Page 226 of American Hellhound
“Jesus,” Ghost said again, dropping into the chair across from him. “Take it you heard the news, then.”
Fielding let out a wet-sounding snort and tipped back the rest of his drink, swallowing with obvious difficulty. “Yeah,” he said, smacking his lips. “Oh yeah.”
“And you clearly thought the best response was to get drunk as shit in the middle of the day.”
“It’s evening,” Fielding corrected, motioning toward his wall clock. “And yeah. Seemed reasonable.”
Ghost sighed. “What the fuck, Vince?”
Fielding took his time in answering, opening a desk drawer, pulling out a bottle of Jim Beam, pouring himself another two fingers. “See, here’s the thing,” he said. “My job? It’s bullshit these days. I’ve got no idea if the things I do are the right things to do, or the things you tell me to do.”
Ghost rolled his eyes skyward, calling on a divine patience he probably wasn’t owed. “How many drunk idiots do I gotta talk to today?”
“Huh?”
“Pull yourself together, dumbass. I had you arrest Badger–”
“Gene Enright.”
“What?”
“That’s his real name. Gene Enright.”
“Fine. Enright. You arrested him because he’s a piece of shit who needed arresting.”
“I arrested him without going through any of the proper evidence collection protocols,” Fielding corrected, rustling up a scrap of professionalism despite his level of intoxication. “Because you wanted me to. Because you own my ass.”
“I do, yeah,” Ghost agreed. “And that’s on you. And in this case, who gives a shit? The guy was trying to deal a fuckton of coke in your city. You did the right thing here – even if I did tell you to do it.”
Fielding cupped his face in his hand, groaning.
“He’s coming here, you know,” Ghost said. “Badger. He’s mad as hell and he’s coming for blood. When he gets here, are you gonna be passed out in your own puke? Or are you gonna take care of Knoxville?”
Silence reigned for a long moment. Speaking through his fingers, Fielding said, “I hate you so much. I always have.”
“Yeah, I figured. Not a big fan of you either.”
A glazed-over eye peeked between pointer and middle finger. “Why you?”
“Why me what?”
“Why the hell would a perfectly nice girl from a good family want anything to do with you?”
“We’re not really gonna have this old conversation, are we?”
Fielding shrugged. “Maybe. I’m drunk.”
Ghost stood. “Have one of your flunkies make you some coffee. Time to sober up, Vinny.”
When he glanced back over his shoulder at the door, he saw that Fielding was shooting him the bird.
Ghost returned the gesture and left.
Thirty-Five
Nothing was happening. They patrolled the city, they checked in with contacts, they told their dealers to go off the grid and lay low. They stocked, and armed, and readied. They were as prepared as possible.
And there was nothing. Not so much as a whiff of trouble.
