I barely had time to pop up from behind the desk and wipe my hands before Betty was at the office door. Her gaze devoured the room, but with the sun at her back, the office was in gloom. I stood so she couldn’t see around me to the safe all the while blessing Uncle Jimmy for taking such care in planning and arranging his office. From Simon’s doghouse, to his desk, to the lighting, everything had been placed to minimize the element of surprise.
“Hi, Betty, what can I do for you?” My voice was courtroom-casual with its light tone that still demanded an answer.
“Oh, just stopping to see how you’re doing.”
I didn’t reply.
“So, how are you doing?” She squirmed.
“I’m checking out Uncle Jimmy’s files and getting to know the place. Did you have business with him?” Again, the subtle demand that said that I knew exactly why she was there.
“Um, no. I only wanted to see how you’re doing.”
Not how, you old biddy, what.
“Nothing special.” I decided to let her off the hook. No need making an enemy of a curious neighbor. “What are you bringing to the potluck? I can’t wait. Do you have any suggestions for me?”
Her relief was palpable. “Oh sweetie, I will be there with my pecan pie. I never miss a week. Jamie loved it to death! I’ll make an extra one for you. That way your first week is covered. Later on, we’ll welcome whatever you bring. Jamie usually brought rolls or bread. That man couldn’t cook to save his life.”
Even with the half open safe right behind me, I still had trouble keeping a straight face. I hate pecan pie with a passion. I could already see myself looking for a potted plant to stash my, no doubt, enormous slice.
“Thank you very much, Betty. I look forward to it. I confess, I’m not much of a cook, but I look forward to learning. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a bunch of files to look through.” There was no hiding the dismissal in my voice. I’d done this before.
She was beat and she knew it. But I’d let her save face with the pie, so she retreated gracefully. I’m sure she was off to tell the other ladies I was a bit uppity, like they expected with me being from Dallas and all, but not too bad.
Now back to the safe. If I closed the door, it might be too much for those watching me. Luckily, I had Simon as an early warning system. With one end of the safe door on the edge, I leveraged the other end out and got my first look in the vault.
Fuck.
CHAPTER 16
I know the greasy smell of cosmoline like some know the scent of baby powder. Dad was a gun collector and taught me how to shoot when I was a kid. After I joined the firm and became involved with some of our top-drawer clients, I joined in shooting matches and exhibitions with every kind of weapon—military and civilian, legal and not—that could be procured. You name it and I’ve ejected lead from it at a variety of targets.
Evidently Uncle Jimmy shared the family hobby. The vault was a couple of feet deep and held an impressive array of firearms. Checking the office door again, I pulled out a pair of Tec-9 machine pistols and put them aside. The folded-stock AK-47, probably Russian surplus, still shiny with grease, came next. Several pistols, some quality, some junk, along with a good-sized ammo pouch. A canvas bag near the bottom piqued my curiosity. It was bulky, but surprisingly light for its size. I risked laying it out on the desk to unzip.
I’d only seen prototypes. The industry rep at our shooting party last summer had two samples of this polymer and steel hybrid shotgun code-named “Bolt-Cutter” or “Cutter” for short. With its compact stock and oversized magazines slung on the underside of the shortened barrel, this bullpup looked like something Master Chief would carry. Back in the day, I’d felt like a vid-game character as I methodically shredded the targets. The light heft of the weapon told me it was unloaded. The pump action was smooth as glass. I resisted the urge to examine the shotgun more closely. Time enough for that later.
Questions raced through my head. This was the military version. The toned-down civilian edition wouldn’t go into production for another year. What or who was Uncle Jimmy tied up with to have access to esoteric firepower like this?
I was packing everything but the shotgun back into the vault when I realized it wasn’t empty. At the bottom was a dark wood box. I fished it out, wondering if it contained another surprise. I wasn’t disappointed. While not as rare as the Cutter, the gleaming gold and nickel-plated .50-cal Desert Eagle carried a lot more baggage. This was a gangster’s gun and I’d worked with enough bangers to know that someone wanted it back. After double-checking to make sure that it was unloaded, I fit it back into the case.
