Page 11 of A Quick Buck

“Who?”

“My fuckin’ best friend, Jason Carbone!” Junior glared, his lean frame shaking in rage. “Your rat bastard uncle killed him! We all fuckin’ saw it!”

“Easy, Junior,” Crybaby tried to soothe.

“Easy these fuckin’ nuts!” Junior’s wrath turned on Crybaby. “I was fuckin’ there! I saw it!”

“Saw what?” Noah pressed.

“At the fuckin’ meeting!” Junior’s eyes grew wide and wild. “Jason ran out and your fuckin’ uncle was there, gunned him down in his stupid fancy car—”

“Junior!” Crybaby snapped.

The air was tense, and the click of Junior’s teeth as he shut up was an audible snap. He ran his hands through his shaggy hair and took a deep breath.

Noah didn’t say anything, mulling over the snippet of information.

Fancy car could easily apply to any of Patrick’s cars. He had nine. It was the gunning-Jason-whoever-down part that didn’t click. Noah didn’t think Patrick even knew how to use a gun, much less owned one.

“Bullshit,” Noah said firmly. “What kinda car?”

“Some stupid fancy car!” Junior huffed. “I don’t know!”

“Then how do you know it was him? Huh? Could have been anybody!”

“You’re really set on trying to prove your uncle is innocent?” Crybaby raised her brows. “That’s real sweet.”

“He’s not a killer,” Noah insisted.

“I saws what I fuckin’ saw so keep your little mouth shut,” Junior warned.

“A car does not a murderer make,” Noah argued. “You guys are shittier detectives than you are gangsters.”

“The car was a 1962 Aston Martin DB4 convertible with a vanity plate that said R-C-H-M-N-1,” a deep voice spoke up.

Noah jumped.

It was that Erasmus guy, standing in the corner of the room.

Noah hadn’t even seen him come in.

“The fingerprints on the gun that was thrown out the window after the shooting match the ones we took from the master bedroom here, and the credit card activity we reviewed places your uncle in Strassen Springs a day later than he was supposed to be.” Erasmus tilted his head. “Mr. Star likes to be thorough.”

“Well…” Noah struggled for something to say. It was some pretty damning evidence, and he had zero rebuttal. “Still shitty gangsters.”

“Be sure to tell Mr. Star that.” Erasmus smiled. It was dazzling and equally uncomfortable.

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.” Erasmus glanced at Crybaby and Junior. “Howard Medina is here.”

“Ah, shit.” Crybaby’s brow wrinkled. “How’s he doin’?”

“Swell.”

“That good, huh?” Crybaby winced.

“Who’s Howard?” Noah asked.