Wilk McNaughtry was in the basement at Andersonville, and he was anxious to be uncooperative.  As soon as Mick and Charles walked up to the chair he was sitting in, he was ready to deny all.

“I don’t know what this is about,” he said before they asked, “but I had nothing to do with it.  Whatever it is.”

But Charles wasn’t going to listen to anybody’s denials.  As soon as he was close enough to Naughty, he kicked him so hard that he flipped over the chair and landed on his ass.  Charles’s quick move surprised even Mick.

But Charles wasn’t through with the denying bastard.  He knocked the chair aside and hurried to Naughty.  Then he knelt on top of him, with his knee rammed against his throat.  “We aren’t asking you if you were involved,” he said.  “We know you were involved.  We want to know who else was involved.  Who ordered that ambush at Baxter’s?  Who ordered that explosion at my house?  Who, motherfucker?  Who ordered that shit?”

But Naughty continued to deny any involvement.  Until Mick, behind Charles, pulled out a big, butcher’s knife, looked at it, and then looked at Naughty.  Naughty knew how that fucker liked to torture people.  He knew how much pain he could inflict if he wanted to.  He thought the older brother would be running this session.  He thought wrong.

“It was all Arnie’s idea,” he said, and Mick put the knife away.

“Arnie Palmer?” Charles asked.

“Who else?” Naughty asked.  “That’s who I work for.  He ran it through the Boss, or whoever he ran it through, but don’t ask me no details because he don’t let me in on none of the details.  He just tells me what to do.”

“What was his goal?” Mick asked.

“To destroy you,” Naughty said with a smile.  “He wants you bad.  And he’s crazy about it.  He’s talking about boobytraps and shit, and taking over your empire and Jericho while he was at it, and putting kids first.  He’s psycho I’m telling you.”

Charles frowned.   “What do you mean putting kids first?” Charles asked.  “Are you saying he meant to take out my grandson?”

“Yeah, he meant it!”

“Arnie was behind that drive-by that wounded Makayla Sinatra?” Mick asked.

“That fat black girl?” Naughty asked.  “Yeah, he was behind it.  The guy we got to do it was some nerd from Africa we recruited by accident, and he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.”

“You’re talking about Percy Diallo?” Mick asked.

Naughty nodded.  “Yeah.  That guy.”

“How was he recruited by accident?” Charles asked.

“Surveillance.  We had a man having a meal at the Inn restaurant.  Nothing out of the ordinary at all.  But that’s how we knew what was going on.  And our man saw that African shock the shit out of your wife.  Then he saw them go upstairs somewhere.  And then he saw you show up, and your ass looked angry,” Naughty added with a grin.

Then he continued.  “Naturally he figured something was up.  Especially when he left looking all angry himself.  So he followed the guy.  When he stopped at a gas station, that was when he had a conversation with him.  He was going to die if he didn’t help us, he told him.  He was going to live, and get paid quite generously, if he did help.  He’s selfish, what can I say?  He decided to live.”

“Where’s Arnie now?” Mick asked.

“Back in Boston.  At the bar.  I have to pick him up at ten, to escort him to the barber shop, like I do every other day at ten.  And I’m already running late. If he gets suspicious, and notify Brazzano, you’ve got trouble on your hands.”

Charles looked at Mick.  But Charles was staring at Naughty.  “What the fuck is trouble to me?” he said to him.