I cried for a while and regretted my decision to pour away all my booze. I lay there feeling sorry for myself, my mind spinning through “what-ifs” and “if onlys” until exhaustion finally freed me from despair and I fell asleep.
It was late afternoon when I finally woke. I knew because golden sunlight was filling my living room, streaming through the open front door. I wiped my raw eyes and looked around the wreckage of my living room. There on the floor near me was a photograph, face down. I picked it up and regretted it the moment I saw the image. It was of Walter Glaze. The picture must have fallen out of the wallet Rasper had taken along with Walter’s watch and my money.
He had his arm around a woman with a beautiful smile, and they stood behind a pair of boys who were clearly their sons, and an older girl, their daughter.
I wondered what kind of gangster carried such sweet keepsakes with him. The boys were younger than Skye, but the girl was about Skye’s age, and I couldn’t help but puzzle over how they were feeling. Skye would miss me. Even after all my mistakes, I knew I still had a place in my kid’s heart, and maybe it was the same for Walter. They wouldn’t know their father was a villain, would they?
I couldn’t let these kids suffer for nothing, not Walter’s sons and not my Skye, who deserved her college fund.
I had to get that money back.
I stood, staggered to the door, and headed out. A few steps into the warm afternoon, I remembered to shut the door, but the lock was broken, so the best I could do was pull the door shut. I didn’t much care, there was nothing else in the house worth stealing anymore.
By the time I got to Rick’s, adrenaline, shame, and anger had burned away most of my hangover.
The bar was officially closed, but Rick’s car was in the lot next to my Range Rover. I’d been too drunk to drive and had left the keys with Rick. I found him inside, stocktaking.
“You look like you could use a drink or three,” Rick said. “But I can’t serve you this early. Here are your keys.”
He tossed them at me, and I fumbled the catch.
“Thanks,” I said as I stooped to pick them up.
He was nice enough. Cynical, jaded maybe, but no more than you’d expect from a man who’d heard every sob story going. Part counselor, part therapist, he managed to make people think he cared while maintaining the passionate disinterest essential for anyone whose job involved pumping people full of stuff that wasn’t good for them. He was friendly without ever becoming anyone’s friend. The enigma everyone knew. He had a small beer belly that hung over the top of his belt, and his thinning hair made him look older than his years.
“I just wanted to ask you about some guys who were in here last night.”
His face fell. “The metalheads?”
I nodded. “I hit turbulence. Or rather the turbulence hit me.”
Rick shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry to hear than, man. Frankie Balls is their leader. Guy with brown curly hair and the Metallica T-shirt. I don’t know who the others are, just that they’re dealers and gangsters. Bad news.”
“Why have I never seen them before?”
He shrugged. “No idea, man. But whatever happened, let it slide. They’re a known quantity in Compton. Bad news. Even the big gangs won’t touch them.”
“Where do they hang out?”
“Peyton…,” he began.
“I’m not going to do anything stupid. But I can’t let it slide.”
He shook his head and smiled knowingly. “Frankie owns the pool hall on Raymond Street.”
“Thanks,” I replied, heading for the door.
“Be careful, Peyton,” he called after me.
“I’m just going to talk,” I assured him, but I started trembling as I left the bar.
I knew I wasn’t going to get my money back without a fight.