“Now let’s extrapolate this even further. Let’s assume your prospect did give them something. Maybe something about the club. Maybe they asked him about the deaths of their sons.”
“Shit,” Grayson whispered.
“What is it?” the voice said.
“I told them the name of the girl we was looking for,” Grayson said. His neck and ears became hot as a griddle. He could almost hear the smile on the other end of the line. The poor dumb biker had fucked up, and it was up to the sophisticated, intelligent owner of a smooth urbane voice to fix the situation. Again.
“That’s actually to our advantage. If they have the name and they are pursuing their own shabby mission of revenge, one just has to follow them and see where they lead us. If they have her name, they may very well find her. Of course, if you hadn’t gone to the man’s place of business and tried and failed to threaten him, we would have the element of surprise. Oh well. Get a few of your best men to follow this Randolph. Then when they lead you to Tangerine you can take out all your pent-up aggression on all of them at your leisure. It’s the proverbial two birds with one stone. Until then, let them be. Just observe and report,” the voice said. Grayson tapped the gavel harder.
“I’m gonna say something to you and I want you to listen to me good. You don’t run this club. I do. You think we’re your personal army. We ain’t. This is how it’s gonna go. We play your game for a little bit, but if it don’t look like we gonna find this bitch, I’m taking care of my business. My way. No more talking. You wanna cut us loose, do it. I don’t give a fuck. You can tell your daddy I said that, too. I don’t wake up in the morning looking to kiss your ass,” Grayson said.
“No, you don’t. But you do wake up in a world where I can make one phone call to the ATF and have you behind bars for the rest of your life before my coffee is cold. I can even call in a few favors with my friends in the corrections department to make sure you spend that time being the paramour of a monstrously endowed subhuman.” The voice paused. Between the beginning and the end of that pause Grayson had an image of him shoving the gavel down the throat of the owner of that sophisticated voice.
“I’ll look up this Randolph’s business license and get you his home address,” the voice said.
“Yeah,” Grayson said in a strangled groan.
“Get a couple of your guys on him. Tonight.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Buddy Lee turned off Grace Street and pulled into a pay-by-the-hour parking lot. The streetlamps were covered by swarms of moths and gnats that hovered around them like living clouds. He put the truck in park and waited for it to settle. Ike was leaning against the door with his face toward the window. When the truck finally stopped rattling, Ike sat up straight and rubbed his eyes.
“You sleeping over there, hoss?” Buddy Lee asked.
“Didn’t get much rest last night. I guess you got a nap today,” Ike said.
“I caught a few winks,” Buddy Lee said. They sat there under the streetlamps as a car drove down the street with a sound system pumping out enough bass to liquefy their insides. They heard the disjointed chatter of the denizens of the city as they wandered up and down the sidewalks and through the alleyways. Ike thought it sounded like they were underwater listening to people on the shore. He pulled the napkin out of his pocket and stared at it.
“I guess we should get to it,” he said.
“What’s the plan? Just go in there and start asking about some girl named Tangerine?” Buddy Lee asked.
“Yeah, but leave your knife in the truck. If LaPlata and Robbins are on our asses, we need to try and keep it quiet up in here,” Ike said.
“That knife has saved my ass more times than I can count. I ain’t leaving it behind. Besides, I’m not the one running around breaking people’s fingers like wishbones,” Buddy Lee said. Ike cut him a look but Buddy Lee ignored it.
“You ready?” Ike asked.
“When the last time you was in a club?” Buddy Lee asked.
“Michael Jackson was still alive,” Ike said as he climbed out of the truck.
Garland’s sat at the corner of Grace and Foushee Streets. A large picture window with a neon sign in the shape of a pair of red shoes in the corner allowed red and green lights to spill out onto the pavement. Buddy Lee stopped in front of the entrance, spit on his hands, then ran them through his hair.
“What are you doing?” Ike asked.
“You never know. I might meet a filly with low standards in here,” Buddy Lee said. This time Ike did laugh. Buddy Lee smiled. The smile faltered after a few seconds.