He looked me over slowly, as if dissecting my response and searching through the pieces for fault. He pressed the web of his hand against his chin and rubbed his beard with his thumb and forefinger. “What makes this girl special enough to break your busy routine?”
“Her appearance, sense of humor, and the way it made her nervous when I looked at her.” I took a drink of my beer. “I liked those things about her.”
He watched the man across the street, who was pacing the yard while talking on his cell phone. “Describe her.”
“Brunette. Athletic build. Blue eyes. Thirty-ish. Just out of a relationship,” I replied.
“Just out, huh?” Still studying the man across the street, he set his beer aside and stood. “This year? This month? This week?”
“Sounds like it happened this morning,” I said, wondering what he found so interesting about the neighbor. “They broke up a few hours before we met.”
He laughed.
“What?” I asked.
“She’s using you to get back at him.” He glanced at me. “And you’re using her to find your hat.”
I suspected he was right on one account. On the other, he wasn’t completely right, but he wasn’t wrong, either.
I pretended to be surprised. “Why do you say that?”
When the neighbor walked inside, Braxton sat down and faced me. “You think giving her some dick will act as an incentive for her to find your hat. She’s a few hours out of a relationship. She isn’t going on a date because she thinks you fit the mold of her perfect man. She’s planning on using sex as a means of obtaining justice for whatever her ex did to end the relationship. You just happened to be the guy she picked. What were you wearing when you went into her shop?”
“Wearing?” It seemed like an odd question. “What I’ve got on right now.”
“She pegged you for a biker,” he said. “Her ex is probably a pencil-pusher. She’s scratching an itch, no doubt.”
“An itch?”
“The bad boy itch,” he responded. “Every woman has one. Some act on it, some don’t.”
“I asked her out, she didn’t ask me,” I retorted, taking exception to his remark. “She’s not scratching an itch.”
“She said yes because you’re the antithesis of her day-to-day routine.” He nonchalantly sipped his beer. “It’s not a stab at you. It’s just how things are.”
He acted like it was a common occurrence. He may have been the avowed psychologist of the group, but I wasn’t convinced. “You know this how?”
“I see it all the time.”
“In your line of work?” I asked, my tone clearly sarcastic.
“She’s planning on using you for sex, and that’s it. You don’t have to believe me,” he said, wearing a smirk. “But if I’m right, I want an 18-year-old bottle of Macallan to accompany you on your next visit.”
“And, if you’re wrong?” I asked.
He nodded toward the end of the driveway. “I’ll give you the keys to that Range Rover.”
3
Reggie
“A biker?” She coughed as if saying the word brought a bitter taste to her mouth. “This is going to be interesting. Hopefully he won’t hack you up into pieces.”
On most days, Mel was my best friend. Sometimes, albeit infrequently, she acted like he was my parent.
I opened her refrigerator door and peered inside. “He’s a biker, not the San Diego County Strangler.”
“Sport bike or American V-Twin?”
Apparently, Mel was a closet motorcycle enthusiast. I, on the other hand, wasn’t. I glanced over my shoulder. “What’s an American V-Twin?”
“An American V-Twin is a Harley or one of the Harley look-alikes.”
“Oh.” I went back to pilfering the fridge. “I dunno.”
“Did it have a low rumble or a high-pitched whine?”
“I haven’t seen it yet.” I opened a small Tupperware and smelled the contents. “When did you cook this?”
“Are there noodles in it?”
I studied it. It seemed noodle-like. “There’s some noodle-like stuff in it. Tomatoes. Meat. Cheese.” I gave it a closer look, and then poked it with my finger. “Yeah, they’re noodles.”
“Tuesday.”
“What’s today?”
“Sunday.”
I counted the days on my free hand. According to those in the know, it was on the cusp of being rotten. I tasted my finger. “Do you think they lie to us when they say three to five days?”
“When who says three to five days?”
