Prohibition

Chapter 52

Raymond's pride was going to kill him. After Evelyn had walked out on him, he had decided to go to work—instead of visiting a doctor immediately as he should've. To make matters worse, he had decided to walk to work—to get some exercise, he had told himself sullenly. It had nothing to do with a hurt, irrational desire to prove to Evelyn how perfectly fine he was, he kept reminding himself. Nothing at all.

By the time he reached the bureau office, his head was throbbing, a red-hot pulsating rhythm that matched the runaway pounding of his heart. His breath came in short spurts, his stomach roiling. He should've stayed home, should've stayed in bed, snuggled up next to Evelyn, should've gone to see a doctor like she wanted. But now that was here, his stubborn pride wouldn't let him leave. He would just have to bite the bullet and pretend he was invincible.

"Raymond," Walter greeted him coolly as he walked past his office. "So good to see you again."

"Hey, Walter," Raymond said tiredly. "I'm off the syndicate case, aren't I?"

"You think?" Walter laughed shortly. "You're lucky I don't fire you right now." His sharp eyes swept over Raymond, taking in his rundown appearance. "I suppose you have an excuse for your notable lack of work these past few days?"

Raymond shrugged. "Personal issues?"

"Ahh, yes." Walter's lips curled into a sarcastic smile. "Personal issues. I guess I should just let you back on the case then."

"Just tell me what my new assignment is," Raymond snapped.

"You're with the beat cops. They're busting a speakeasy on West 45th Street."

"Thanks. That's all I needed to hear." Turning on his heel, Raymond stalked out of Walter's office—nearly bumping into Agent Brant. "David," he greeted him gloomily.

"Raymond."

"How are you?"

"How do you think I am, you son of a bitch? You got me kicked off the syndicate case."

"Get over it," Raymond mumbled. "Or ask Walter if you can work with Agent High and Mighty."

"Riley?" David laughed shortly. "Haven't you heard—he's much too proficient on his own. He's already discovered that some rough-and-tumble immigrant gang, the Hell Hounds, is targeting bootleggers in the syndicate. They're terrorizing syndicate customers, making them refuse to do business with the syndicate anymore. And they're attacking bootleggers personally. He thinks there might be a personal connection between them and the syndicate."

"He discovered that?" Raymond gaped at Agent Brant. "I discovered that! I told Walter about the Hell Hounds. I lost my syndicate customers, for Christ's sake. I knew they were a fucking threat—I knew it. But Walter wouldn't listen to me. 'The Hell Hounds aren't a threat, Raymond,'" he mocked. "'I know everything about them. Just focus on the syndicate, Raymond.' But now that his fucking golden boy tells him about it—now he listens."

"I agree," Agent Brant said grimly. "But, if you wanted to solve this case, you shouldn't have gotten kicked off it."

"I—" Raymond started, then checked himself. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"You are?" Surprise flitted across David's face.

"I am. I..." Raymond swallowed hard. "I've been an ass to you, and you didn't deserve it. You're a good cop."

"Thank you." David scrutinized Raymond's face. "You're sick though, aren't you?"

"As a matter of fact, I am." Raymond managed a weak grin. "Call it temporary insanity."