Chapter 29 Zeth
Zeth
The deal goes down just as Charlie said it would.
On the wharf, Rick—built like a tank, tattooed and tagged from the neck down—meets with three bikers from a crew I don’t recognize.
Their top rockers read “WRECKERS.” I arrived early and set myself up on the second floor of the burned-out warehouse Charlie sometimes uses for meets like this, not really believing Rick would be dumb enough to use this place, but the guy shows up like clockwork.
The bikers roar up ten minutes late, cursing and swearing about a police tail they had to shake.
These Wreckers must be high-end fuckers to warrant that kind of heat.
Rick hugs the first guy, a huge piece of work that would tower over me even, and bumps fists with the other two guys.
“What about it, Caleb? How much longer?” Rick says, addressing the guy he hugged.
The massive guy leans back against his bike, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his washed-out Wranglers. “Three, four days max. Our guy’s ready to move.”
“And you’ve got what we talked about?”
“Yeah. Four. Although you could get six on the container. Don’t know why you wouldn’t wanna maximize your profit.”
Rick shakes his head. “You get greedy, you get caught. Four’s perfect. And they’re all untouched?”
Caleb nods his head. “So our doc says.”
“Good.”
“More than good, brother. You’re gonna wanna fuck this pussy yourself, believe me. They are some fine, grade-A ass.”
Rick grins, scratching at his jaw. “Yeah, well, if I sully the goods, they won’t be worth much after. I get pussy just fine, anyway. Better to save these girls for Rebel. Guy has more money than fucking sense.”
Rebel.
Why am I not surprised? I haven’t heard the man’s name in a while, though.
Maybe not since that bent P.I. nearly sold Sloane to him two years ago.
Seems about time the fucker reared his ugly head.
Rick’s right. Rumor has it, Rebel’s pockets are deep.
He also has a very nasty habit of buying pretty girls and using them up until there’s nothing left.
“Okay, time to pay up, Holmes,” Caleb advises Rick. “And this time we need more than dates and times. We need something solid. Something that’ll make the old man happy.”
I make a mental note to find out who this old man is, presumably the MC’s president. I know every bike club there is to know in Seattle. They don’t like it, but they all pay homage to Charlie, be that in cold hard cash or in muscle. The Wreckers are definitely trouble from out of town.
“One Twenty-One South Street,” Rick tells him. “Cutting shop. Just getting started. ’Bout half a million bucks’ worth of coke gonna go through that place in the next month. Gonna get turned into two mil by the time they’ve bulked it up with talc.”
“How many people working the spot?” one of Caleb’s associates asks. Caleb casts him a stern look over his shoulder. Clearly, the guys are supposed to be there for backup and not much else. Certainly not allowed to speak. The other guy clenches his jaw, exhaling sharply.
Rick responds anyway, choosing to ignore the tension building within the biker’s group. “Four guys. Armed but entry-level. Kids from the local gangs, mostly. Subcontractors. Charlie don’t want his regular guys anywhere near the stuff.”
I haven’t heard of this cutting shop. Charlie’s a dirty crook, sure, but it’s a point of pride for him that his products are legit.
Guns that work. Drugs that don’t fry brain cells.
“What fucking use is a dead customer to me?” he always says.
“If I fucking kill ’em, then they ain’t gonna be around to give me more of their cash, are they, Zeth, my boy?
” Apparently, his motto’s changed, though.
To be quadrupling the weight of the product, some nasty shit must be getting thrown into the mix.
With every new piece of information I learn about Charlie, the girls, the cell phone tap, now this, I become more and more unnerved.
I wasn’t under the illusion that he told me everything, but thought I at least knew the lay of the land with him.
Now it seems that I didn’t know the lay of the land at all.
I didn’t even know what fucking country we were in.
“So the fifteenth’s all set?” Caleb asks.
“Sure is,” Rick replies.
“Sweet. We’ll see you at the Coal House.
Tell your old man Petey says hello, you hear?
” Caleb draws Rick into a loose hug, slapping his back before swinging his leg over his bike and grabbing his ape hangers.
The snarl of bike engine fills the warehouse.
With a deafening rumble, the three men lap around Rick and then burn out of the building, leaving the guy standing below.
This is where I’m supposed to make my presence known.
This is where I’m supposed to make Rick hurt and then kill him.