“Whoever they are.” I smelled the container’s contents. “The food people. I think the organizations who give the warnings own the companies that sell the products. The pasta manufacturers want us buying new pasta instead of eating leftover pasta. It’s a farce.”
“I’ve eaten month-old pasta without getting sick,” she said, confirming my suspicion. “You’ll be fine.”
I dumped the contents into a bowl and put it in the microwave. While I waited for my early evening snack to reach the 160-degree safe zone, I faced Mel. “If dip-shit leaves anything at my house, do you wanna help me light it on fire?”
Her eyes widened with excitement. “Hell yes.”
“I really hope he left something. Or, several somethings. Like those furry little slip-on loafers. Or that stupid fucking couch.”
She rubbed her hands together. “The green pleather one?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
“God, I hope he leaves that thing,” she spouted. “I hate that fucking couch. It makes me sweat and then my legs stick to it.”
“I can’t believe he talked me into buying it.”
“I’m just glad it’s finally over. It’s time to start a new life. Be single for a while. It’s fun.”
Melanie’s soon to be brother-in-law, Brandon, was at a bachelor party in Oceanside and had seen Jared at the strip club. After staying until closing time, Brandon and his friends stumbled into the parking lot, only to find Jared in the front seat of his car, balls-deep in one of the strippers. Brandon promptly called Mel. Mel, who detested Jared, informed me within seconds of receiving the news.
“It’s going to be weird not having him there,” I admitted.
Her brows raised. “He. Fucked. A. Stripper.”
“I didn’t say I was going to regret it,” I said in my defense. “I said it was going to be weird. The same kind of weird it’d be if I got rid of that lamp my mom gave me.”
“The ugly one by the door?”
“Uh huh.”
“Yeah,” she said. “It’d be weird if that was gone.”
I pulled the pasta from the microwave and plopped down at the table. While I picked at it with my fork, she sat down across from me.
“You don’t think it’s too early to be going on a date?” she asked.
It wasn’t uncommon for Mel to go on three dates a week. Granted, they were internet dating site hook-ups, but calling me out for going on one date with a man I met at work was complete crap.
“I can’t control what happens.” I gave her a look. “He asked me out.”
“Rebound relationships never last,” she said. “Ever.”
“Relationship?” I looked at her like she was crazy for even mentioning the word. Commitments with members of the opposite sex were the predecessor to deep disappointments. “I’m not going to be in a relationship with him. We’re going to screw. That’s it.”
“Forgetaboutitfucking,” she said, as if it were one word.
I looked up from my carb-rich cheesy Italian goodness. “Huh?”
“Forget about it fucking. It’s when you have sex to forget about whatever’s bothering you. It’s for no other reason than to take your mind off catastrophic shit. People do it when they get divorced, after a loved one dies, or if they’re in a really bad car wreck.”
I allowed her explanation to sink it, staring at her blankly the entire time. “You’re out of your mind. Who rushes out to have sex after be
ing in a bad car wreck? Or on their way home from a funeral?”
“Pretty much everybody,” she said. “Think about it. You’re sitting at a stoplight and some high school kid is texting and driving, and she plows into the back of your car without so much as tapping her brakes. You crawl out the window and survey the car. It looks like someone kicked it out the back of a cargo plane from thirty thousand feet. After the tow truck driver hauls it away, the cop gives you a ride home. Still in a daze from the wreck, you look around and realize you’re going to be taking an Uber to work for the next month. Frustration sinks in. What’s the first thing you do?”
“Pour a glass of wine?”
“Nope.” She raised her phone. “You scroll through your phone and get ahold of that guy from college that used you for his booty call every time he was drunk. When he answers, he’s like, ‘hey, I was just thinking about you’ even though he hasn’t heard from you in five years. You invite him over, knowing it’s going to be nothing but sex. He comes over and within fifteen minutes he’s got you bent over the arm of the couch. The sex takes your mind off the car wreck.”
