I mean it. I don’t want to look at his face for a second longer than needed. If I believed Gus would give me the truth, I would’ve asked him, but Gus has shown his true colors. He turns his coat as it suits him.
I get straight to the point. “What’s the deal with Violet’s jumpiness around guns?”
A look of surprise filters into Elliot’s eyes. It wasn’t the topic he expected. Taking another drag from his cigarette, he studies me with a smug expression. “She freaked out, did she? What did you do? Wave a real gun at her or did she just happen to see a picture of one?”
Balling my hands, I fight the urge to slam his head against the wall. The only thing preventing me from cracking his skull is that he knows. He knows why she has such a strong reaction, and the possible reasons tighten my gut.
“Did Gus point a gun at her?” I ask, ready to commit murder if the answer is yes.
He chuckles. “My father doesn’t make idle threats. If he’d pointed a gun at Violet, she would’ve been dead.”
“What then?” I bite out, a second away from shaking the truth out of him.
He studies me through the slits of his eyes as he drags in another lungful of nicotine, seemingly making up his mind about replying, and then he shrugs as if telling me doesn’t matter. “He shot someone in front of her.”
I go still. The words ring in my ears.
Oblivious to the violence pushing up with a hot wave of fury inside me, he continues, “The guy stole from him. It was a lesson in what happens to traitors.” He utters a laugh. “She didn’t handle it very well. Vomited right there on the ground and cried for her mommy.”
He was there. The motherfucker was there.
Cried for her mommy.
My tone is cold, not betraying my rage. “How old was she?”
Looking skyward, he makes a show of doing a mental calculation. “I was twelve. That would’ve made her ten. In her defense, the guy was already cut to a pulp by the time Gus ended his misery.”
I will cut them down—Gus and Elliot. They will pay for what they did to Violet. I swear it on my parents’ graves.
He flicks the butt on the ground. “You’re wondering why I told you.”
Wrong. I don’t have to wonder. He would’ve told me one way or another. I would’ve strangled it out of him.
“You care about her,” he says, pushing off the wall. “That’s why you won’t do anything to jeopardize her safety.” He gets into my face, stinking of smoke and deceit. “I saw the way you looked at her.” A slow smile transforms his lips but leaves his eyes cold. “That’s why you won’t tell.”
He’s not only talking about the shooting. He means about what Violet did. He knows I won’t throw her under the bus because I care too much about her. I care too much about destroying her honor and credibility in the eyes of her family and the world. By family, I mean her mother, because Gus and Elliot sure as hell aren’t her family. If I make the truth known, no one in our industry will touch her with a ten-foot pole. Word travels fast in our circles. Violet will be tainted for life, her reputation as a trustworthy person ruined. I don’t even want to get started on what Gus will do to her. Breaching his security will guarantee her a bullet in the head. Not that he’d get that far. I’d sooner kill him, but I have plans for Gus and Elliot. I need them alive for a while longer.
Shooting me a victorious look, Elliot shoves his hands into his pockets and saunters away, leaving his cooling coffee on the table.
I don’t move. I don’t take a single step. If I do, I’ll go after him and kill him now. I bottle the anger and let it fester. When the time comes, I’ll let it erupt with all the pent-up fury Elliot deserves.
It takes a moment, but I’m good at controlling my violence. I know how to tamp it down. Locking away the ugly feelings, I go back inside and throw myself into work, but my thoughts return to the same thing—or the same person, I should say. The hurt won’t let me go. It rankles right alongside my rage, creating the mother of all shitstorms inside me.
I’m like fucking Pavlov’s dog, conditioned beyond saving. When six o’clock arrives and I’m reminded of Violet by her mere absence, I get the hell out of there. A cleaning service van pulls into the parking lot just as I slam the door behind me. It must be the new service Gus hired. Their presence only rubs salt into my wounds, reminding me of things I shouldn’t think about, of a time full of sweet potential before everything went to hell.
I should be going home and face the situation I created, not that I’ve decided how to deal with the information Elliot has shared with me, but when I pull out of the parking lot, I turn toward Brixton and head for the dive I visited last night.
The place is dark and tacky enough to get lost in. I walk to the bar, plonk my ass in a seat, and push a few hundred-rand bills over the counter.
“Whiskey,” I say, nodding at the cheap label on the bottom shelf. Like the biggest cliché in the history of men with problems, I add, “Leave the bottle.”
The barman doesn’t argue. He slides a glass and the bottle my way, and then he backs off, leaving me to stew in my troubles. The regulars go about their business, not paying me attention. They probably sense my violent mood. A guy with a bandana and a leather vest plays the blues on a harmonica in the corner, his tune off-key.
I pour four fingers and down it in one go.