Page 69 of The Order of Disorder
Cash narrows his eyes. “What transfer?”
“What do you mean, what transfer?” I shoot back, channeling just the right amount of annoyance. “Why do you think we’re here?”
He frowns. Tough guy, sure. But not the brightest. He hesitates, then shrugs like he’s above caring. “Fine. Make it quick.”
A breath I didn’t realize I was holding releases. Years of sitting beside Billy during his meetings have left me with a catalogue of bank jargon I don’t even understand. But it’s enough to bluff my way past Cash.
I walk over and pick up the receiver, my hands trembling. With my fist clamped tight around the pills, I stick out a finger and punch in the number from memory: 307-555-AUTO. I can see it in my head like I’m standing in front of Leathernecks Auto looking up at the sign. Wyatt’s voice answers, but it’s a recording.
“You’ve reached Leathernecks Auto. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you.”
For a moment, my heart lodges in my throat. His voice hits like a punch—before, before, before. I shake it off and stay focused.
“Hi, Billy,” I say brightly. “It’s Max.”
I pause and let the silence play like I’m listening. Cash is watching suspiciously from across the room, probably out of earshot but paying close attention. I turn my chin slightly toward the wall.
“Yes, yes,” I say, nodding into the receiver like he’s on the line. “Okay, so the address is 4747 West Hollow Road, outside of Redwater? The old Fremont airstrip. Right. Saturday is a good day. Saturday night will be very busy. Lots of people at the O.D. clubhouse that night—outsiders. Big event.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Cash rising, moving toward me with too much suspicious interest.
“Yes, I’ll be good,” I say quickly, raising my voice just enough to sound obedient. “Sorry for the confusion. Looking forward to seeing you soon.”
“Let me talk to him,” Cash snaps, stepping forward.
I hang up fast. The receiver clicks back into place.
“Sorry,” I say, shrugging. “He hung up.”
Cash’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t buy it, not fully. But before he can push, the elevator dings.
A man in a slim black suit steps out. Clean-cut, polished, and forgettable in the way expensive help usually is.
“You must be the niece,” he says with a big, forced smile.
I blink at him.Seriously?
But when I glance toward the front desk, the attendant gives me a polite nod. This is theater. Paper-thin pretense. No one cares what’s behind the lie as long as it fits the decor.
“Yeah, this is her,” says Cash. He hands me the leather case and then touches my back again, less gentle this time, guiding me toward the elevator. “Someone gonna call me when the, uh, visit is done?”
“Yes,” says the suited man smoothly. “I’ll call you at the number provided.”
I step into the elevator, the man at my side. As the doors close, I start to count my breaths.
We step out into a quiet hallway. Plush carpet muffles our steps as we walk past several identical doors. Finally we stop, and the man knocks once. The senator opens the door.
He’s wearing a pale blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar undone just enough to look casual. His smile is wide, eyes crinkling warmly.
“Maxwell,” he says, with a broad, avuncular grin, as if he really is my uncle. “You look radiant.”
He dismisses the man in the suit and I step inside.
The suite smells like expensive scotch and aftershave. Cream-colored furniture. Soft lighting. Too many mirrors. The windows are black with city night.
“That for me?” he asks, nodding at the bag. I blink and hand it to him and he sets it on the dresser, unzipping the top and lifting it open right in front of me. He lifts out a tray of glass vials, revealing stacks of wrapped bills underneath.
“Oh, goody,” he says gleefully, wiggling his fingers.