That’s when I noticed the engraving on the barrel.
I’d only thought my day was weird. Learning about Dad’s indictments and finding the vault and the Cutter paled when I saw the subtle symbol. Innocuous to the uninitiated, that simple logo of two triangles, representing a pair of feline ears, meant this pistol belonged to a Gato Negro.
After stashing the gun box in the bottom of the vault, I wrestled the cover back into place with shaking hands. I considered keeping the key, but decided to stay with Uncle Jimmy’s system. I squared up the portrait once again and tucked the whiskey into the canvas bag, slung it over my shoulder, and locked down the office.
“C’mon Simon, let’s go inside. It’s time to call it an afternoon.”
Bless his little heart, he bounded up the steps and waited patiently while I locked the camper door, pulled the curtains, and double-checked all the windows. I wasn’t accepting any more visitors today.
How in the hell had Uncle Jimmy come into possession of a high-dollar, high-prestige pistol belonging to a member of a small secretive motorcycle club, one so vicious that old-school MCs steered clear of them?
I knew this because their president was in prison because of me. Also because I was on the club’s “solid” list, indicating that I could be trusted. That paradox wasn’t as bizarre as it appeared. With the Gatos, crazy was the new black.
CHAPTER 17
A quick toss of the galley yielded some microwave popcorn. I made a bag and settled back on the sofa pondering this new twist. Four years ago, I’d been contacted by Gatos president Miguel Fuentes, better known as El Tigre, with a simple request. His youngest son, William, a college student not affiliated with the MC, was in jail on murder charges. Tigre believed it was a setup, calculated to flush the club out of their lairs deep in the barrios of Austin and Houston. After I’d looked it over, I agreed to take the case, but wasn’t sure how to approach it.
Tigre already had the answer. He needed me to make it happen.
He was willing to give himself up, confess to at least a half dozen murders, do some selective informing on various Texas criminal elements, and take the full load of life without parole on himself. All he asked in return was immunity for William and housing in gen pop. I didn’t understand until he told me he was already under a death sentence. He had prostate cancer that was making very slow, but inexorable, progress. There was no way he was going to take the chemo or surgery route. So, why not save William on his way out?
After some thought, it made perfect sense to me. The deal was tricky, but finally went through. Tigre had given me two options for payment: two hundred grand in cash or the club status of “solid,” the highest non-patched rank. If I agreed to the rules, I could call the Gatos for help and they would come. Otherwise, I could take the cash and we’d be finished.
I chose the solid. In my world, money was cheap, but favors were gold. It was those rules that had me so spooked now. There were two:
Nobody takes from the Gatos.
Nobody keeps from the Gatos.
The penalty was a green-lighting for death. The violator was toast. The violator’s family was also forfeit if the transgression warranted it. The first rule had been interpreted to mean everything from groping a member’s old lady, to theft, to snitching on a brother. The second rule was straightforward: No one ever lied, withheld property, or kept secre
ts from the club.
I had a weapon engraved with the club sign. That carried weight. Uncle Jimmy might have been shylocking, involved in gambling, or taken it in as a payment. I doubt he had any clue as to its origins. I did. As of the moment I pulled it out of the vault, I was keeping. I had to remedy this before someone came looking for this pistol because of Jimmy’s death. I had to go to Huntsville and talk to Tigre. As in tomorrow.
Fuck my life. I do not need this.
I thought about calling Gerald. There’s no way I could impart the urgency of this. If I showed up at the prison and they ran my identification, it could bring the law down on me. I still decided to take my chances with the law. They could be counted on to fire a warning shot.
