Page 101 of Constantly Cotton

He pulled his attention back to traffic—and the matter at hand.

“Can you maybe keep people out of there for an hour?” his contact said, sounding a little panicked.

“Well, yeah. But I gotta get off the phone now and make some calls.”

“Where are you delivering the package?” Owens asked, and Burton blew out a breath.

“I’ll let you know,” Burton told him, and was half-expecting the “Hey!” on the other end of the line.

“Yeah, sorry,” he said, clipped. “But I want the package safe and anonymous and guarded. I’ll tell you when I’m certain it’s all okay.”

Owens blew out a breath. “I hear you,” he said. “I’ll have your cleanup in an hour—if you can keep it all clear for us, that’ll be great.”

“Roger that.”

Burton’s next call was to Henry.

“’Llo. Who’s this?”

And Burton was on his last nerve. “Who do you think, dumbass!”

“Oh! Burton! Sorry about that. Dude. What’s up?”

“I’ve got Jason and Cotton, but there’s a dead guy in the front room of that shitty apartment. I’ve got someone working on it, but I need you to keep your guys clear of there.”

“Jackson, duck!” Henry called out and then swore. “Goddammit, doesn’t anybody tell the truth? ‘No, Ellery, I’ve gone straight, Ellery!’ If he’s so straight, why’s his place guarded by the shiny dome and kilt mafia!”

“I can see you’re busy,” Burton said, voice dry.

“Fuck!” There was the sound of flesh on flesh, and then awhoomp! “Nice,” Henry said, his voice carrying. “So I take it we’re not representing this asshole?”

“Wait,” Jackson Rivers could be heard over whatever they were doing. “I need to talk to this guy first. It’s not his fault he’s seven feet tall and pissed off!”

“Sure it’s not,” Henry muttered into the phone. “So, dead guy in the flophouse? Are you sure?”

“Well, he won’t be there if you can keep your kids out of there for an hour or so.”

Henry grunted. “Well, the only one who might be iffy is Randy. He’s shooting a scene today, and he’s always done early, because that kid could come six times in an hour and still be ready to hump a hole in the sink, you know what I mean?”

“I wish I didn’t.”

“Yeah, so do I. But don’t sweat it. I’ll call up John and see if we can’t make sure he stays at the studio for a while. Everyone elseshouldbe gone until five-ish.”

Oh, thank God. “Awesome,” Burton said sincerely. “Also, Ernie took your boyfriend’s car. You said he could, and he did, and now Jai’s probably got blood all over it.”

“What?” Henry’s voice cracked. “I’m going to have to explain blood in his car toLance? Are you kidding me?”

“Uhm, yeah. Sorry, Henry. I’ll see if we can get that cleaned.”

Burton’s head was starting to hurt, so he didn’t even bother to end the call—he just clicked Off. Behind him, he heard Jason chuckle weakly.

“Today is just not your day,” he said.

Burton was at a stoplight, so he checked in the rearview mirror. Constance was sitting, eyes closed, face an ashen gray, and the kid leaning on him was touching his forehead worriedly.

“He got a fever?” Burton asked. He knew that infection had been a problem, because Lance had kept him updated, but seeing his boss—usually hale, hearty, and active—look this weak sort of shook him.

“It’s gone down in the last two days,” Cotton muttered. “Where are you taking us?”