Chapter Eight
Piece of Cake
Mo
The next night, standing backstage, eyes scanning the
crowd during Lottie’s last set, Mo tried to control his thoughts that were on
the fact none of the guys they’d tagged last night was their guy.
And his thoughts were on that because they were also on the
most recent letter they got.
The ugliest.
The most troubling.
The one that was delivered to Smithie Monday and included
the news that the guy knew all about Mo, and that Mo was going to be cleansed
himself, this being executed, as in made dead for “consorting with the soiled.”
The letter that also shared the members of Hawk’s crew who
were supposed to be doing drive-bys and randomly
keeping an eye on Lottie’s house while he was inside keeping an eye on Lottie,
as well as Mo when he was out with Lottie, had missed this guy somewhere along
the line.
The letter that had Mo so tweaked, he was close to having to
admit that to Hawk, this being right before he shared he was taking Lottie to
Bali.
All these thoughts clashed with all his thoughts about
Lottie, and all his responses—mentally, emotionally and physically—that were
making it nearly impossible to do his job.
The way she stepped in with Carla being the most recent. Not
only getting her to go to the emergency room, getting her mom to look after the
woman’s children, and also her chat with all the girls that night, after
learning Carla was out for at least five days, probably more like ten.
They were taking a collection.
Carla was on paid leave.
But she wouldn’t feel the loss of her tips.
And finally, Lottie saying to Dominique, who’d brought in
Lottie’s first take of tips from her first set, “Everything I get tonight goes
into the envelope for Carla.”
No, Carla wouldn’t feel the loss of her tips.
It was clear Lottie ruled this roost, not as the headliner,
but as the benevolent queen who looked after her subjects.
It wasn’t just her nephews, her sister, her mother, her “And
tell Tex I love him.”
It was just her.
With everyone.
And when he had her, he’d have all that in more ways than
she was giving it now, and make no mistake, she was giving it now.
But she was holding it back.
And it was tearing her up.
She was nearly bursting at the seams to give all she had to
Mo.
And he wanted it.
Bad.
He was gonna have to tell Hawk.
Before he got her the fuck out of there.
This guy going uncaptured, they might never be able to come
back.
Mo was down with that.
Unfortunately, his mother and sisters wouldn’t be. Not to
mention his nieces and nephews.
They had to get this guy.
And Mo had to stay sharp.
He had to…
His body went solid when he saw him.
Every Guy.
Very carefully Every Guy.
Slightly faded red polo shirt. But crisp jeans, like they
were new.
Not a match.
You didn’t wear new jeans with an old shirt. Most men forced
to go to the store, they stocked up. If he had an occasion he wore new jeans,
he’d put on a new shirt.
And it was slightly faded, not stained, misshapen, fucked
up.
Casual. Like he grabbed whatever and threw it on when he did
not. He made that selection carefully.
Trying to fit in.
Trying to be Every Guy.
And he probably usually wore trousers. Or chinos. A suit.
Way too uptight to wear jeans. Way too obsessive to let go even for that.
Mo knew this because of his neat haircut.
Clipped perfect. Not overly styled. His hair laid that way
because it was cut to lay that way. And Mo’d lay
money down the man went to the barber no less than once every three weeks.
Clean, close shave. Baby skin. Perfectly trimmed sideburns.
Hand on the table next to a bottle of beer that was
untouched. Mo could see the thin line of foam at the top in the neck. The guy
didn’t drink, not alcohol.
Fingers rat-a-tat-tatting a nervous strum on the table.
Careful placement of his position, not in the front row, not
in a booth at the back, so as not to appear too eager, not pretending to be too
aloof, or worse, hiding. Second row of tables, side stage, where he could see
Lottie.
But his eyes were on Mo.
When he saw Mo had eyes on him, casually, too casually, he
tipped his chin to acknowledge the eye contact, then turned his attention to
Lottie.
Bland face, carefully bland. No reaction to the best
one-woman show anyone in that room had ever seen. No visible reaction to a
beautiful woman with a fantastic figure in a sequined bikini and high heels
twirling upside down on a pole.
And no open display of hatred or disgust, for certain.
No one, not a soul except the waitresses, and even they
stopped serving when Lottie performed, had eyes on anything but Lottie when she
danced.
There was all this, and Mo could read a person, it was an
important part of the job.
But the most important part of it all was that Mo would lay
his life on the fact he saw that guy looking at cucumbers in the produce
section of King Soopers on Sunday.
Mo felt a curl in his throat and heat hit his gut.
This was their guy.
Mo didn’t move, even though, from the second night on, Hawk
had fitted the team at Smithie’s, including the bouncers, with earpieces and
wristband radios.
