Immortality Is the Suck by A. M. Riley Page A

“Not even a scar,” he breathed.
    For a guy who'd drunk a full bottle of bourbon and hadn't bathed yet,
    Peter smelled really good. He looked up at me.
    I grinned.
    And then he punched me in the mouth.
    I fell over the arm of the chair I was in and crashed across a magazine
    rack, more surprised than hurt.
    “You asshole,” he said, standing over me and jabbing that finger again.
    I touched the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand and didn't
    answer. He was right.
    “What kind of bullshit are you into now, Adam?”
    “ Me ?” How did this become my fault?
    “What were you doing in that warehouse?”
    “Hey, I was supposed to meet a guy. What were you doing there?”
    “Watching you stage your own death, you bastard. Tell me this, did you
    know I'd be the one on the scene or was it just my good luck?”
    “Peter, I didn't stage anything. Somebody wanted me dead.”
    “Why doesn't that surprise me?” If I told Peter how sexy he looked when he
    was pissed off he'd deck me again. So I kept my stupid mouth shut and tried to
    look innocent. I must not have pulled it off because he just looked more
    irritated and said, “Last week, we found a Mexican Mafia-associated dealer
    dead. Two puncture wounds to the throat, just like you, as it happens.”

    Immortality is the Suck

    45

    My face must have registered something because he narrowed his eyes.
    “What?”
    “It's a very long story, Peter. Who was the dealer?”
    “Paolo Spence.”
    “I thought ICE picked him up a few months ago.”
    Peter walked into the kitchen, letting his heels hit the wooden floorboards
    like a little kid throwing a tantrum. I trailed behind him. “Is that the case you
    were working with the DEA?”
    Peter parked that fine ass of his on a kitchen stool and crossed his arms.
    “The DEA has been building a case against the 'M' for a couple years. You knew
    that, right?”
    “Everyone knew,” I said. “That was the fucking problem. I wouldn't go near
    that operation with a proverbial pole, and I told them so.”
    “See, and I figured the only reason you might have been in that warehouse
    was because you'd changed your mind and were involved in the sting.”
    Hmm. This sounds like the blame is rounding the corner and coming right
    at me . “You got anything to drink here, Peter?”
    “How were you involved, Adam?”
    I opened the refrigerator, just to have a place to hide my head. While I was
    in there, I grabbed a bottle of water. He was glaring at me when I emerged. “I
    might have been looking for a new distributor,” I said.
    “Narcotics said they knew nothing about it. They said you were supposed
    to be moving out of town. And, by the way, thanks for giving me a heads up.”
    “Well, that's because I hadn't decided to go.” I studied the label on the
    bottle of water. “'Smart' water? Christ, Peter, they give water an IQ now?”
    “You're in a lot of trouble, Adam.”
    “Sounds like.” I twisted off the top of the water. “Good thing I'm dead.” I
    thought he was going to hit me again, but then he just made an exasperated
    sound.

    46
    A. M. Riley

    “Why didn't you go through channels? Why didn't you talk to me? Did you
    think that feigning death would solve all your problems?”
    I drank some water. Weird thing was, I did expect death to solve all my
    problems.
    “I told you, I didn't stage anything,” I told him. “D'you know who killed
    me?”
    “Stop saying that,” said Peter. “Hand me that carton of orange juice, will
    you?”
    I did so, and a glass. “I never saw anything,” I said. “Suppose you tell me
    what happened.”
    “Starz was the DEA's undercover. His name was Armante,” said Peter.
    “I saw that on the news. What was the deal?”
    “He thought he was meeting with a distributor associated with the 'M.'”
    Freeway must have told Starz he was La Eme. If he weren't already dead, I
    could have killed the little rat myself. “Hey,” I said. “I was trying to do a job,
    man. What's