Page 95 of Cold Hard Cash

The door opened despite his refusal to answer it, a familiar voice calling out, “Monsieur?‘Allo?”

“Jerry?” Jimmy poked his head up. He glanced at his phone, noticing that it was a few minutes after ten.

He also saw that Cold had again not left him a card. He didn’t have a text from him either. Great.

“I am very sorry to bother you,” Jerry quickly apologized as he stepped up to the doorway of the bedroom. He would not cross the threshold, continuing hastily, “There’s a bit of a situation down at the La Belle, and your presence is needed immediately.”

“Me?”

“Oui,” Jerry confirmed. “It’sMademoiselleLegrand.” He gestured to the room behind him. “I’ve already brought you some of your clothing from your, eh, your residence? The rest later, yes, but we need to go.”

Jimmy sat up quickly, but didn’t make it very far since he wasn’t wearing any pants. “Is Rowena okay?”

“She’s asking for you,” Jerry said with a sad smile, starting to retreat. “Please hurry, and we shall go.”

“Right,” Jimmy said, a new streak of worry wrinkling up his gut.

Once Jerry had left him, he got up to find clean clothes. Jerry had only brought him suits to wear, so he chose a dark gray pinstripe to put on with his black Chucks. He hurried to the bathroom to fix himself up and change his bandage, smirking wryly at his reflection when he was ready.

He looked like a little kid playing gangster dress-up.

Pausing to take a quick selfie, he then texted it to Cold with a short message:

See you tonight?

Jimmy hoped so.

He rushed downstairs to meet Jerry, the chauffeur and chef adding racecar driver to his list of professions as he hauled ass down to La Belle at neck-breaking speeds. Jimmy was a little nauseous as Jerry herded him inside.

Jimmy heard a crash from the upstairs office, grimacing as he jogged up the steps to investigate. He could hear sobbing and something shattering, carefully opening the door and calling out, “Uh, Rowena? It’s Jimmy. Please don’t throw anything.”

The office was plush, decorated in the same theme as the rest of the bar with deep red curtains and dark wooden furniture. Rowena sat on the floor by a small liquor cabinet, glass broken all around her. Jimmy had never seen her looking so distraught.

She was crying, her hair disheveled, makeup smeared, and she only had one shoe on. She looked up blearily as Jimmy walked in, cradling an open bottle of tequila in her lap and sobbing, “Oh, Jimmy. The fucking worst thing ever has happened.”

Carefully stepping over the broken glass, Jimmy found a safe place to sit down beside her. “Hey, hey,” he soothed. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“It’s Dario,” she sniffled sadly.

“Is he all right? Did something happen at the hospital?” Jimmy asked, his brow wrinkling in concern.

“No, he’s fine,” Rowena groaned. “He’ll probably be released today. Surgeon said he doesn’t need to be cut on, just lots of physical therapy. God, no, this is much worse.”

“What is it?”

“I think I’m in love with him,” she wailed hysterically.

Jimmy blinked. Clearly, there was something he was missing here. “But? Rowena? Dario is a really nice guy.”

“No, no,” Rowena pouted. “You don’t understand, Jimmy. I’m not a nice guy.”

“Of course you are. I mean, you’re a girl, of course. But you’re super nice. You’re sweet, you’re funny, you’re—”

“A killer,” Rowena sighed horribly.

“What?” Jimmy gulped.

“You know how all the cops think Roddy killed Dickie? Well, it wasn’t him,” Rowena said, taking a long sip of tequila. “I did it.”