Reprise (6 page)

No, something was very fucked up with that pot.

Mal washed her face in the sink, her knees now quite shaky. Still she padded out to the sofa, dropping onto the edge and picking up the baggie. She remembered taking two hits, that was it. The bag sat open, and while she wasn’t sure since she hadn’t really looked at how much was in it to start with, it seemed really low on product.

They’d kept smoking, and she couldn’t remember anything past fucking Hal on the floor in front of the sofa.

With a frown she brought the bag closer to her red, throbbing eyes. She knew what pot looked like, knew what the little transparent crystals were. But she had no idea what that fucking white powder was.

Fuck. It was laced.

She dropped the bag and leaned into the sofa back. Her aching head forced her to close her eyes, and she took stock of her body.

Her stomach still felt off. Everything else was unsteady, and her fucking
head
wouldn’t quit with the blinding pain. After gulping down some cold water from the tap she returned to her bedroom and slunk back between the sheets. That’s when Hal woke, groaning and rolling to his back. “Good morning.”

“No, it’s not.”

He opened one eye, turning his head her way.  “Holy shit. You look like hell.”

“Fuck you. There’s something wrong with that pot. I haven’t felt this fucked up since I found tequila back when I was eighteen.”

“I told you to stop after two hits.”

Mallory frowned. “What? I did more than that?”

“I think you did four. I did two. If I feel
this
bad, I can only imagine how you feel.”

“Wherever you got that shit from, throw it away and never buy it again. It’s got something in it.”

“Whatever it is, it made you hot, baby.”

“Fuck you. I’m sick, Hal. I just puked and my head is killing me.”

He lifted his head from his pillow, wincing a little bit as he went up on one shoulder. “You feeling that bad?”

She nodded, closing her eyes. “I just kinda wanna pass out for another three days.”

“I’ll close the blinds, turn on the AC to keep the temperature down. You go back to sleep, I’ll go out and get food. Give you a few hours.”

She shook her head. “No, go to practice. Make excuses for me. I’ll just sleep until I can’t, try to clean up and maybe wash this funk off.”

“Okay. I’m still going to check on you later. You sure you don’t need a doctor?”

“Nah. I’ll just drink a lot of water, try to wash this all out.”

“All right. Go back to sleep, Cherry.”

“Don’t call me that!”

He chuckled, grabbed his clothes off the floor and kissed her forehead before doing exactly what he said he’d do: close the blinds, turn on the window AC unit on low, then shut her in the dark room. That was better. Without light she couldn’t tell how badly the room was spinning, which calmed her stomach nicely, and eventually she found sleep.

Chapter Six

“You want breakfast?”

Tiny grinned down at Beth Sanquist, who had just finished giving him a world-class blowjob, and was now adding eggs and bacon onto an already excellent good morning.

Beth was a civilian, lived in a nice part of town close to the middle school, and she had, on occasion, alerted the club to drug dealers operating in the neighborhood. More importantly for him, she liked his cock and her old man didn’t really get it done for her. Plus, he was on the road a lot, at conferences. Tiny also suspected that Beth’s old man was getting regular tail in Bakersfield where he worked, so her own illicit affairs were probably revenge. But whatever. Their marriage was none of his business.

When Beth got lonely, she called Tiny. Maybe once every three months or so, but she knew the score. Didn’t get attached.

And her omelets were fucking amazing.

“I’d love breakfast.”

“Thought you might. Go ahead and shower. You gotta leave in about forty minutes.”

He watched as she rose from her blue and white flower-patterned sheets, naked, and snagged her robe from the footboard of the bed. She had to be around forty, forty-five at the extreme top. Well preserved in that way some handsome women had. No great beauty in her day, but time hadn’t whittled anything away from her and she was downright attractive in her own right.

Kinda like Fritter’s mom, come to think of it. Or hell, Tiny’s own mother before the dementia made her forget hair care and beauty routines. It made her just not give a shit anymore, and the decline after that had been rapid.

In the shower he used Beth’s old man’s all-in-one liquid soap shit on his hair and body. Water dripped from his hair onto the shoulders of yesterday’s shirt as he wandered into the kitchen, following the smell of bacon, eggs and toast. With the smile of a nonplussed lover his host put a plate down at the eat-in island and told him simply to “Eat.”

He grabbed her hips while she tried to move back to the stove, pulling her ass into his groin. “Eat what, baby?”

She laughed throatily, pushing at his hands. “You don’t have time for that, Tiny. You know you can’t just stop at the appetizer.”

He growled and squeezed her hips harder, nipping at the side of her neck until she squealed like a teenager in delighted fright.

“You’re going to be late,” she sputtered, ramming her ass into his groin hard enough to hurt.  “Eat your breakfast.”

