Page 9 of Angel’s Doll

And a scared Victor is a Victor I’ve never met. He could spin my running into a kidnapping if it buys him a week of Durey’s patience. Somebody needs to get ahead of him, and for years that somebody has been me.

“Where’s Angel?”

Phoenix tips her chin at the side door. “Yard. Glaring at his bike. It’s how he relaxes.”

The rain has quit and left the yard shining. Puddles between the motorcycles, gray light of the chrome, and Angel crouched beside his bike running a rag along the pipes, a bag of ice sweating untouched on the seat above him. The split lip has dried dark. He hears my boots on the gravel and stands before I’m halfway to him.

“You’re supposed to be resting, Doll.”

“And I assume you should be icing that lip.”

He glances at the bag on the seat. “It’s close enough.”

“I need a favor,” I say, “and I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

He goes still. “Ask.”

“I want to call my uncle. Now, today. Do you have a phone nobody can trace?” My voice holds, which is a small miracle. “To tell him I’m okay.”

“Why?” No heat in it. “I watched a suit walk you out of that building and a pro run you down like a job. Whatever you bolted from this morning, it started under your uncle’s roof. The man couldn’t keep you safe in his own lobby. Explain to me why he gets a phone call.”

“Because Victor scared is Victor stupid.” That answer costs me nothing, and it has the advantage of being true. “I ran his life for years. Calendar, calls, cleanup. I have no idea what he does when he panics, and I’d rather not find out. If he hears my voice, he stays predictable. Predictable buys time.”

“Time for what?”

“It’s complicated …” I hold his eyes and add, “And it could be good for you, so he doesn’t go and claim you kidnapped me or something.”

He hesitates, so I add, “He’ll talk to me. He always talks to me, I’m the one person left he doesn’t perform for. Your club might want to hear what that sounds like.”

The rag twists in his fist. He has questions, plenty, and I watch him swallow them one by one.

“Fine,” he says, half to himself. The rag goes into his pocket. “Then here’s how the call goes. Cash provides the phone. It happens at the table, on speaker, officers in the room. Every word your uncle says, my club hears. You landed in our yard on a bad day, Doll. Let the men who doubt you listen live.”

So they do doubt me. I suspected as much, but hearing it said plain settles it.

“Agreed.”

“Second condition is mine.” He steps in, close enough now I have to tip my head to look at him and, somehow, my eyes land on his lips … again. “The second you want out of that call, you’re off. Mid-sentence, mid-word, I don’t care. You put the phone down.”

He keeps doing this. A hand held out over a dumpster. A helmet. Ten seconds in an alley to pick my own direction. Now a phone I’m allowed to put down. Nobody has handed me this many of my own choices since my parents died.

“Deal,” I say, and my voice catches on the one small stupid word.

If he notices, he lets it live. He picks the ice off the seat, presses it to his mouth at last, and nods toward the clubhouse.

“Gimme one hour. I’ll come find you.”

He heads inside. I stay among the puddles and build the call in my head. A smooth open. The steady voice. Every trick I’ve ever used to settle him.

I’m okay. I’m safe. I’m sorry.

Two of those are true.

6

DOLL

The room they take me to has one door, no windows, and a table long enough to seat a jury.