Mel was insane. Nevertheless, her explanation made sense.
Kind of.
I lifted my fork to my mouth. “When I have a car wreck, food is my crutch. I’m having sex with him because it’ll be fun.”
“As long as he doesn’t give you something.”
“I’m not going to ride him bareback, Mel. Jesus.”
“You can still get diseases.”
I liked to think of myself as an optimist. Mel claimed to be a realist, but typically pointed out the worst possible scenario she could fathom when it came to my life. When looking at herself in the mirror, however, she always seemed to do so through rose-colored glasses.
I rolled my eyes. “Why’d you ask what kind of bike he rode?”
“Because they’re totally different people. Harley riders are laid back, but they have terrible tempers. They’re like mixed-breed dogs. When they’re happy, everything’s good. But you never know what you’re going to get when they’re agitated. He could be a lap dog, or a vicious Pit Bull. You’ll never know until you poke him.”
“A mixed breed dog?” I lowered my fork and stared in disbelief. “According to who?”
“According to me. I’ve dated one before. He hated body hair, except on his face. His favorite food was hot dogs, no ketchup.”
“Wow,” I said jokingly. “He sounds like an unpredictable monster.”
“He was okay. He always smelled like peanut butter.”
“Why?”
“It was all he ate,” she said. “He loved the stuff.”
“I thought his favorite food was hot dogs?’
“It was. Peanut butter isn’t food. It’s a condiment.”
Mel had dated countless shitheads in her days. In fact, she seemed to gravitate toward them. Try as I might, I couldn’t think of one man that she dated who wasn’t a complete asshole. I couldn’t, however, remember anyone smelling like peanut butter.
“When was this?” I asked. “I don’t remember you dating a hairless biker.”
She gazed at the ceiling. “Maybe ten years ago.” She looked at me. “I was twenty-ish. He was a friend of the guy Teri was seeing.”
“Teri from El Cajon?”
“Yep.”
“An unpredictable man—when agitated—who smelled like peanut butter and wore a beard. He must not have been too bad, you’ve never mentioned him.”
She picked at her fingernails. “He was okay.”
“He was a Harley guy?” I asked. “Not a sport bike guy?”
“Yeah, he was a Harley guy.” She looked up. “I wouldn’t date a sport bike guy.”
“Why?”
“They’re thrill-seeking maniacs.”
“Which one’s better for a fling?”
“For a one-night-stand? The Harley guy. Definitely.”
I was intrigued. “Why?”
“Because he’ll fuck you like he’s trying to prove a point. In a sense, he will be. He’ll be trying to convince you to be a side piece.” She inspected her nails for a moment before looking at me. “Is he hot?”
“Yes.”
“Describe him.”
“He’s not easy to describe.”
She closed her eyes. “Do your best.”
“Dark hair. He cuts it short. It was kind of messed up when I saw him, but it didn’t look intentional—”
She opened her eyes. “Like he just got out of bed?”
“No,” I said. “Like he ran his fingers through it, and never looked in the mirror. Just kind of messed up.”
She closed her eyes. “Okay. Go ahead.”
“He’s got really sexy brown eyes, dark-colored skin, and he’s muscular. It’s hard to describe, but every time he moves, it seems like it’s choreographed. Each step, each hand placement, everything he does, it’s perfect. It’s amazing to watch. Like the rhythmic gymnasts in the Olympics.”
“Tattoos?” she asked.
“Of course.”
She opened her eyes. “Tall?”
“Compared to who?”
“Me,” she said.
Mel was tall for a girl. I was five-six, and she was at least two inches taller than me. I guessed Tito was five-ten, give or take.
“He’s taller than you.” I said. “But he’s not what I would describe as tall. He doesn’t need to be, though. He’s got an…I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like he’s got an attitude that surrounds him like a force field.”
“Oh. Wow.” She grinned. “He sounds awesome.”
