it.”
“For Devin.” I swallowed hard past the lump in my throat.
Gates took the drive back from me and pointed to the data port. “You just stick this in her phone. Hit the execute button when it pops up on the screen. Shouldn’t take more than a minute for the data transfer. That’s it. Should be a piece of cake.”
“Sure,” I said, feeling like a first-class asshole. “Piece of cake.”
“Look,” Stan said. “We’re all grownups here. I get it, Jase. You like this girl. Hell, I like this girl. That bar is one of the reasons the Old North End isn’t the shithole it used to be. The neighborhood is changing back. Businesses are looking to invest down there for the first time in a generation. It sickens me to think what we’re doing might bring all that crashing back down. But that’s only in the short term. Long term, cleaning up down there, putting Cy Fucking Marsh out of business and behind bars for good is the only way Northpointe is going to survive. And I hope you’re right. I hope Devin’s clean. Hell, I’m praying for it.”
Gates put his hand on Stan’s forearm to quiet him. The old guy was starting to raise his voice and pretty soon we’d draw stares. “It’s not conclusive,” Gates said. “Her phone might come back clean even if she is the one moving product. But this information might help put your mind at ease about her. If she’s really in the dark about all of this, this will be one way to help prove that and clear her.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Stan frowned and ran his beefy fingers across his brow. “If it doesn’t, then we’ll bring her in. She knows what’s good for her, she rolls on the uncle. If she doesn’t, then she can have the fucking jail cell right next to his.”
My heart thundered in my chest. He was right. I hated that he was right. But I had to know the truth about Devin, once and for all.
Chapter Nine
D evin
Once a month, Uncle Cy had me over for dinner. He cooked exactly one thing but he did it better than anyone. Spaghetti with meatballs. I brought the garlic bread. Growing up, it had been a much larger affair. My father. Mandy. Even my mother. Though my grandparents were long gone, every once in a while a great aunt or uncle would show up as well.
These monthly Sunday dinners at Cy’s house were among the few consistent memories I had of my mother growing up. In my preschooler mind, I remember her wearing fancy, colorful dresses and I sat on the floor looking up at her in awe as she carefully applied lipstick and false eyelashes for the occasion. She was beautiful, my mother, with dark hair like mine and high cheekbones. She looked like a movie star or a model in my eyes. Cy owned the only photograph I knew of her and he kept it in a frame on the baby grand piano in his living room that no one ever played. It was my parents’ wedding portrait. She was tall and lithe in a silk sheath dress, resting her head on my father’s shoulder. He was looking down at her with an expression of love and wonder, as if he couldn’t believe his luck.
But now it was just the two of us, though Cy still cooked enough to feed a small army. He usually made me take home the leftovers. Most of the time, I’d bring them into The Dive the next day and let the staff feast on it during their breaks. Cy sent a car for me even though I told him Uber would have been fine. I found him in the kitchen pouring the pasta into a shining silver colander. Just in time. I gave him a quick hug.
“Have a seat,” he said over his shoulder. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Always.” I busied myself setting out the forks and knives as he carried the rest of the food out.
He took a seat at the head of his long dining room table and I sat at his left. He heaped pasta on my plate as I reached for the sauce. Like every month, I couldn’t help looking at the empty chairs around us. I squeezed my eyes shut and let out a breath. I didn’t want to start the evening asking about Mandy
“For Devin.” I swallowed hard past the lump in my throat.
Gates took the drive back from me and pointed to the data port. “You just stick this in her phone. Hit the execute button when it pops up on the screen. Shouldn’t take more than a minute for the data transfer. That’s it. Should be a piece of cake.”
“Sure,” I said, feeling like a first-class asshole. “Piece of cake.”
“Look,” Stan said. “We’re all grownups here. I get it, Jase. You like this girl. Hell, I like this girl. That bar is one of the reasons the Old North End isn’t the shithole it used to be. The neighborhood is changing back. Businesses are looking to invest down there for the first time in a generation. It sickens me to think what we’re doing might bring all that crashing back down. But that’s only in the short term. Long term, cleaning up down there, putting Cy Fucking Marsh out of business and behind bars for good is the only way Northpointe is going to survive. And I hope you’re right. I hope Devin’s clean. Hell, I’m praying for it.”
Gates put his hand on Stan’s forearm to quiet him. The old guy was starting to raise his voice and pretty soon we’d draw stares. “It’s not conclusive,” Gates said. “Her phone might come back clean even if she is the one moving product. But this information might help put your mind at ease about her. If she’s really in the dark about all of this, this will be one way to help prove that and clear her.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
Stan frowned and ran his beefy fingers across his brow. “If it doesn’t, then we’ll bring her in. She knows what’s good for her, she rolls on the uncle. If she doesn’t, then she can have the fucking jail cell right next to his.”
My heart thundered in my chest. He was right. I hated that he was right. But I had to know the truth about Devin, once and for all.
Chapter Nine
D evin
Once a month, Uncle Cy had me over for dinner. He cooked exactly one thing but he did it better than anyone. Spaghetti with meatballs. I brought the garlic bread. Growing up, it had been a much larger affair. My father. Mandy. Even my mother. Though my grandparents were long gone, every once in a while a great aunt or uncle would show up as well.
These monthly Sunday dinners at Cy’s house were among the few consistent memories I had of my mother growing up. In my preschooler mind, I remember her wearing fancy, colorful dresses and I sat on the floor looking up at her in awe as she carefully applied lipstick and false eyelashes for the occasion. She was beautiful, my mother, with dark hair like mine and high cheekbones. She looked like a movie star or a model in my eyes. Cy owned the only photograph I knew of her and he kept it in a frame on the baby grand piano in his living room that no one ever played. It was my parents’ wedding portrait. She was tall and lithe in a silk sheath dress, resting her head on my father’s shoulder. He was looking down at her with an expression of love and wonder, as if he couldn’t believe his luck.
But now it was just the two of us, though Cy still cooked enough to feed a small army. He usually made me take home the leftovers. Most of the time, I’d bring them into The Dive the next day and let the staff feast on it during their breaks. Cy sent a car for me even though I told him Uber would have been fine. I found him in the kitchen pouring the pasta into a shining silver colander. Just in time. I gave him a quick hug.
“Have a seat,” he said over his shoulder. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Always.” I busied myself setting out the forks and knives as he carried the rest of the food out.
He took a seat at the head of his long dining room table and I sat at his left. He heaped pasta on my plate as I reached for the sauce. Like every month, I couldn’t help looking at the empty chairs around us. I squeezed my eyes shut and let out a breath. I didn’t want to start the evening asking about Mandy
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