“Thank you,” Michelle said. “Call the clubhouse. Call Candy’s cell. I’ll call him. He’ll protect you.”
“We’ll see,” he said, sounding resigned.
Eden tossed the baggie on the counter, and they turned to go. Out on the sidewalk, she said, “They’re more afraid of the cartel than they are of the club.”
“I don’t think the cartel does any charity rides for the children’s hospital,” Michelle said, wryly. Then: “Shit, how did they get back in the city unnoticed?”
Eden shrugged. “These things happen.”
But Michelle couldn’t help but think she detected a note of judgement in her voice.
Twenty-Five
“The Holy Father?” Fox asked into the phone. The others, standing around him, all made the same face, brows climbing. Save Reese, who just stared at him in that unnerving way of his, and Ten, who rolled his eyes.
“Apparently,” Eden said on the other end of the line. “Bit of a flair for the dramatic, I suppose. Then again, you do have a friend named Candyman.”
“I do,” he said, lightly. “Anything else?”
“Our Holy Father, whoever he is, is linked to the Chupacabras.”
This time, Fox felt his own face do something complicated and disbelieving. The others edged in a step closer in response. “Hold on.” He put her on speaker. They stood on the side of the road, in the unpopulated spot where Michelle had nearly been run off the road, and managed to turn the tables on her attackers. The truck had been towed away, but a bit of yellow tape snapped from the branch of a mesquite tree, and you could see the fresh wounds in the earth where it had lain. “Say that again.”
Her voice came out muffled and tinny; a sudden gust of wind tried to snatch it away, but her answer was clear. “Your boys Jesse and Eric at Citgo say the good Holy Father is either a part of, or at least working for the Chupacabra cartel.”
Candy stared hard at the phone. “That’s not possible. We pushed them out of Texas.”
“I killed their boss myself,” Fox added.
“Yes. And it isn’t as if bosses can be replaced,” she said, dryly. “I’m just reporting what I know. I’ll check in if I learn something else.” The call disconnected with a beep.
Fox stared at the phone a long moment, until the screen went black. When he lifted his head, he realized Candy and Albie had been doing the same.
“Fuck,” Candy finally said, dazed. Then, frowning, “Fuck. The cartel? Fucking shit.”
“We don’t know it’s them,” Albie said, sounding cautious.
“Aw, shit, of course it is,” Candy said, turning away from them, kicking a rock in a show of uncharacteristic annoyance. His feet were as strong as his fists, apparently, because the rock sailed a long, long way into the distance, disappearing before it came back to earth. “How did I not see this? What–” He scrubbed a hand up the back of his head, fluffing the wheaten hair there, biceps bunching up so thick Fox thought the sleeve of his jacket might split.
“At least it wasn’t your hard work gone to waste,” Fox muttered, refusing to call his tone bitter – though it definitely was. Sue him: he was damn proud of the Chupacabra hit he’d carried out.
Candy whirled around. “What was that?”
“Nothing. If it’s them, then we need to be more aggressive about this.”
Candy stared off across the open stretch of field a moment, jaw set. Then he nodded. “Yeah.”
~*~
“Well, that’s done,” Eden said after she’d disconnected the call. “Any thoughts on where the boys will go with that information? Because it will be more efficient for us to search for additional leads elsewhere.”
Michelle didn’t answer, instead said, “You didn’t tell him I was with you.”
Eden twisted around so she could peer into the backseat, head tilting so she glanced at Michelle over the rims of her sunglasses. “Of course not. Your fellow would just come rushing to us and ruin the whole afternoon. They’re very white knight, these bikers.”
Axelle snorted. “Very controlling.”
After talking to Jesse and Eric, they’d piled back into the GTO and left the Citgo – only to go a half-mile down the street and pull into the bustling, shiny new BP so they could make a plan. An oil tanker trundled past them, engine nearly-deafening.
Michelle frowned to herself a moment, thinking. “They’ll have someone they go hunt down. Someone who they think will know something about the cartel. So far, all our regular dealers won’t say a word.”
