Page 11 of Angel’s Doll

“Goodbye, Victor.”

I press it. I push the phone toward the center of the table with both hands, gently.

Nobody speaks first for a moment. Then Smoke leans forward.

“Nobody writes that script,” he says, to Bishop, to the table. “Nobody plants that.”

Bishop hasn’t moved through any of it. Now he looks at me, and I make myself hold it.

“One question tonight, Doll.” He taps the table once, next to the dead phone. “Quinlan. Did you know the name?”

“First time I hear it. Ian Durey always went on and on about his powerful cousins but he never said their name when I was around.”

“Durey.” Bishop turns the name over. “Ian Durey?”

“Yes.”

Cash writes it at the top of a fresh page and underlines it twice.

Bishop stands, and everyone stands with him. “Cash, I’m not sure if we have until tomorrow.”

“I already reached out to Glitch,” the man answers. “Give me an hour and we should have all you need.”

Bishop stops at the door and looks at me over one shoulder. “For what it’s worth, it looks like running with Angel was a smart move.”

They leave. Cash stays, opens his laptop, pulls a headset on.

Angel turns his chair a few degrees toward mine, and asks, “Ten years of that?”

“Ten years of that.”

“He had that speech loaded. Word-perfect. First try.” He shakes his head once, slow.

“He’s had practice being disappointed in me.”

“That wasn’t disappointment, Doll. That was fear. He wasn’t screaming at you. He was screaming at what’s coming for him.” He stands, collects the dead phone, pockets it for the river.

He walks me to the door and stops, close. For a second I think he’s going to come closer …

Stepping away doesn’t even cross my mind.

I stand there with my eyes on his lips wondering how soft they are, despite the cut.

He’s the one who steps back to let me out.

7

ANGEL

Cash gets his hour. Not a minute more.

Bishop skips church and packs the officers into his office instead. Church is patch-only, no exceptions, and the girl this is all about is going to need a chair in the room before the night’s out.

“Ian Durey,” Cash says, and pulls the headset down around his neck once we’re settled. “Born Ian Marek Durej, Newark. Changed the spelling when he turned twenty-one. Private lender. He puts money where banks won’t and collects where courts can’t.” He turns his laptop so the screen faces the table. “Glitch is still figuring some shit out, but the family tree took us ten minutes. Durey’s mother was a Quinlan. The Quinlan brothers are his first cousins.”

“So when Hale borrowed from Durey, he borrowed Quinlan money.”

“Maybe. Or Durey lends his own and rents the name when a collection needs weight. Glitch can’t tell yet, and the difference matters. A cousin freelancing is an issue. The family buying into Seattle is a real problem.”