Cadillac Payback: Rising Tide by AJ Elmore (grave mercy .TXT) 📗

I take a sip, no grimace, and breathe fire as the liquor rolls down my esophagus. I don't drink, mostly, but this scene calls for finesse and face. I can usually keep myself out of situations where I have to show face. That doesn't mean I can't do it. I just have to stay smart and keep my temper in check.

“You sure do have a dramatic sense of timin', Fred,” he says with a faint slur and vague lift of his beer.

He's the only one who has ever called me that, and it drives me damn crazy. It's hard to tell how much booze he's already had. According to the schedule in the book, his shift began early this morning. So he's been off for a couple hours.

“My specialty,” I answer.

I know my words are dry as hell, but that's normal for me, as far as he's concerned. Anyone sober is a bit dry to him. The trick is to keep him talking, so I add, “Busy morning?”

“Fuckin' right,” he spits and fumbles with a pack of Marlboro Reds until he gets one out. He fishes in three different pockets before he finds his lighter. He lips the smoke, and adds around it, “Big meeting, lasted for damn ever. Funny I should hear from you today.”

One sip, and I can feel the bourbon in my cheeks. I check the scene again. Only the club guy has taken interest in our council. He looks away when I make grim eye contact, and I release a long, quiet breath. It's pretty much guaranteed that everyone in here is strapped, even the haggard barkeep. We don't need trouble now.

“Why's that funny, Rocks?” I ask, grimacing into his cigarette smoke.

He belches, and it smells like beer. My expression is already sour, so I wait out the discomfort. As a second thought, I take another sip of bourbon. That'll sufficiently shatter my senses.

Then Johnny Rocks smiles in the conspiratorial way I've come to count on, and leans forward. This might be easier than I thought.

He says, “Saw an old friend of yours.”

I let one eyebrow lift a fraction, a mild show of surprise. To him, it's a huge reaction, and he cackles – then coughs. I make my tone as flat as I can manage when I say, “You know I don't keep friends.”

He laughs again, then drains his beer. It makes a dull thud on the table when he slams it down, the koozie counteracting his attempt at being crude. His expression borders on a leer.

He says, “That makes'im your enemy, then.”

Ah, yes. The runaround. Something rings strangely true in his inebriated proverb, though. I glance at the bar. The big guy is watching us again.

I don't lower my voice when I answer.

“I have plenty of those. Don't be coy, Johnny.”

I'm not sure if he knows what coy means. Hell, maybe the brute behind me doesn't either. I make it a point not to look back.

“Hold that thought,” he grins and stands, sways, then saunters to the bar for another beer. He doesn't tip.

Aggravation gnaws at my composure. Maybe he does know what coy means, but it could be pure coincidence, too. I've learned to keep my moodiness in check, but the bourbon is loosening the knots in my self-control. My nerves are already shot from pushing notebooks through my usual day off in Abuela's rank-imposed hell. I take another steadying breath, and by the time he returns, I'm Freddy Rocks.

I give him a deadpan, and wait, as he transfers his new beer to the koozie. He takes his time.

He's not looking at me when he says, “The way I heard it, Isaiah left the family because he wanted out. Nobody believed it, that Abuela would just let'im leave. But she did. So I thought it was real weird that he showed up representin' some white collar asshats who’s trying to strike gold in the produce business.”

He winks. It's sloppy, but he's finally saying something useful. The rage resurfaces, and this time it has nothing to do with Johnny. This whole situation is starting to stink like four-day-old roadkill. It smells like Abuela's dirty hands.

“That is weird,” I say with a little feeling. “A little too weird.”

“Fuckin' aye, thought so, too,” he says into another drink.

“That's not all, is it?” I ask, watching his expression closely for his real reaction.

His eyes fill with a disgusting glee, and I know I'm right. He gets off on being a rat.

He says, “That ain't it at all. I started askin' around – you know, hush hush – and apparently, even though Granny let him leave, she never let him off the radar.”

Those words knock my guard out, and my suspicion shines full on my face. He sees it, as fucked up as he is, and he nods. Of course. Of course she would keep him on a hook he probably didn't know existed. The real question is why?

It's a shot in the sky that Johnny knows that answer, too, but it's worth that one shot.

“Why would she bring him back? What's to stop him from bolting, or ratting?”

He shrugs so big I think his shoulders might break, and the drink he takes kills half the bottle. A little dribble runs down his chin, and he wipes it with the back of his hand.

He says, “I guess you can never really leave, eh? Anyway, if he would have resisted they woulda killed'im. She wants clout in other divisions. Like you. Georgie boy is her adopted family. This deal could win him the division. But she don't trust the gringos on the other end of it.”

He puts an exaggerated Spanish accent to the word “gringos” and the big guy in colors clears his throat. We both ignore him. He wouldn't last a round with either of us, but it's not worth starting a shootout.

This whole fucked up puzzle is beginning to look like a fucked up picture.

“Trouble across the border,” I mutter, an audible realization.

I make