The Heir

“Problem?” Iggy asks.

“Nope,” I say, tucking my phone back in my pocket. “You ready?”

Iggy folds up his lyrics sheet and stuffs it in his pocket. I know he’s already got it all locked up in that insane brain of his — he just likes to look it over to reassure himself.

The crowd whoops and cheers as The Shakers take their bow.

“Sounds like a lot of people,” Iggy says, mildly.

“You got this,” I reassure him.

I walk him to the stairs leading up the backside of the stage. The sound engineer clips on Iggy’s mic and gives him the hand-held as well. The opening bars of “Deathless Life” begin to play. Iggy squares his shoulders and I see the transformation wash over him — his eyes narrowing, his lips tightening, his fingers gripping the mic.

Then he bounds up the stairs and starts shouting with the speed of an auctioneer:

They said I was buried

Desiccated and dead

I’ll climb up out the grave

Break the stone on ya head

I’m breathless and reckless

Continually climb

Drink the glass to the bottom

And eat up the lime...

By the time he reaches the chorus, the whole rooftop is shouting the lyrics along with him. Iggy will know that the factory is packed, a mass of people breaking every possible fire code, but it won’t matter by now, he’s in the swing of it.

I told my boy Kelly to video the whole thing. I’ll send that to Victor Kane tonight and I’ll be damned if he doesn’t sign the contract on the spot. Iggy’s going to L.A., where he’ll be free from his bloodsucking relatives.

Right as I’m reveling in triumph, my phone buzzes again.

I pull it out, seeing Sabrina’s number.

My cousin wouldn’t call just to beg to be let back into the party.

I lift the phone to my ear, already sensing what I’m about to hear.

“Your bouncer needs a lesson in ma

“He never passed the etiquette test in the employee training manual,” I reply.

“Not you though, huh?” Poe sneers. “You’re all jokes.”

“I’d call that a quip at best.”

“Let’s see how fu

I let out a slow breath of air. “Not a good idea. You know who her father is?”

“I don’t give a fuck who you little shits are related to,” Poe hisses. “Get down here and leave your fuckin’ bouncers in the warehouse.”

“It’s a factory,” I correct him. “But alright. I’m coming.”

I’m a

As I pass Beckett and Anders guarding the door, Anders says, “Something wrong, boss?”

“A small inconvenience,” I say.

I could give Anders shit for not calling me when Poe showed up like I told him to do, but this was coming one way or another.

“Wait twelve minutes,” I tell Anders. “Then come around to the alley.”

He nods slowly, his eyes fixed on mine. I can tell he’d rather follow me right now, but he’ll do what I ask.

“Alright, boss,” he says.

“Twelve minutes.” I tap the Breitling on my wrist. “Use the side door.”

Anders takes a quick look at his own watch to confirm the time and jerks his head in the affirmative.

I pass the long line of people still waiting to come inside, all gazing enviously up toward the roof where Iggy’s ass-kicking performance is ongoing.

Then I turn the corner to the narrow alleyway where Poe waits with his three goons.

The alley is actually quite pretty, the factory wall carpeted with a thick mat of hanging ivy and the opposite side bordered by an ornate wrought-iron fence. The narrow space fu

Poe has one of his idiot friends stationed at the opening of the alley, a rat-faced motherfucker in an oversized leather jacket. He smirks at me as I pass. Poe and his other two goons are holding Sabrina down at the end of the alley in front of a padlocked gate.

The biggest guy has Sabrina’s arms pi

Sabrina locks eyes with me. There’s no hint of fear or remorse in her face. Just pure, burning fury.

It doesn’t appear that they roughed her up, so maybe Poe isn’t as stupid as he looks.

He does look plenty stupid. He’s a walking cartoon character — his blocky, rectangular head sitting on a neck of exactly the same thickness, so it forms one long pillar from skull to shoulders. His fade is shaved so high that his pouf of gingery hair perches on top of his head like a toupee. Add to that a drooping mustache and Bugs Bu

Still, it would be a mistake to find him comical. Poe is no stranger to violence. The most dangerous man is one who has nothing to lose.

Poe is a six-time convict, petty drug-dealer, and fentanyl addict who’s about to lose his last meal ticket. He’s going to cling to Iggy until his fingernails tear off. Unless I put a stop to this once and for all.

“You’re fuckin’ disrespectful, boy,” Poe hisses. “You throw a party for Iggy’s album and you don’t even invite his manager?”

“You’re not his manager,” I reply. “And you’re right, I don’t respect you. You’re a leech. You’ve been bleeding Iggy dry since he posted his first song. You don’t do fuck-all for him.”

“I do everything for him!” Poe rasps, outraged. “Who helped pay his mum’s rent after his dad died? Who bought his Christmas presents?”

“You threw them fifty bucks here and there so you could use their house to stash your drugs,” I snort. “And the only Christmas I remember seeing you is the one where you had an ankle monitor and you needed a permanent address for your parole officer.”

If anybody paid Iggy’s rent it was my dad, who helped Iggy’s mom land a job as a PA at City Hall after his father dropped dead from a stroke at only forty-eight years old.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you!” Poe howls, his face turning the color of a turnip. “You think you can take my nephew away? Well I got yer fuckin’ cousin. So you can tear up that bullshit contract with Virgin-fuckin-whoever-the-fuck, or I’ll tear her pretty little face off instead!”

“That’s not happening,” I say. “Iggy’s leaving. You’re staying here. It’s already decided. But I’m willing to discuss terms. We can all walk away happy tonight.”

“Fuck yer fuckin’ terms!” Poe laughs in my face. “Look around you! There’s four of us and one of you.”

“No need for this to get ugly.”

“Oh, we’re way past ugly,” Poe sneers. “You think you’re making’ a deal here? I’ll shoot this bitch in the face just to set the table!”

He yanks a battered .45 out of the waistband of his filthy jeans and points it at Sabrina, cocking the trigger. Sabrina’s nostrils flare. I figure I have about two more minutes before she does something crazy. Which aligns nicely with my own timeline.

Poe doesn’t want to see the carrot — it’s time to bring out the stick.

“I’m glad you brought up firearms, Poe,” I say.