“He’ll be awesome for what I need him for. After that, we’ll go our separate ways. I’m sure it’s what he wants, too. He’s not looking for a relationship. He didn’t seem the type.”
“That’s good,” she said. “Because your dad will kill you if you started dating a biker.”
I laughed out loud at the thought. I’m sure there were benefits to having a father who was a cop. In thirty years, however, I had yet to find out what they were.
4
Tito
The motorcycle club I belonged to was unconventional to say the least. In fact, the motorcycles were more of a common interest between the members than a necessity for membership. In short, we were a group of criminals. Fittingly, our club was comprised of six professional thieves, all of which had an area of expertise to offer the club.
Baker, the club president, planned the crimes we committed. He was meticulous, considered every angle, and rarely made a mistake.
Ally, the only woman in the club, was our getaway car driver. She could outdrive anyone—the police included—and never cracked under pressure.
She was in a relationship with Goose, who was the club’s weapons expert. He was as good of a sniper as any military-trained equal. Possessing the wisdom of a monk, he also acted as the club’s voice of reason.
Reno was the club’s explosives expert. His extensive special forces military training gave him two areas of expertise—tactics, and explosives.
Lastly, there was Cash. He was the six-foot-six thorn in the club’s side. Always the antagonist and rarely an asset, Cash was the club’s muscle.
The problem was that we rarely needed any muscle. We were all—Ally included—capable of taking care of ourselves. This absence of necessity for Cash’s offerings caused him to throw his weight around for no other reason than to justify his existence.
I, like the other members, took him—and his excessively large attitude—with a grain of salt.
At least I tried to.
“I say we go in guns blazing and take what we’re after,” Cash said, glancing at each of us as he spoke. “Pistol whip the prick and take his load of coins out the front door. Ramona’s a fucking ghost town, anyway. I bet they’ve got one cop. If it’s lunch time, he’ll be at the local café eating pie and drinking coffee. We’ll be long gone before he gets off his fat ass.”
“That’s a great idea,” I said snidely.
“Shoot the place up in broad daylight. Pistol whip the gold trader. He’s probably sixty years old. Ideas like that are the reason you’re not in charge.”
He flipped his hair out of his eyes and glared at me. “You’re not in charge because you’re too fucking short to be taken seriously, midget. Nobody’s going to argue with gunfire. It’s an effective tool. It makes old coin collectors pay attention to our demands.”
“If you think going in there in broad daylight waving guns around isn’t an unnecessary risk, maybe you need some sense beat into you,” I said, looking him up and down. “I think I’m tall enough to do just that.”
“Stop fucking arguing,” Baker snarled. “Tito’s right, Cash. It’s an unnecessary risk.”
The job in question was presented to the club by Ally, who’d learned of it while eating with Goose at a rural restaurant. The local newspaper mentioned a gold broker who was taking bids on a coin collection that was worth in excess of five million dollars.
According to the article, the offering was a small portion of his entire collection, which, as a whole, was priceless. The complete collection was to be on display at his place of business in five weeks. It was the first public viewing of the entire collection. Soon thereafter, he was accepting bids for portions of it in pre-selected lots of coins that had been separated by demonization and variety.
The job was in Ramona, a town of 20,000 residents. Downtown Ramona hadn’t changed much in the past sixty or seventy years. Pulling off the job at the right time should be an easy task, considering some of the complex jobs we’d done in the past.
Pulling it off at the wrong time would be nothing short of a disaster.
“Tito, do you want to research his place of business and see what we’re going to have to do to get around his security system?” Baker asked.
I nodded. “Sure.”
Baker glanced at Reno. “Take a look at Ramona in general, and see if there’s something we can do to create a diversion, if need be. Might not be a bad idea to get that small police force at one end of the city while we’re at the other. The outskirts of town run all the way to the mountains, so we may even be able to get the police out to one of those rural ranches while we’re doing this deal.”
Tito Page 3