With a grunt he took his place on a tall stool and picked up the fork, eyes on her as she moved around her kitchen, comfortable as anything. She started coffee, poured him orange juice, then set about making eggs for herself.

Amazing omelet. Just like he expected.

Fancy-ass rich man’s coffee was sitting on top of a great breakfast in his belly as he strolled down her driveway to his bike. Beth also didn’t give a shit that the entire neighborhood could hear him arrive and then leave the next morning. He kind of like that “fuck you” attitude coming from someone in this nicer part of Markham. Especially since Tiny thought her husband was a huge prick, even without proof he was stepping out on his wife.

Who left a woman that hot and ready to go to her own devices for a week at a time? He must be fucking nuts.

He scooped his helmet off the handlebars and was pulling it on when the door of the house across the street opened. He paid no mind to it, just another activity to the morning on a quiet street where people went to work any day of the week like the rest of the world did. They just got to come home to much nicer digs than other working schmucks.

Until he realized he was being stared at. A cold prickle slid over the back of his neck and he rotated towards the source, clocking one Doctor Tracey Webber where she stood, staring at him in surprise.

Leaving the chinstrap dangling, Tiny crossed the street towards her home, wondering how the hell he had no idea she even lived here. She had to have moved recently.

“Good morning Doctor,” he called out from the bottom of the patio stone walkway that led to the small white-washed front porch on her house. One of her hands clenched her purse strap to her chest, the other hung loose at her side. And her mouth was hanging open as though surprised.

“Is everything okay?”

She roused herself at the question, shaking her head. “I’m...I’m fine. Thank you.”

“When did you move to this lovely part of town?”

“Umm...almost two months ago. Was...was that you last night, over at Mrs. Sanquist's?”

Tiny grinned. Another one of Beth’s quirks: leaving the bedroom window open. She didn’t always do it, just sometimes. And he could give a shit who knew why he was visiting. If that chicken shit husband of hers took issue with it, he was more than welcome to come by and take it up with Tiny at the clubhouse.

“She keep you up last night?”

Doctor Webber nodded before she could stop herself. “I like to sleep with the window open and...well.”

No need for more information than that.

“Sorry to keep you awake, Doctor. Maybe next time we’ll try a gag.”

It was an assholish delight to watch her turn bright pink and stomp down her steps, veering to her right towards the driveway. But hell, she was the one bringing it up instead of politely ignoring the fact he’d spent most of the night fucking a married woman so hard there were gouges from the headboard in the wall paint.

Then he had to frown. The garage on this place was behind the house. She should really use the back door. It’s be a lot safer—

He shook his head. Not his problem. Without another word he turned and returned to his red and matte-black bobber, firing her up in that noisy way she had and heading off in a roar back to the clubhouse.

He made it back just under the wire: 7:58am. He was striding through the doors of the board room with Knuckles just as Jayce rapped his fist on the tabletop.

“Hueneme,” Jayce said, and the room collectively groaned. “Yeah, I know. It’s a big port.”

It was. Hueneme was a deep water, oil tanker port, which meant big money. Which meant nervous and attentive eyes on all shipments and people coming and going.
But
it was regulated by a Harbor District, not a branch of government. That meant, somehow, Sachetti’s pull let them roll in mid-morning with a semi, take a load, and then drive out without having to explain to anyone what was going on. Even if said truck was escorted in and out by guys on motorcycles.

That fucker was filthy rich and so motherfucking powerful it demanded respect. Still, this made the club nervous. With their luck, this time they’d show up on some cowboy port authority hack’s first fucking day, out to prove himself.

“Traffic blitz ended last week,” Spaz piped up. “Turnbull’s got one deputy on leave right now. Which means he has to be out on beat.”

“And he’ll be listening for straight pipes,” Tank mused.

“Yeah he will. Tiny, you wanna change your road plan?”

Tiny shook his head at Jayce’s question. “Nope. we head straight towards it, bypassing San Francisco. Heat in my truck until we have that shipment, though. After that we take the entire thing into San Francisco. We’re in Ventura County the whole time.”

“Bastard Banshees know we’re coming,” Jayce informed the entire group, unnecessarily. “They currently have a truce with their G-Town contingent in ‘Frisco. We just do our thing and get the fuck out.”

“We split at San Francisco limits on approach,” Tiny went on. “Half head up north, then circle back on our ass end. Just in case we get a tail.”

“Any reason to be worried about that?” Buck asked.

Jayce answered. “Nah. Just playing safe. I’d like to see what follows us to the drop.”

“Where’s it going?”

