Ghosts - Matt Rogers (warren buffett book recommendations .TXT) 📗

Bentley. They rounded the trunk, stepping back out into the laneway just as a guy in his sixties levered himself out of the Rolls. His suit was expensive and impressively tailored to hide how out of shape he was. He had a dark mop of black hair — clearly dyed — but he seemed to have missed his thick eyebrows, which were all grey.

The old man exited the garage, saw King and Slater, and froze.

Perhaps he mistook them for law enforcement — the suits, their physically imposing nature, and the fact they were surely younger than the usual clientele that arrived.

Slater put a lurid smile on his face. ‘Relax, my friend.’

King said, ‘We’re all here for the same thing.’

‘Haven’t seen you before,’ the old guy said.

‘Is that surprising?’ King said. ‘What — this place never gets new customers?’

‘It does,’ the guy said. ‘They seldom look like you two.’

Slater said, ‘Rich?’

Now it was the old man’s turn to smirk, as if his custom suit weren’t obvious enough. ‘Young. Thought you might be a couple of fresh workers. You know, for those that go the other way.’

‘Is there a market for that here?’ King said, a little ashamedly.

The bushy eyebrows rose. ‘You dirty dog.’

‘I don’t discriminate,’ King said.

The old guy thought about it, and shrugged. ‘To each their own. But, no, I think you’re out of luck. That’s a niche market. Unless Gates is expanding and hasn’t told me.’

‘That’d be like him, wouldn’t it?’ Slater said. ‘He’s got an eye for that sort of thing.’

‘How’d you meet him?’

‘Mutual friends,’ King said. ‘We’ve been around this town. It was inevitable.’

‘Well, enjoy yourselves,’ the old man said.

He made the first move, figuring the newcomers were inexperienced, and walked right up to a simple screen door skewered into the brick wall near the garage. He opened it, then reached out and rapped his knuckles on the faded wood.

The door flew open instantly.

It was Armando Gates.

Slater didn’t react. He forced his pulse down, and he could feel King doing the same alongside him. They minimised their presence, politely staring at their feet, keeping several paces back from the old man.

Gates was tall, just as Josefine had described. Probably six-five, and true to form he was skinny, but the tattered sleeveless tee exposed wiry arms corded with muscle and thick calloused fingers. He’d have made an excellent basketball player. His eyes were huge, practically boggling out of his skull, and his mouth was a hard firm line. Plaited dreads snaked their way down the back of his skull.

He glanced at King and Slater, but only briefly, and then returned his attention to the man standing right in front of him.

If the old guy said, ‘These are your friends, aren’t they?’ or, ‘Good to see you’re expanding your customer base,’ they were screwed.

He didn’t.

He said, ‘Good to see you again.’

Gates said, ‘Likewise. Get yourself inside. There’s a drink with your name on it.’

As soon as the old guy took a step up, Gates put a hand on his back and pushed him gently down the neon hallway, guiding him into the underbelly. He was gone a moment later.

A deliberate gesture to get him the hell out of the picture before he said something incriminating in front of two men Gates had never seen before.

Which worked perfectly.

King and Slater took a step forward in unison.

Gates put a hand out. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

But he soaked in the Gucci loafers, the Armani suits, the open-necked shirts, the tough-guy demeanours. He figured, Probably nothing to worry about.

Law enforcement-wise, at least. Less likely to be undercovers, more likely to be rival thugs.

Which meant demonstrating he was the king of this particular jungle.

So before either of them could answer, Gates reached behind his back and came out with a compact Glock 19 and pointed it square between King’s eyes.

12

King was ice.

His pulse barely rose.

Gates was a violent pimp and a reckless thug, but he ran a seemingly profitable operation, and that meant being smart enough not to gun every potential threat down on sight. King knew there was little chance he’d eat a bullet from this particular Glock.

But a prospecting customer, no matter how tough they looked, would not be ice.

So outwardly he drained the colour from his face.

‘Not so tough now, are you?’ Gates said. ‘Both of you fuck off back to where you came from. This is my territory.’

‘We know that,’ Slater said, a little too fast. ‘We’re paying customers.’

‘Right,’ Gates said.

‘We’re serious,’ King said, allowing his voice to waver. ‘We’re not armed. You can search us.’

Gates said, ‘You think I’m that stupid?’

Slater said, ‘Watch. I’ll move slow.’

Gates took his aim away from King, and fixed it on Slater.

Play along, King thought.

‘Jesus,’ Slater muttered, making his voice shake.

Good, King thought.

Slater raised both hands high, then started inching them downwards.

‘Slow,’ Gates demanded.

The hands went down slow — they opened the suit jacket, then untucked the shirt, then lifted up each pant leg to reveal an absence of ankle holsters, then Slater pivoted on the spot to afford Gates a look at the small of his back. Completed, he stood with his shoulders slumped and fear on his face at the pistol barrel aimed at his head.

Gates put the aim back on King. ‘Now you.’

King mirrored Slater’s actions.

Gates said, ‘How’d you find out about me?’

Slater took a gamble and jerked his thumb past Gates, over the man’s shoulder. ‘Old boy back there. I was on his blackjack table at the Bellagio and he wouldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut. I felt bad for you, to be honest. I’d want to run a tighter ship than that. But me and my buddy here have … certain interests … so we couldn’t resist checking the place out.’

Gates said, ‘Where’d you park?’

Now Slater jerked his thumb at the garage. ‘Fourth spot.’

Gates stepped out of the doorway, took a few steps out into the laneway, and eyed the back of the Bentley.

He tucked the Glock back into the rear of his waistband. ‘Okay. Sorry about