“Yeah,” I tell him. “I got a message. But I’m interested in what you gotta say before I deliver.”
Rick looks up at me, a glimmer of hope sparking in eyes that held only resignation a second ago. “What, you wanna know why you’re being exed out, right?”
What? I scrutinize the eager look on his face. He’s not just saying random shit. He’s speaking the truth. “I’m being exed out?” This hadn’t even occurred to me, but it makes a lot of sense now that he’s said it. When Charlie doesn’t trust a man, when he’s getting ready to kill him, he’ll ex him out. Exclude him from all his dealings, keep him at a distance, and watch him like a hawk. It all fits into place.
“Charlie found out something about you, man,” Rick says. “Something he didn’t like. Not one bit. Said you were compromised now, no good to him. He wants you gone. Told the boys to get ready—that he was gonna need a new right hand. The old one was about to get cut off. That’s what I heard.”
Rick’s being so helpful right now, as most men who are about to die are, in the vain hope that his helpfulness buys him a little leverage. He doesn’t know that I actually don’t plan on killing him, though. I take full advantage of the situation.
“What has he suddenly found out about me?”
Rick shakes his head, shrugging. “Didn’t say. Something about your past, though.”
Well that’s hardly useful information. Everything up until this very moment where I’m talking with Rick, is technically my fucking past. Could be something from last week or ten years ago that’s turned Charlie’s eye against me, but whatever this thing is that’s soured his favoritism of me, I’m just finding it hard a little to believe. With Charlie’s amplified paranoia being what it is, the guy would have fucking killed me the moment he suspected me. He knows everything I know. All of the things he’s asked me to do. All of the dangerous things I could let slip should I feel the need.
“I did time in Chino for Charlie,” I point out. “He wouldn’t cut me off without some colossal fucking reason.” No one rides out time in Chino without it costing them greatly. To do it for someone else is more than a declaration of loyalty—it’s a sacrifice beyond any comprehension.
Rick gapes at me, mouth open at that. “Aw, Zee, man. You mean you don’t know? None of us knew for sure but we figured you’d found out…” He smiles cruelly. “We were all there. I watched Charlie slit Murphy’s throat just like everyone else, and yet you were the one who went down for it. You never wonder why?”
The memory of that night flashes through my mind in a series of still-frame images, blood splattered and blistered like old film. Murphy O’Shannessy on his knees, Charlie’s twisted mask of insanity as he dragged his straight razor across the other man’s throat. The whole thing had begun over nothing—Murphy making some sly remark about the length of Sophie’s dress. The comment had passed everyone by, eliciting nothing more than a slight narrowing of the eyes from our boss, but then hours later, when the old man had snorted a grand’s worth of blow, it was a different story. I don’t think about that night too much. Try not to. I’ve killed, yeah, but always quickly. Knife to the heart, lungs, whatever. Gunshot to the head. Charlie slit Murphy’s throat from ear to ear and watched, refusing to let anyone put the man out of his misery as he slowly bled to death.
“I know why,” I tell Rick. “Cops found the knife in my car. Blood on my shirt. One of my hairs on Murphy’s clothes.”
Rick nods through this impatiently, hurriedly, as though the information he wants to impart is gravely important. “Yeah, but how did they know to look for the knife in your car in the first place, Zee? How did they know to come knocking on your door?”
I’ve thought about this. Endlessly, in prison, where there’s little else to do but jerk off, exercise and stew over the past. “I picked Murphy up from his place before we went to the mansion. His father saw us together. Last time Murphy was seen alive by anyone.”
“Bullshit.” He leans forward, face emerging from the shadows. The expression he wears is one of disgust. “Charlie fucking threw you under the bus, man. How the hell have you not worked that out by now?”
A spiteful and sharp burst of laughter erupts inside my head. Of course, the voice says. Father O’Shannessy wouldn’t finger you for killing his son. Never. You were best friends for years.
And then another voice.
‘Get rid of that fucking mess, Zeth. I’m sick of looking at it.’ A fractured image blazes through me—Charlie’s savage, wild face, smiling dazedly, unfazed by the fact that he had just brutally murdered a man I called brother right in front of me. Never once had he apologized for doing it, or for the resulting time I spent rotting in a cell for the ruthless crime he had committed.
“He wouldn’t.” I growl the words out, but even as I do I feel stupid. The dawning acceptance that Charlie may have pinned that shit on me makes me feel sick. I literally want to bend over and throw my guts up onto the concrete.
“He would. He did,” Rick insists. “We all know it. He barely fucking hid the fact. When you got released, he threatened to kill anyone caught breathing a single word about the whole thing. Him killing Murph. You going away. Him putting you away.”
Fucking hell. I can’t wrap my head around any of this. I keep my face blank—no sense in showing Rick he’s riled me. “Doesn’t explain why you’re selling intel to the bikers.”