“If the cartel is moving product, someone knows which channels they’re using,” Eden said.
“Yeah, but they’ll be smarter than those boys back there. They won’t talk.”
“Hmm.” Eden tapped the edge of her phone against her lips. “I wouldn’t mind having a chat with this FBI fellow Candy mentioned.”
“He’ll be staked out at Amarillo PD, I guess,” Michelle said, “but if we leave here, and go straight there, Jesse and Eric are good as dead.” When Eden lifted her brows, she said, “If they have eyes on us.” She suppressed a shiver.
“No offense,” Axelle said, “but we really shouldn’t have brought her.” She was facing out through the windshield, but hooked a thumb over the backseat to point at Michelle.
“Excuse me?”
“No one knows us around here,” Axelle said. “We coulda walked in back there and acted like we wanted to buy off those guys. But with you along.” She finally turned her head and offered what was almost an apologetic look. “Everyone knows we’re in good with the Dogs. Might as well be walking around with targets on our backs.” She looked to Eden. “This isn’t the way you normally do things.”
Eden sighed. “I know.”
Then why bring me? Michelle started to ask.
But someone rapped hard on her window.
They all jumped.
Axelle breathed out a fast, “Holy shit.”
It was Jinx, bent at the waist, his bearded face just beyond Michelle’s window, mouth set in a flat, stern line.
Michelle pressed a hand over her racing heart. “Shit. It’s just Jinx.”
Eden cranked down her window and said, “Can we help you?” with masterful iciness.
He ignored her, gaze pinned to Michelle. “Are you outta your mind right now?”
“Was I under house arrest?” she bit back.
He stared at her a moment, and she could feel it building, the speech he was about to give her about putting herself in danger, and going off without an escort, and how upset Candy would be when he found out. Felt it building, and wanted to scream.
But when he finally spoke, he said, “If you’re gonna go against your old man’s wishes, did you ever think I might want in on it?”
~*~
Soft. The word cycled through Candy’s head in a loop, mocking him. The roar of the engine and the wind wasn’t enough to drown it out. Even just a few years ago, he wouldn’t have missed something as dire as the cartel moving back into his territory. Murdering people. Stealing their market.
What else were they doing under his nose? Trafficking sex slaves? Drug mule kids? Was there a countdown clock ticking on a massive drive-by that would claim innocent families?
He remembered lying on the side of the road, the pain more like a coldness – one that crept and crept, stealing all the heat from his finger and toe tips and rushing inward. Remembered Michelle standing over him, haloed in sunlight, terrified but fierce.
They were married, now. Had one baby and another on the way.
His stomach ached. If he’d been soft – if that was the reason for this – he felt far from it now.
By the time they pulled in at The Oasis, he’d packaged his rage into something sleek, hard, and useful. An electric thrill down his spine he hadn’t felt in a while.
The lot was maybe a quarter full, so they parked up front, along the sidewalk, bikes lined up in a perfect row. Candy didn’t realize he was outdistancing the others until he got to the door and glan
ced back over his shoulder. Albie and Fox were at least ten paces behind, Reese and Ten back even farther, and surveying their surroundings. Candy waited long enough for Fox and Albie to catch up, then tugged open the door and stepped into the club’s dim interior.
The Oasis needed remodeling in a major way, its black carpet, black tile, and pink neon smudgy, sad, and outdated. But he supposed no one came here for the ambiance.
A center stage dominated the entire back wall, three catwalks leading out from it into the smoky, dark den where round tables offered a view of the dancers. A handful of patrons were scattered across the room, most of them sitting alone, and only the center catwalk was lit up, the girl on it dressed up like a nurse, down to a tiny skirt, stockings, and heels.
A bouncer leaned back against the wall just inside the entryway, eyes at half-mast, posture lax; half-asleep. He clocked their cuts, though, jerking upright, whole body going tense. He stepped forward as Candy halted to scan the room, his voice low when he said, “Hey, man, we don’t want any trouble in here today.”
“Good, ‘cause there won’t be any,” Candy said, staring at him until he took a step back. “Benny here?”