Tiny leaned forward on his elbows, eyes on Buck. “Some Russian-owned titty bar on Darrow Avenue. It’s a short street, only three blocks long. Not hard to find a strip club, even in the daytime without the neon lit up. Spaz has the map for everyone to memorize before we go. There’s a truck dock on the back of the building. I can back down an alley right to it, but there’s a cross-way alley that makes me nervous.”

“So we block both ends,” Knuckles finished the plan and everyone was slowly nodding in accord.

Kuttes were left behind. Tiny donned his work pants and a button-down with his road name embroidered over the pocket. His standard work attire, paired up with beaten to shit, steel-toed work boots. The rig had been pulled into the clubhouse lot the night before. He flipped open the hidden compartment under the driver’s side step, and his brothers all placed their favorite, and varied, handguns inside. Then he locked the top and fitted the rubber grip step back in place. His was a truck and driver for hire, so there was no company decal on the doors.

The route to the pick-up was usually stress-free. Their formation was loose, a few riders out front, skipping around traffic to get ahead then falling back again. No real staunch structure. The ride to the drop was the one that made them twitchy. They never knew what they were transporting, but they
did
know that fucking up would be a career limiting move within the Sachetti network.

He let the crew that was rolling with him head out first.
If
Turnbull was out to hassle them, he’d be good and distracted by the time Tiny rolled by. Buck, Knuckles, Spaz, Fritter, Tims and Red peeled out in an unholy roar of horsepower. Jayce was standing next to the driver’s door when Tiny finished his quick walk-around inspection; no lights burned out, license plate clear and readable.

“What’s up?” he asked, pulling off his work gloves and running a hand over his hair. It wasn’t strange for the boss to see him off before a run, but Jayce had the look of a man who wanted to have a chat.

“Knuckles. Your honest opinion. He okay?”

Tiny crossed his arms. “Have you heard or seen something—”

“No, nothing like that. But you’re the one that picked him up right afterwards.”

He exhaled, not liking this gossiping behind a brother’s back. Made him feel like a bitch, but Jayce was asking out of concern for
all
of them, so it was hard to fault the guy for that.

“He’s compartmentalizing,” Tiny finally answered. “Just like when he does a hit for us. He said those ones are easier though, because he knows it’s for the club. These ones, he doesn’t know the
why
. It’s not personal. It’s not self-defense.” Tiny shrugged both shoulders. “He’s making a different compartment for them. That’s the way I understand it.”

“It’s easy to think he’s just nuts so it won’t bother him,” Jayce mused, biting his lip, gears turning. “But he turned to nasty shit in the past to get over what he had to do.”

Tiny nodded. “Yeah. He was scared at one time. Now he’s been through that rabbit hole. He doesn’t want to go back. He finds his solace in other ways now.”

“Like what?”

Tiny had to chuckle. “Two or three women seems to do the trick.”

Jayce crackled a grin and jogged his arm. “Yeah, that makes everything better.”

“Well it sure as hell doesn’t make it
worse
.”

“Drive safe,” was the expected answer, then Jayce turned back to the clubhouse.

After waiting the usual fifteen minutes Tiny pulled out of the lot, Rusty locking the gate behind him. The streets of Markham were predictably quiet at this time of day, and town limits were in his rearview before he realized it. He kept the speedometer right on sixty, settling in for smooth sailing.

It took all of four minutes for that to fly out the window. Just as a song he liked came on the radio there were red and blue lights in his mirrors. Turning down the stereo, he could hear the sirens, too.

“Fucking bullshit.”

He downshifted, pulled to the shoulder and rolled to a stop well away from the white line, half on the desert sand next to the freeway.

With another muttered curse he killed the engine and got his papers from the glove box. Straightening in the seat again, he recognized Sheriff Archie Turnbull waddling his way up to the driver’s door.

There was a time when getting pulled over by the actual Sheriff would have had him straightening his hair and putting on his most charming grin. And things hadn’t changed just because Sharon Downey was now the exclusive old lady of his brother, either. The new sheriff was not nearly as easy on the eyes, as much fun to flirt with, or half as bright as the previous one. So no, this tub of asshole lube was not going to get getting any of his charm.

He had the window down by the time the used car salesman was next to him, and looking down at that smug fucking face he wished he could spit on the guy. But looking
down
would have to do.

“License and registration.”

Tiny handed down the small folder with all his papers. Not so subtly, the folder also included the route to Hueneme, along with his port access credentials and CARB Drayage Truck approval. It looked even more legit that he was out on the road that day, and when you were delivering for Sachetti it was pretty damn close to being legal. The guy’s pay offs went high and wide.

This little shit pawing over the things was too far down to get a single trickle of money like that. Didn’t mean he couldn’t be a hassle.