood dipped. Bouncing forward, the purple hybrid entered the parking lot. The four spaces along the overhang were occupied by vehicles, which the slick surmised belonged to employees.
“Can you grab my bag?” asked the butterfly. “I’ve got an umbrella we can share.”
“Great.”
Task threw a hand into the back seat and seized the big sloppy purse as Erin slotted the car into an open space, shoved the gear stick into park, and killed the engine.
Raindrops crackled loudly upon the hood and windshield.
“Here,” said the slick, proffering a heap of straps, pockets, and buckles.
Turning, Erin looked at Task. Her gaze went deep into his eyes, lingering as she claimed her purse.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
The slick had wanted to lean forward and kiss the butterfly during that thick moment, but intellectually, he knew that he had made the right decision. If something were to happen between them, it should not occur an hour after she had finished a long night of work as a prostitute.
Erin flung a buckle-adorned flap, pulled a zipper, and opened her purse. Green glitter fingertips turned aside protein bars, breath mints, scrunchies, a paperback novel entitled Invocation in Blood, and a water bottle. During this rummaging, a driver’s license surfaced.
Task eyed the card.
The name at the top of the identification was Erin Hope Green, and the photograph was of the gorgeous brunette, but the slick noticed that something was off. This license (though valid) was the kind that the state of Florida had stopped issuing five years earlier, yet the woman had specifically told him that she had moved to Great Crown from California three years earlier. Although she might have simply misremembered the dates, it was possible that she had consciously lied about how long she had lived in the city. This discrepancy was not something about which he was especially concerned (most women in the sex industry lied about their pasts), but it did arouse his curiosity.
“Got it,” said Erin, who then withdrew a shiny purple baton.
“You like purple.”
“And green.”
“Your last name prophesied that.” Task claimed the collapsed umbrella. “I’ll come around and get you.”
“A gentleman.”
“Despite myself.”
The slick pocketed the ball of furry tape and climbed outside. Rain pelted him as he opened the umbrella. Partially shielded from the downpour, he closed his door, circumvented the front bumper, and strode to the driver’s side.
Erin soon joined Task underneath the small purple dome.
Rain hissed like television static as the slick elbowed the door, put the umbrella in his left hand, and curled his right arm around the butterfly’s bare shoulders.
“Let’s go.”
Pressing themselves together, Task and Erin proceeded toward the diner. Hard Italians and green flip-flops splashed water as rainfall soaked the slick’s left shoulder, which did not quite fit under the small umbrella. Quickening their strides, the pair entered a luminous curtain of turquoise rain that took its color from the neon sign. The precipitation changed back into flickering lines of white and gray as they circumvented the employee vehicles.
Erin and Task hurried under the overhang, where the rain was replaced by warm humid air.
Sporadically wet, the slick lowered the umbrella and shook off the accumulation. “That was exciting.”
“They usually tell you when a hurricane’s coming.” The butterfly aimed her little black remote at the storm, and ninety feet away, the purple hybrid chirped. “Glad I’ve got my flip-flops on.”
“You’re being facetious?”
Erin reached into her big sloppy purse and exchanged her keys for some folded paper towels. “I’d rather do this than have wet socks—” She leaned over and dried her pretty feet.
Task wriggled his toes and felt the water that had gotten into his Italians. “You’ve got a point.” He removed the ball of furry tape from his pocket. “Sure you don’t need this for canine repairs?”
“I’m sure.”
The slick put the hirsute wad into the trashcan, where the butterfly soon discarded some soggy paper towels. At present, she reorganized some chestnut curls that had escaped during the dash.
Task motioned to the front door and looked at Erin, whose green eyes returned his gaze. This look put an ache in his chest, and it was clear that the woman was also feeling something…though that did not necessarily mean that she would give in to her impulse.
Once again, the slick told himself that he should not kiss the butterfly after her long night in the parlor. “Let’s go inside,” said his mouth, simultaneously impressing and disappointing the rest of his body.
Erin broke the lingering eye contact. “Yeah—I’m hungry.”
Flip-flops shuffled, and Italians cracked.
At the front entrance, Task opened the door.
The butterfly said, “Thanks,” as she entered the turquoise and white diner, where she was soon followed by the slick.
“Anywhere you like,” said Charlie, who had planted her vehicular rump upon a stool at the front counter.
“Thanks.”
“Nice to see you.”
“You, too.”
Task deposited the wet umbrella in a bucket and guided Erin to a window booth, where they sat opposite each other upon turquoise vinyl benches.
“Did this pretty little thing do that to your face?” the black waitress asked while setting two enormous menus upon the table.
“Got in a fight with a squirrel.”
“Doesn’t look like you won.”
“No, but I got plenty of acorns.”
The waitress set waters upon the table. “So, where’s your buddy? Mr. Chicken Salad with Bacon on Rye?”
Task did not want to discuss Nowski at this time. “He’s away.”
“Okay. This one’s prettier anyhow.” The waitress repositioned her automobile and walked toward the kitchen. “I’ll come back for your orders.”
The slick raised his menu, thinking of the dead bodybuilder. His eyes started to sting.
“You guys were really close?” Erin asked from the other side of the laminated wall.
Task did not lower the barrier. “Yeah.” His throat felt thick.
The butterfly stood up, walked to the opposite bench, and scooted across the vinyl until she was next to the slick. Her right hand landed upon his nape and gently massaged tense muscles.
Warmed by the gesture, Task set down his menu and looked at Erin. “Thank you.”
The butterfly nodded her head. Her gaze was direct, and her lips were only inches away.
A cellphone buzzed.
The slick felt the device vibrate inside his right pocket, and his stomach knotted.
“You okay?” asked Erin.
“I’m sorry…but I need to see who this is…”
“Go ahead. It’s fine.”
Task withdrew the cellphone from his pocket and looked at the touchscreen.
The call was from Strembicky.