CHAPTER 18
With Simon happily romping around Stella’s bus, I took off for the Huntsville Correctional Unit. I’d debated about what to do with my messenger bag. Entering onto prison grounds meant my vehicle was subject to search and I didn’t feel like explaining a half-mil to the guards. I’d dealt with them before and found their sense of humor to be lacking. Without knowing which of the neighbor ladies might have a key, I didn’t feel comfortable leaving it in the camper. I finally stashed it in the gun vault and added another layer of security by asking Betty to keep an eye on my place. She was probably in a lawn chair with binoculars.
Stopping off at a nice mall north of Houston, I repaired my lawyer image. I cringed at the display of high heels. It was less than a week and that life already seemed like a million miles away. Instead I opted for urban casual, Texas-style, which entailed spending a small fortune to look like I’d stepped off the ranch. Butter soft boots, snug designer jeans, starched shirt, blazer, and some nice costume jewelry did the trick. I added a calfskin portfolio to complete the illusion of a high-dollar Dallas attorney out for a lovely day of visiting her client.
No matter how many times I entered the gates of Huntsville, the chill enveloped me. It’s like the stone and steel absorbed all the warmth and joy in the world. It took all my hard-won lawyer cool to not shake as the guard ran my license and creds. No Special Forces team swooped in and my escort was pleasant as she led me to one of the legal meeting rooms.
Tigre joined me a few minutes later. His appearance shocked me. When I’d worked the deal that put him here, I knew he was sick. Still, nothing prepared me for the slight stooped man they led into the room. He was little more than bones in his baggy prison blues. It wasn’t until I met his eyes that I knew the badass biker was still alive and kicking.
“Hola, chica. What brings you to my humble abode?”
“Maybe I wanted to see my favorite client.”
“Were it so. Although I have to admit that those tits have always made you my favorite lawyer. In fact, why don’t you lose the jacket?”
I had to tread lightly here. Back in the world, when I was working his case, it was made very clear to me that until I was solid, the only thing standing between me and pulling a train face down on the pool table was my diligence and his appreciation for what I was doing for his son. I had been on the business end of many comments like this one. In Tigre’s world, it was Tigre’s rules. Even with his weakened state, his reach was still impressive. Attitude still mattered.
Despite his crude words and implied intimidation, his mood twinkled with humor, so I decided to play along. I’m a lot of things, but prudish typically isn’t one of them. With a wink, I shrugged out of my blazer, leaned back, and stretched my arms over my head, letting him devour me with his eyes.
Stroking his mustache, he said, “Much better. Riddle me this, Abogada, how come you and me never got together?”
Another trap. I will admit, back in the days before the cancer had ravaged him, Tigre had radiated dangerous sexual energy and made it known it was available for the asking. In tight jeans and club colors, he’d looked as good coming as going. But to have succumbed to the temptation would have destroyed our working relationship and reduced my status to free-range ass. It would have also likely earned me a date defending myself against a box-cutter-wielding maniac named Consuela. Nothing with the Gatos was easy.
“Because your old lady would have killed us both and I don’t much like playing pool.”
His laugh broke the tension. “As usual, you speak the truth and speak it wisely. One thing I have always liked about you is that you knew the score. And as for my old lady, I might have called the shots, but she most certainly ruled the roost. I was always attracted to classy women who are crazy. And Consuela isn’t all that classy. Putting my property patch on her was a mixed blessing, but I do miss her. So, tell me, what really brings you here?”
I stifled the small laugh bubbling up. It was time to get serious.
“Tigre, I have a club problem. A keeping problem.”
All humor left his face. No longer my friend or client, this was El Tigre, shot-caller for Los Gatos Negros. His silence left me no choice but to continue. I brought him up to date, holding nothing back, not about Dad, or even Uncle Jimmy’s name. I knew one kite would be all he needed to know everything. This was no time to keep.
“In Uncle Jimmy’s things was a nickel and gold-plated Desert Eagle. It packs the club mark. Can you tell me anything about it?”
Tigre leaned forward and steepled his hands in front of his face. No wait for a jury verdict was more nerve-wracking.
“It appears that Gordo’s sins finally come home.”
