Write Your Own Song

Chapter 9

"You got a death wish or something, you fucking moron?"

Bobby was gripping the phone so tightly that it was a wonder that it didn't shatter in his hand. It was a struggle to keep from shouting and alerting his brothers in the other room. Control was key here, well, as much control as he could muster at the moment.

There were a lot of things in the world that pissed him off - babies crying, old people who thought they could drive, losing a pick-up game, dogs that pissed on the kitchen floor, sunshine - but threats against him and his family topped the list. Either the guy on the other end had no clue who he was talking to or he was itching to see the inside of a freshly dug grave.

The guy chuckled and Bobby rolled his eyes. The idiot probably thought he sounded sinister and menacing.

"You made my life difficult, Mr. Mercer. I don't like it when things become difficult."

"Boo-fucking-hoo. What do you want? An apology. Sorry, asshole. How's that?" Bobby started to pace, his wet sock sloshing on the linoleum.

The cord got twisted and he found himself wishing he had sprung for a cordless phone like Jack had suggested, a phone with caller ID. He hated technology and rarely trusted it, but Jack was right on this one. Sometimes he could just be too damn stubborn.

The guy laughed again - that was getting old and Bobby added it to his list of things he'd shoot someone over. It was a long list.

"Did Sweet really strike you as the mastermind behind everything? Did you really think he ran the show?"

Bobby shrugged. "Honestly, I haven't given Sweet any thought since he disappeared, what's it been? Three, four months ago? My guess is he got scared and left Detroit with his tail between his legs like the little bitch that he is."

Or maybe he's on ice, waiting for the Spring thaw, Bobby thought to himself with a twisted grin. He'd surface sooner or later, but Bobby was confident the cops wouldn't find anything to pin on him.

"Disappeared. Right, Mr. Mercer. I hadn't heard you had a sense of humor."

"Oh, I'm a fucking stand-up comic. Guess Ol' Vic forgot to pass that along."

"Well, ever since Victor disappeared, my business in Detroit hasn't been performing up to standards. It's costing me a great deal of money, Mr. Mercer."

"Aw, I'm cryin' buckets here. Shitty economy, I guess. It's hurtin' us all." Bobby was itching to hang up.

"Money isn't all of it, you know."

"It never is."

"Victor may have been a bit of an idiot, but he was family. My family to be exact."

Bobby stopped pacing. "Malcolm was in charge and Victor killed him to get his territory. Everybody knows that."

As far as Bobby knew, Victor and his Uncle Malcolm were the only two members of that family connected with the business. 'Course this guy could be full of shit, but Bobby doubted that.

"Ah, yes, Malcolm. He underestimated Victor. My brother wasn't always as perceptive as he liked to think he was."

"Malcolm Sweet was your brother," Bobby stated steadily, the pieces falling into place.

"You're starting to see the bigger picture, Mr. Mercer. Perhaps you aren't the dumb thug I took you for."

"Victor was your nephew," Bobby said as he stretched the cord as far as it would go, walking to the kitchen sink, straining to see out the window. He scanned the backyard, half-expecting to see someone in the bushes with a rifle trained on the house.