Taking Turns (Turning #1)(23)

“Whatever.”

“Maybe you should stop drinking so much. Then you wouldn’t have a hangover on a Tuesday.”

Quin doesn’t even acknowledge me, just sips his coffee and stares out the window. It’s not snowing today, at least. It’s sunny. Very bright, in fact. The whole room is flooded with sunlight reflecting off the snow we got yesterday.

“You didn’t call me last night,” Quin says. “Did you hear anything?”

For a second I don’t even know what he’s talking about. Then I remember that I told him I’d ask that girl if she knew anything about Rochelle. “I didn’t get a chance yesterday, Quin. Sorry. I was kinda swamped with end-of-year shit, you know?”

“What kind of end-of-year shit? Christmas parties?” He scoffs at me.

“I’ll see if I can get a hold of her today. I still have the card.”

Quin looks up from staring into his coffee. “Why don’t you just give it to me and I can ask her myself?”

“Because I don’t trust you,” I say. “She’s someone… important.”

“Important how?” Quin asks.

I’m not sure how much to tell him. If he even needs to know. But I don’t have to answer because the White Room manager, Margaret, comes up to our table and says, “Excuse me, Mr. Bricman? You have a phone call.” She’s holding out a handset.

Who the hell would be calling me on the Club’s public phone?

Margaret reads my confusion and begins to explain. “Someone named Marcella Walcott? She’s called about a dozen times demanding to speak to you.” And then Margaret lowers her voice. “She’s angry about something. I tried to find out what, but she refused to talk to anyone but you.”

I look over at Quin, who is looking back at me with a pretty hard glare. “Is that her?” he asks.

I take the phone from Margaret and say, “Thank you. I’ll handle it,” as I stand up from the table.

“Don’t you f*cking leave, you bastard,” Quin says, cutting off my escape. “I want to hear this if that’s her.”

I sit back down. Sigh. “Look, Quin, you just need to let Rochelle—”

“I have,” Quin snaps. “I don’t care anymore, but I’d like to know if she’s OK. Is that so bad? I’m over it, all right? But if she’s in trouble, Bric, then she has earned our help. We should help her even if we never see her again. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I do understand. Quin has a huge heart. He’s a good guy in many ways. And I know he’s doing his best to let this Rochelle thing go, but I also know he’ll handle it a lot better if he gets this one answer.

I exhale loudly and then press the hold button on the handset. “Yes, Miss Walcott? This is Elias Bricman. What can I do for you today?”

“You had better tell that freak of a friend of yours that if he comes near me again, I will get a f*cking restraining order. I will have the goddamned FBI on his doorstep. I will drag his name—”

She’s yelling. Like… loud. So I pull the phone away from my ear and look at Quin. He’s smiling so big, getting shit on by Marcella Walcott is almost worth it.

“Are you listening to me?” Marcella screams.

“I can definitely hear you, Miss Walcott. Why don’t you calm down and start from the beginning?”

Just as those words come out of my mouth, Smith walks into the restaurant. He ignores everyone as he makes his way back to our table, and when he gets here, he stops, looking at the phone with a puzzled look.

It quickly turns into amusement and he sits down. “I got locked in her house last night by mistake.”

“Is that him?” Marcella screams.

“Marcella, please. Stop—”

“Don’t tell me to stop screaming. Your weirdo stalker friend broke into my house last night. He was jerking off in my bedroom while he watched me sleep!”

“Fuck, Smith,” I say. “What the f*ck?”

“What the f*ck is right,” Marcella says. She’s silent then. Breathing hard, like she’s trying to regain control. “Keep him away from me!”

I get a dial tone after that, so I end the call and place the handset on the table. “Would you like to explain yourself?”

“I brought her here last night,” Smith says.

“What?” That’s Quin. “Why the f*ck would you do that?”

“She’s dark, man. So listen… she works at the Benton Gallery where Matisse is having his show this weekend, you know?”

I nod. I didn’t really make that connection when he gave me her business card yesterday, but all right.

“It was a long day of unloading pieces for the show. She didn’t eat dinner. So Matisse and I invited her here to eat.”

Quin knows where this is going, because he’s shaking his head and mumbling, “You f*cking pervert. Why do you do this shit?”

But Smith is still looking at me. “She turned him down. So I went to her house to say she passed my test and I got inadvertently locked inside. I didn’t expect her to set the alarm when she got home. It wasn’t on when I broke in.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” Quin asks.

Smith redirects his attention to Quin now. “Did you ever hear of the expression ‘two birds, one stone?’”