One thing I had mastered in my career was what one of my professors called “winning the silence.” But, damn, it was a struggle. Finally, he spoke.
“I had five nephews. The pistols were Christmas gifts several years ago. Gordo, who kept as much fat in his head as he did in his ass, lost his gambling. I don’t know anything about your uncle. It sounds like he was a businessman. There was no intent, just bad timing. Well, it seems the missing eagle has returned to the nest. I am pleased. You did well, counselor. Very solid.”
Relief flooded through me, but something kept me from smiling. Then it hit me.
“Had five nephews?”
“Nobody takes from the Gatos.”
CHAPTER 19
The drive back to Cochinelle felt like I was flying. Tigre told me I’d be contracted about the pistol. It wasn’t over yet, but the fat lady was running through the scales.
When I’d asked him how he was doing, his mask slipped. He told me he was getting what he needed to get by. It didn’t take street smarts to know he was talking about drugs for his pain. When I looked closely at his hands and forearms, there were needle marks visible in his tattoos. Heroin. His own version of the hospice cocktail.
I wondered if I’d see him again.
That squared, I could concentrate on Dad. This whole thing smelled. The RICO charges had some meat. The murder was chickenshit. The law wanted something, or someone. All I could do right this minute was wait until the other side tipped its hand. I made a mental note to call Gerald on Monday morning.
As my new hometown came into view, I remembered I needed to stop at the market. Tomorrow was potluck day at the RV park and there was no way I was getting saddled with my own personal pecan pie. Suddenly, the prison seemed a lot less scary than what I currently had on my plate.
CHAPTER 20
Stella looked at the folding table where I’d set up my contribution to the party like a mother trying to think of something nice to say about her kid’s first finger painting.
“Too much?”
“Well, Jewel, you certainly were, um, enthusiastic. How many types of potato salad did you get?”
“Three.”
“Okay and here’s three kinds of chips and a gelatin mold. Is this cake yours?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want to tell her I wanted to make sure there was an alternate dessert to pecan pie.
“Yes, it’s double-death-by-chocolate.”
Again, that Madonna smile letting me off the hook. If Uncle Jimmy had nothing else in the last part of his life, he’d won the woman lottery.
> She grabbed the bags of chips and tucked them into a cupboard. “We’ll save these for movie night.”
My deer-in-the-headlights imitation got me a wry look.
“Don’t worry. Participation in the movie club is voluntary, same with the canasta klatch and the Monopoly league.”
My lesson in the RV park social scene was cut short when the clubhouse doors flew open and a steady stream of crockpots and covered casseroles made their way to the tables. After a diet of microwave scrounge, the mixed smells of chicken, roast beef, vegetables, and gravy turned me into one of Pavlov’s dogs. As soon as the line formed, I grabbed a plate and started shoveling it on.
At my place at the head of one of the tables, I could feel eyes on me. In between bites of biscuits loaded with roasted or stewed heaven, I fielded introductions, condolences, and shoulder hugs. The more I ate, the happier the ladies seemed, so I decided to indulge them with seconds and thirds. It was the least I could do.
As the crowd thinned, I was insufferably pleased to see my cake had been wrecked. A crumb-filled plate standing alone in a field of lumpy and unidentifiable cobblers and puddings, most with only a scoop or so taken out. Not to mention the barely touched pecan pie. The salads had also taken a nice beating. I barely had enough to pick at for lunch tomorrow. I decided to pretend I hadn’t noticed the untouched goopy red mold.
Two out of three ain’t bad, I thought as it slithered into the trash.
I looked around for Stella, wanting to serve a tidbit of crow and get a critique of my reception by the Gaters. I’d received invitations to a half-dozen club meetings, a couple of barbecues, and had a chance to meet three clients. I asked them to drop by and make an appointment. The sooner I cleared out the barn, the sooner I’d pay off my promise.
Stella wasn’t in the clubhouse, but I saw her profile in a window. Heading out the side door, I circled the building and stopped when I heard voices. She wasn’t alone.
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