The bouncer’s tense expression melted into a grimace. “He’s in the back with Kimmie.”
“Cool. We won’t be long.”
A hallway lined with black velvet curtains housed the private rooms. Light – low and red-pink – showed beneath the curtain at the very end, and the faint thumping of slow, rhythmic music floated from there, muted by all the velvet and carpet.
Carpet that muffled their approaching footfalls, too.
Candy reached the curtain, grabbed it with both hands, and flung it wide.
Benny Boling was one of those guys you remembered as being unimpressive, but each time you saw him, you realized you’d forgotten how much so. Stick-thin, covered in tattoos that were an obvious attempt to distract from his scrawniness, dripping fake gold chains, and armed with a New York accent that stuck out everywhere in Amarillo, he’d spent the last decades blowing money on strippers, call girls, and drugs, yammering away to anyone who would listen about a score of ambitious business plans that never materialized. The underground made use of him off and on, as a go-between, as an informant, and they paid him just enough to eke out his existence of sin and braggadocio.
Currently, he was sprawled back across a velvet sofa, one arm outflung along its cushions, the other hooked loosely around the waist of the woman who straddled his lap, hand playing with the lace strap of her thong. She was bare otherwise, riding the bulge in Benny’s jeans, rubbing her breasts in his face while he moaned and tried to catch at her nipples with a half-open, slack mouth.
“Hate to interrupt,” Candy drawled, and the stripper, Kimmie, he guessed, stilled, glancing back over her shoulder. Her face, lax with false pleasure, tensed immediately, and she scrambled off Benny’s lap.
“Hey,” Benny protested, trying to hold onto her. She shook him off with a brisk, practiced movement. “What gives, sugar? I’ve got another ten minutes…” He trailed off when he spotted Candy, Fox, and Albie in the doorway. Even in the dim, unnatural light, Candy could see that his face paled; his eyes went huge.
“Ah, shit. What do you guys want?”
“Just a little chat, Benny,” Candy assured.
Kimmie bent down to snatch up the mini dress she’d wriggled out of, a crumpled scrap of glittery fabric on the floor, and fled with her head ducked, one arm banded across her breasts. Smart girl, Candy thought. She knew the drill with guys like Benny.
Candy moved to sit beside him, while Fox and Albie stayed on their feet, seeming casual.
Benny wasn’t fooled, though – despite the appearance most of the time, he proved not totally stupid at moments. He clapped a hand over his unimpressive erection and hitched himself up higher against the back of the sofa, white-rimmed gaze shifting between the three of them.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Candy,” he said, voice stuttering, licking his lips ever few words. “How’s the wife? The kid? You been busy?”
“Don’t mention my wife,” Candy said, smoothly. “You know, Benny, you’re awfully twitchy for a guy I haven’t seen in a while.”
“Yeah? No kidding. Guess you’re just scary, huh?” He let out a high, cracked laugh.
Albie leaned over to the iPod dock and switched it off; the beat died away, but Candy could still feel the music from the main room coming up through the floor, through the soles of his boots. It was quiet enough then to hear the scrape of Benny’s nervous breathing.
All three of them stared at him.
Benny wiped a hand across his brow that came away slick with fresh fear sweat. “What do you want?” he asked, meek for the first time.
That was more like it.
“The Chupacabras,” Candy said, and Benny’s brows jumped. “They back in town?”
“Uh…you guys are the ones who ran them outta town.”
“I’m aware. But something tells me they wouldn’t call to give me a heads-up if they came back. Gonna make me kick rocks and talk to ugly little weasels in the backs of shitty clubs to find out.”
Benny glanced at each of their faces in turn, again. “Oh, you don’t think – I mean, why would I – it’s not like I’d–”
Candy let his hand drop off the back of the sofa onto Benny’s shoulder; his palm engulfed the whole joint, like he was gripping a child. He squeezed, and Benny let out an abortive little sound that was doubtless unintentional.
“Let’s don’t play games,” Candy said, angling for a serious, but not-unsympathetic tone. “When things start happening in this city, you always catch word of them. There’s no way you don’t know. I want to give you a chance to come clean.”