This was where training was crucial.
This guy bolted, not a man on the mark knew it was him and
he might be able to outrun Mo if Mo had to take off from his current position.
Though the team would see Mo make a break for him, he could slip through a
crowd like this and do it easy.
Then, if he got free of the building and didn’t park in the
parking lot, which he likely wouldn’t considering Smithie had cameras all over
and they were visible, when he got out of camera range and to his car, they’d
have no clue who he was or where to find him. And obviously, no car on camera,
no make and model or license plate.
He needed a tail that night.
No, he needed put out of commission that night.
Mo couldn’t lift his arm and alert the team, the guy might
see him and know he’d been made.
His body screamed to do it.
No.
It screamed at him to rush the man and incapacitate him in a
way he’d never recover.
But it wasn’t Mo’s job to take down the guy. He couldn’t
rush him from his position backstage.
It was his job to stay on Lottie.
So he had to hold.
His only choice was to keep him in his peripheral vision so
he didn’t tweak him with a movement that would communicate he’d been made and
set him to running.
Something he might already know since they’d locked eyes.
Mo needed the lights to dim even though he would be
concerned the guy would make his move when they did.
It seemed to take years for them to go out.
His hand went right up, wrist to lips.
“Red polo. Jeans. Thinning hair. Second row. Left side. Stay
on him,” he ordered before tagging Lottie’s robe.
He was two seconds late in throwing it over her bare
shoulders.
She took off her top only in the final few seconds of her
last song and never her panties.
He still really hated it that hundreds (probably
thousands) of people had seen her mostly naked.
But tonight, he hated it oh so fucking much more.
He didn’t have headspace for that.
The second she had her hands through the arms of the robe,
he took hold of her and started to move her to safe ground.
“Eyes on him,” Axl, one of his buddies on Hawk’s team said
in Mo’s earpiece. “I’m on him. Following through.”
This meant Axl would tail him home.
He got Lottie into the room, the girls streamed out, and he
looked down at her.
“Gonna step into the hall. Be gone
half a minute. Lock the door. Get dressed.”
She stared up at him, her hands arrested in the act of tying
her robe closed.
“Lottie,” he growled.
“Okay. Locking the door,” she whispered.
He went out. Heard the lock go.
He then stepped two steps to the side and pulled out his
phone.
He called Hawk.
“Status,” Hawk said as greeting, not sounding like Mo just
woke him, even though Mo knew he just woke him, and waking Hawk, he probably
woke Hawk’s wife, Gwen.
Undoubtedly a common occurrence for Gwen.
Fortunately, she was a kickass chick and she loved her man
so much, Hawk could grow a beer gut and take up fishing every weekend and she’d
simply wait for him to come home and still jump his bones.
“He’s here tonight.”
“He made a move?” Hawk asked.
“No. But I know it’s him. Axl’s on him. I want him taken
tonight.”
Hawk said nothing.
Mo didn’t either, letting his boss think.
Finally, Hawk spoke.
“Gut?”
“Yeah.”
“How sure?”
“Very.”
“We’ll take him tonight. You’re wrong, we’ll figure it out.”
“I’m right, I want in.”
A moment then…
“She’s under your skin,” Hawk murmured.
“She’s not under my skin. I sleep on her couch. I guard her.
But when this is over, she’ll be in my life. My choice? For the rest of it. So
that’s not under my skin. She’s just going to be a part of me.”
Hawk did not sound surprised when he asked, “And her?”
“That part of where we’re at for her has been difficult to
contain.”
“You should have reported this,” Hawk said impatiently.
“I would have, but it’s been contained.”
“It’s been contained, and you wouldn’t let me pull
you off her detail, which, if I knew this, was what I’d fuckin’ do.”
Mo decided not to respond to that.
“So, knowing this, I’ll ask again. Your gut. How sure?” Hawk
asked.
“This is our guy.”
“I wouldn’t normally ask, you know it, but—”
“She was dancing, he was watching me, not her. Second row.
Faded-out polo. But new jeans.”
“New jeans?”
Hawk didn’t make that query because he didn’t get it.
He made that query because that nailed it.
“And I’d stake my life that I saw him Sunday in King
Soopers,” Mo added.
“We’ll move,” Hawk declared. “Now. And you’re in.”
Thank fuck.
Hawk disconnected.
Mo pulled oxygen through his nostrils.
Then he turned and knocked on the door to Lottie, shouting,
“Mo!”
Every inch of his skin crawled. His muscles felt twitchy.
He wanted to be out there.
He needed to be in the dressing room.
She opened the door.
He crowded her in.
He then said a prayer of gratitude that she hadn’t fucked