She thumbed through her notes.
A discussion needed to take place. Now was as good a time as any
“Agent Beck, how much do you need Gomez’s and my help with this?”
She responded pleasantly.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“There’s another case. I was helping out with it because...”
The situation seemed simple until he tried to explain it.
“…I thought it skated the edges of mine, but I was wrong. One of our guys is in a coma, and his partner is working two cases. One of them is his assault. She’s by herself on the other.”
“Then help her.”
He couldn’t tell whether she was being glib or kind. Either way, he knew she’d be happy to get him off her coattails.
“Thank you. I appreciate it. So will Detective Warner.”
“Give me your time for the rest of today and tomorrow. After that, just make sure you and Sergeant Gomez have your cell phones on you with the ringers audible. Okay?”
“I need to be somewhere at midnight tonight, if that’s alright.”
“Midnight? Really? Sounds fun. Let me know if…”
A voice boomed from the church lobby. “Agent Beck!”
She stood to face the source. A broad-shouldered agent was in a dead sprint, clutching a folded piece of yellow paper.
“Agent Beck! We’ve got a bomb!”
12. Riley’s Trophy Shop
“Goddam kid.”
Ian Reilly was crouched down in the front display window of his trophy shop. He had to rotate the ribbons, or they’d fade in the sun.
He was alone, and he was stewing.
None of the Reilly men were particularly good at letting anger subside, but Ian, as a rule, didn’t even try. His mother gave him flack at the hospital for wanting to leave.
“Pimple-faced jackass.”
Quentin, Ian’s assistant manager, had been in the shop by himself for a day and a half. The guy needed a break, that’s all.
Ian would never abandon his brother. That’s the word his mother used, “abandon.”
“The balls. The absolute balls.”
He wasn’t surprised that he’d gotten a fight. With June Reilly, family came first no matter what. And she was used to getting her way. Ian expected that kind of crap from his mom, but not his son.
“Twerp’s still having wet dreams, and he’s trying to tell me where I can and can’t go.”
He never should have told the boy what was going on with the UJ. Emotions were running rampant Tuesday morning in the hospital. For reasons he couldn’t remember, he felt the need to use his brother’s injury to teach his son about the price of being a man. It was a mistake. It was a big mistake. It was a mistake big enough to leave Ian in a display window talking to himself.
“I just want to get through the afternoon, close the shop, and go to F and J’s. I missed last night. I want to go tonight. I need a goddam drink.”
He used the hem of his golf shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead, exposing his hairy gut to Cherry Street. He was going to have to get out of the window soon; otherwise, he’d start dripping all over the display’s tissue-papered matting. Every joint cracked as he eased all 250 pounds of himself onto the empty shop floor. Once fully upright, he took a proud moment to look around the store (as he often did). The bulk of the landscape was taken up with cups and statues customized with bogus names.
“So that’s that.”
It was his shop…his empty shop. Quentin had gotten caught up with the engraving the day before. All of the orders were met. Ian’s customers would understand if he locked the door and went back to the hospital.
“No way. I am getting drunk tonight. If I don’t… those Unjudged fuckers win.”
13. The ICU Waiting Area
Braden Reilly knew what was up. He was a smart kid, especially when it came to his father. He didn’t mean to start a shoving match in front of the hospital elevator, but he knew his dad was only going to the trophy shop so he could go to Frankie and Jimmy’s afterwards. Braden had been hearing about the UJ for two days. He knew it was their turn to strike. He also knew what would happen if his father went to the bar. He would plop his fat ass down at the Reilly family table and drink himself silly until the place closed.
The tussle was broken up by a couple of orderlies. Ian was still hollering from the elevator as Braden turned the corner towards the ICU.
“That’s right, Braden! Run back to mommy! It’s a weeknight for chrissakes! I’m not even gonna drink that much, so everyone just leave me the hell alone!”
Wasn’t going to drink that much? Bullshit.
He’d already self-justified his bender. He’d be drinking alone, and Jimmy wouldn’t cut him off. He’d be off his tits by dusk.
Braden’s insides churned as he took a seat next to his mother. She didn’t know about the UJ. He was sure of it. He could tell her. He could squeal, but God help him, his father had bashed the disgrace of being a snitch so deeply into his head and heart that the words wouldn’t form.
The same question scrolled before his mind’s eye over and over…
What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?
…until he came to realize that he didn’t have to squeal. He didn’t really have to do anything. His mom would know where her husband was and would fetch him herself if he wasn’t home by 10:00.
No worries.
Whether by a hangover, getting his ass kicked by the UJ, or receiving a massive earful from his wife, Braden’s dad would regret going out.
He checked the time. It was getting close to 5:30. The hospital would be clearing out the visitor centers in three and a half hours.
“He’ll be sorry.”
“What’s that, sweetie?”
“(Huh?) Oh, nothing, mom. I just got in another fight with dad. That’s all.”
“He’s hurting, Braden. Try to go easy on him.”
So am I, damn
