Crow’s Row
Julie Hockley
iUniverse, Inc.
Bloomington
Crow’s Row
Copyright © 2011 by Julie Hockley
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:
iUniverse
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-0390-7 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4620-0392-1 (dj)
ISBN: 978-1-4620-0391-4 (ebk)
Printed in the United States of America
iUniverse rev. date: 4/5/2011
For my husband,
thank you for your love, support and enthusiasm
…
and for finally convincing me to let you read this before I destroyed it. I couldn’t have written this without you.
Contents
Chapter Two:
The Secret to My Excess
Chapter Ten:
About Taking Risks
Chapter Fourteen:
The Proper Kind of Diversion
Chapter Seventeen:
Different Worlds
Chapter Eighteen:
Heated Moments
Chapter Nineteen:
Expecting the Expected
Chapter Twenty-One:
I Never Said It Was a Good Plan
Chapter Twenty-Two:
Fitting Pieces Together
Chapter Twenty-Four:
A New Calling
Chapter Twenty-Six:
Deadly Risky Business
Chapter Twenty-Seven:
Old Emily
Chapter Twenty-Eight:
Giving Up
Chapter Twenty-Nine:
The One Who Holds the Gun
Chapter Thirty:
Passing on the Crazy Torch
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my Mom and Dad for encouraging (i.e., bribing) me to read as a child by intensely quizzing me on the books that I would read, and
then
paying me; though, it still seems a bit unfair that I didn’t get paid for doing chores, even though I still had to do them! In spite of this, I love you very much.
I would also like to thank France, Jen, Jess, and Laura, my book club girls (a.k.a. the baby club and the super fatty dessert club). Asking you to proofread and critique my manuscript was a tremendous favor, particularly when we don’t have much time to ourselves any more. Unfortunately, you are now on my fictitious payroll to read the next books in the series. I’ll make sure to bring dessert.
“The man who desires something desires what is not available to him, and what he doesn’t already have in his possession. And what he neither has nor himself is—that which he lacks—that is what he wants and desires.” Plato,
Symposium
Prologue
The motor of my 1989 Chevrolet Capri was thumping against the hood, making the whole car jitter. We sat in silence, stuck at another red light while the oversized muffler gurgled.
For the sixth time in the last five minutes, I checked my watch and sighed, aware that my left leg was impatiently shaking with the rest of the car. I stepped on the gas about a half second before the light turned green, trying to coerce the old lady in front of me to react a little faster—honking, swearing when she didn’t react at all. The old lady woke up and finally stepped on it.
My bumper practically rubbed hers, but I only had one thing on my mind. Colors. Would it be green or blue today? Maybe white—my favorite. A dark voice in the back of my mind offered no color at all as an alternative. I smothered that voice. The days of no color were simply too hard to bear. I needed color today. My cohort in the backseat echoed my edginess with a whine.
When the traffic came to Finch Road, the old lady veered off with everyone else. Finch was the line that separated city life from no man’s land—that good people like the old lady ahead of me pretended didn’t exist and steered away from as quickly as possible, lest it suck them in to the point where they would be forced to acknowledge its existence. I couldn’t blame them—I wouldn’t want my loved ones to ever come near this hellhole. This thought made my knuckles strangle the steering wheel.
As soon as I passed the Finch threshold, I switched the music on and turned up the volume until the tinted windows of my Capri were vibrating. I was definitely in the projects now. Rusty, souped-up beaters were lined up on the street, some half-parked on the crumbled sidewalks, others sat tireless on cement blocks. Men and boys amassed in the doorways of the decrepit apartment buildings, watching as I drove by. A place that even the police avoided, and one of our best moneymakers. I had nothing to fear here, so long as I made sure to pay my respects before disappearing into the crowd.
I drove up to the last building at the end of the street where a small group of choice gangbangers was waiting for me—a reminder that I was on their turf. This last building was their headquarters, providing them with a full view of the business and goings-on of the street. I parked illegally next to a fire hydrant, threw my baseball cap on, and pulled my hood up. I took the revolver out of the glove box and tucked it into the back of my jeans, making sure that just enough of the handle could be seen by those who would be looking for it.
I then stalked out of the car, and Meatball pounced from the backseat, following me out.
In a motion that had become second nature, I scanned the area and gathered an infinite amount of information in a few short seconds: shadowed doorways, quick exit points, how many thugs with guns were staring at me, how many were avoiding staring at me. Basically, I spent my life with my stomach in a fist and my teeth clenched like I was already locked away, looking at the world through the steel bars of my cell.
But all was well in the projects today—as well as the projects could be.
The leader of the pack strutted over to me. He ordered his men to stand down, away from us, before he leaned in with a voice that only he and I could hear. “Afternoon, sir.”
He was known as Grill—paying homage to his fully gold-plated smile, financed with his illegal fortunes. I nodded to Grill. Though he was a low-ranker—a much lower-ranker—I was required to acknowledge him before entering his turf. This would ensure my safety, reassure him that my presence didn’t mean that the leaders were trying to oust him.
“Out for a stroll?” he asked, and then he hopped back when Meatball stepped forward.
I tugged Meatball back, and then I looked around us … I didn’t need any trouble today.
Grill finally relaxed and cocked his head to the side. “You alone again today, sir?”
I checked my watch again. Then I waved him off and walked away. The look of indignation on his face told me that he didn’t appreciate being dismissed in this way in front of his troops. But I had no time for ego-stroking.
