The fact that his grandma hadn't shouted at him yet was his first clue.
Although she had resigned to Weevil's involvement with the PCHers, she still reserved some energy to ream him out when he came home late, knuckles bruised, or in this case, semi-conscious. In her eyes, leader of the PCHers was the first step down the same path her son had taken, and Weevil knew how that path had ended for his father. He wished he could explain why; explain that he couldn't sit passively while life dealt them blow after blow. He had to be in control of something, even if that something was stealing cars. But, of course, that wasn't his style of communication, nor his grandma's. So instead, she shouted meaningless phrases to say all the things she didn't know how, and Weevil took it to let her know he understood.
Except this time, his grandma hadn't said anything.
He woke up on the couch in the living room, sun streaming through the window and across his face. Immediately, a sense of confusion washed over him. Why was he on the couch? Why was he still wearing his jacket? And suddenly, he remembered Logan Echolls.
That lying, skiving bastard who had killed Lilly. He had to find him, hurt him, and make him pay. Weevil sat up quickly, abruptly realizing the pounding pain in his head and radiating through his jaw. Last night… a hazy memory of the previous night passed through his brain.
His shock, but not disbelief, when he overheard Veronica implicate Logan, on a phone call presumably to her dad. The blind rage that followed. Gathering his boys, running purely on adrenaline and anger and a desperate need to create his own justice. They had found Logan teetering on the edge of the bridge, that much Weevil remembered.
Oh hell no, he had thought, you are not dying before I get my say with you.
And then, nothing.
He had no recollection of beating up Logan, whether or not he had jumped. Or how he had gotten here.
Or why his head hurt so much.
But, his grandma hadn't yet made an appearance. No yelling, no disapproving looks, no pounding feet nor disappointed eyes. And that made Weevil more worried than his spotty memory or pounding face. Something was wrong. Really wrong, not just Logan-may-have-jumped wrong but something that would affect his life.
A panicky feeling started rising in his chest, a very foreign feeling for Weevil. He didn't panic or get flustered. He was steady and in control of his emotions.
He tried to get a grip on the events that had taken place last night, and bring a bit of order to his irrational anxiety. He was fairly certain he remembered one of his boys taking him home last night.
Felix? No, if I was out Felix would be running the show. Hector, and maybe Bootsie, he decided.
He must have been knocked out.
By Logan? The day that skinny white boy kicks my ass, he thought, and suddenly remembered Logan's boot swinging towards his face.
And there was the answer. He recalled it now, approaching Logan. Ready to hurt, or even to kill. Something had happened, and had broken his concentration. Logan, somewhere in his intoxicated brain, has seized the opportunity and struck him squarely in the jaw. The pain in Weevil's head and face flared up with the memory.
Just like that, he was white hot angry. Angry that Logan got the better of him. Angry that, no matter if Logan was dead or not, it hadn't been at the hands of Weevil, though he knew Felix would carry out vengeance for him. Angry that his life was filled with people dying and disappearing. He needed to do something to turn the overwhelming ball of anger into something physical and controllable. He grabbed the pillow a whipped it across the room. Not satisfied, he overturned the low table in front of him, scattering a stack of flyers and a half-eaten piece of toast on a plate.
At the noise, his grandma walked into the room. Weevil braced for the long overdue scolding. He prepared himself to listen to her spout about getting home late and busting his face and wrecking the room, when she knew as much as he did that some of the food on the table came from stolen car parts. Weevil would listen, his anger wasn't for her, though sometimes he would shout back to keep up the charade. In the end, he'd always relent and promise to come home on time and stay out of trouble, and then slip her money later when Angel needed new shoes or when Ophelia's birthday was coming up.
But instead of angry, loud footsteps, Grandma Letti entered the room almost timidly.
"Eli, mijo."
It was wrong. It was all so very wrong. And his panicky feeling had returned.
"Your friend Felix,"
What about Felix? Felix with the lanky limbs and crazy smile, whom he had known since they were babies. No no no. Felix hadn't disappeared, not like Gus.
"Eli, he's gone."
Weevil sank back down into the couch in disbelief. He wanted to get angry, to destroy something else, but at the same time he couldn't seem to make himself move. Letti had tears gathered in her eyes, after all she had nearly raised Felix as much as she had raised Eli.
She was supposed to scold, not cry.
"I don't know very much, I guess he was still on the bridge when they brought you home. And," she took a deep breath, "somebody stabbed him."
Letti was crying now, and so, it seemed, was Eli. She reached over and pulled him into an embrace, Eli couldn't remember the last time he had turned to her for comfort, not even after his mother. But Felix, he was different.
He vowed vengeance on whomever had killed Felix; he would make them pay if it was the last thing he did. But not right now, right now it was all he could do to stop hot tears from sliding down his face.