But I don’t do that. I gather my thoughts as I watch him collect his leather jacket from where he’d slung it over a rusting handrail and put it on.
Why the fuck do those guys want to know about Charlie’s business operations?
Especially if they haven’t actually hit any of the places yet?
It makes no sense, although they’re obviously planning on targeting this cutting shop at some point.
They wouldn’t want to know how many men are patrolling the place otherwise.
And why the fuck is Charlie hiring gangbangers?
A million questions swirl around my head as Rick walks outside. By the time I’ve decided I want to question the fucker, he’s already reached his car—a flashy Mitsubishi Evo with blacked-out windows. He bends, half in, half out of the machine.
“What’s up, Rick?”
Rick shits his pants. He jolts, automatically reaching behind him for his gun.
He sees the Desert Eagle in my hand before he finds his own weapon, though.
I don’t point it at him. No need. He knows I don’t play with my dick unless I intend to fuck with it.
Our eyes lock. “Zeth, man! What you doing out here?” What he really means: How much did you see? How much did you hear?
“Oh, you know. Same as you, I guess. Just getting a breath of fresh air.”
I heard enough, motherfucker.
Rick sits down on the edge of the driver’s seat, sighing heavily. “Charlie sent you with a message, right?” By the tone of his voice, he knows his fate from here on out. Rick’s heard about the other guys who were stupid enough to go behind Charlie’s back. He knows what comes next.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I got a message. But I’m interested in what you gotta say before I deliver.”
He looks up at me, a glimmer of hope sparking in eyes that held only resignation a second ago. “What, you wanna know why you’re being exed out?”
What? I scrutinize the eager look on his face, studying him.
This isn’t just random shit. He’s speaking the truth.
“Me?” It hadn’t occurred to me, but shit.
Hearing Rick say it? Fuck, it makes a lot of sense.
When Charlie doesn’t trust a man, when he’s getting ready to kill him, that’s what he’ll do.
He’ll ex him out. Exclude him from his dealings.
Keep him at a distance. Watch him like a hawk. It all fits into place.
“Charlie found out something about you, man,” Rick says. “Something he didn’t like. Not one bit. Said you were compromised now, no good to him. He wants you gone. Told the boys to get ready—that he was gonna need a new right hand. The old one was about to get cut off. That’s what I heard.”
Rick’s falling over himself to be helpful. Most men who are about to die do this. Helpfulness sometimes buys a little leverage. He doesn’t know that I actually don’t plan on killing him, though. I take full advantage of the situation.
“What has he suddenly found out about me?”
Rick shakes his head, shrugging. “Didn’t say. Something about your past, though.”
Well, that’s hardly useful information. Everything up until this very moment is my past. An hour ago.
Yesterday. Could be something from last week or ten years ago that’s turned Charlie’s eye against me.
But whatever it is that’s soured him, I’m finding it a little hard to believe.
Charlie’s paranoia being what it is, the guy would have fucking killed me the moment he suspected me of something.
He knows everything I know. All of the things he’s asked me to do.
All of the dangerous things I could let slip should I feel the need.
“I did time in Chino for Charlie,” I point out. “He wouldn’t cut me off without some colossal fucking reason.” No one rides out time in Chino without it costing them greatly. To do a stretch for someone else is more than a show of loyalty. It’s a sacrifice beyond comprehension.
Rick gapes, mouth falling open. “Aw, Zee. Shit. None of us knew for sure, but we figured you must have found out.” He smiles cruelly. “Everyone knows Charlie slit Murphy’s throat. And you were the one who went down for it? You never wonder why?”
The memory of that night resurfaces in still-frame images, blood-splattered and blistered like old film.
Murphy O’Shannessy on his knees. Charlie’s unhinged expression as he dragged a straight razor across Murphy’s throat.
The whole thing had begun over nothing—Murphy making some sly remark about the length of Sophie’s dress.
The comment had passed everyone else by, eliciting nothing more than a frown from Charlie.
But then hours later, when the old man had snorted a grand’s worth of blow, it was a different story.
I don’t think about that night too much.
Try not to. I’ve killed, yeah, but always quickly.
Knife to the heart, lungs, whatever. Gunshot to the head.
Charlie did a hack job on Murphy’s neck—on purpose—and watched as he’d slowly bled to death.
He wouldn’t let anybody put him out of his misery.