Benny gulped, and attempted another shrill, hyena laugh. He was shaking. “Or what? You gonna kill me?”
Candy looked toward Fox, who gave an elegant facial shrug that spoke volumes. He’d taken out a pocket knife and was scraping dirt from under his nails with it, because he was a cocky showman.
“We know they’re behind these murders,” Candy said. “Some jackass who calls himself the ‘Holy Father.’”
He’d said the name hoping for a reaction, but hadn’t expected one so violent. Benny lunged sideways, twisting and flailing, and managed to get out from under Candy’s hand and get his feet under him. He stood between the sofa and the blocked exit, shivering like a wet dog. “No,” he said, slicing an unsteady hand through the air. “No, no, no, nuh-uh, don’t even mention him. We’re done here. You hear me, Candy? Done.” He tried to leave.
Fox and Albie each grabbed an arm and dragged him back; tossed him back onto the sofa. This time, Candy took a punishing grip on his shoulder, and Fox settled in on his other side; the knife was back out.
“No, no, no,” Benny said, squeezing his eyes shut tight, breathing in rough hitches. “Please, God.”
“Benny. Benny,” Candy squeezed hard, and felt the joint give beneath his hand.
Benny whimpered, but stilled, and finally looked at him – reluctant, head ducked down, a frightened animal. Candy was struck hard by the sense that Benny was a man caught between two fears: scared of the club like always, yes, but more scared of this new enemy.
Candy’s tone softened.
Soft, that mocking voice chimed in the back of his head again.
“Whoever this guy is, however spooky he is, he’s still just a guy. He can be stopped. Everyone can be stopped. But you’re not doing yourself any favors keeping us in the dark about it.”
Benny looked at him a long moment, unblinking, then turned away and shook his head; sniffling, mumbling to himself.
“What was that?”
“You saw what he does. The way he lays people out.” Another head shake.
“I have seen it,” Candy said, “I saw it out in the desert, where my friend’s people got murdered. And it saw it on my sister’s front lawn, where someone tried to scare her, and send a message to me.”
�
�It’ll be Jenny next,” he said, “with her throat cut, laid out like that. Your cute little wife.”
A flutter of barely-perceptible movement from Fox, and suddenly the knife was at Benny’s throat, hard enough to press his head back to the sofa and bring a drop of bright, dark blood welling up beneath the point. Benny gasped.
“You’re scared of having your throat cut?” Fox asked, tone silky soft. “Let’s have done, then, alright? I’ll cut it for you right here, right now. You can see what it’s like, holding all your blood in your hands while you choke to death in the back of a third-rate strip club. Or you can tell us what you know, and we’ll put you under witness protection.”
“Club wit pro,” Candy expanded, “or the real deal with the FBI. Your choice.”
Benny lay sprawled there a moment, the drop of blood slowly trickling down his throat, teeth bared in feral terror. Then, tightly, trying not to move too much against the blade, he made one last desperate attempt. “You can’t promise that.”
“Can and will.” Candy pulled out his phone. “I can have guys here with a van in thirty minutes, and we’ll pack you off to wherever you wanna go. I’ll even throw in whatever you want out of the medicine cabinet.”
Benny breathed a moment, shallow little rabbit breaths. Then he closed his eyes. “Shit.” When he opened them, he looked resigned. “Fine. Get me out, and I’ll tell you everything.”
~*~
“Stay out here, and watch the door,” Fox told them, before he went with Albie and Candy into the back.
So Reese found a nice vantage point against the corner of a wall, put his back to it, and set to surveying the room.
A few feet in front of him, Tenny dragged a chair back from one of the empty tables and executed his practiced sprawl in it.
Reese felt a quick, sharp burst of annoyance. He was still getting used to that emotion, struggling to rectify the way his hands curled into fists and his jaw clenched. “He’s annoying, huh?” Aidan had said weeks ago at the clubhouse, and something had clicked: annoying. Yes, that was the word for Ten. One of the words.
Lone Star (Dartmoor Book 7) Page 18
