Bump felt he knew the Sinaloans enough to come up with such a theory, because at one point, he had worked for them. He and the street gang to which he belonged, the Almighty Vice Lords, had been their point crew in Chicago for years. And for a long time, it’d been a good relationship. Sinaloa had been the king of the cartels, and the AVL distributed their product, enforced their rules, and made bank. But Sinaloa’s shipments had started to slow, more seizures and arrests were made, and money got tight. There were rumors of internal disputes and a breakup. The AVL wasn’t going to be part of that, so they shifted their allegiance to the CJNG and never looked back. Until now.
Bump scanned the road behind him.
If he was right, the Sinaloans were using White to draw him out of Chicago so they could kill him. Sinaloa wanted to strong-arm the AVL into coming back to them.
Even though he couldn’t see anything in the rearview mirror, he just had a feeling they were back there, following him, waiting for a dead zone between towns where they could force him off the road and put a bullet in his head.
Do it. Do it, he goaded. Do it now. This stretch of interstate had a nice weedy thicket of trees alongside it that he could run to. He’d simply pull over and dash away. And if Tiff, his flat-footed girlfriend, lagged at all, he’d abandon her. The Sinaloans weren’t really after her anyway. She’d be in no danger, probably. It was his head they wanted. His and two others’ within the AVL: Christopher Stephenson and Dennis Baines. The three of them had orchestrated the break. They also had power, respect, and bodies, and killing any one of them would send quite the message.
But wanting it and doing it were two different things. The Sinaloans hadn’t been able to kill him before when they were just off their peak, so now, with their being shadows of their former selves, it was even more unlikely. They’d lost their leader to US extradition; rival cartels, including the CJNG, were hitting them left and right; and politicians were turning their backs in droves. They had nothing, and Bump had seen it coming, which was precisely why he and his crew had done what they’d done. That didn’t mean Sinaloa wasn’t still dangerous, though—or crafty. They were damn crafty. If his Jacob White theory was correct, then good for them. They were going down swinging. Too bad for them he’d end this White business within the next day or two.
The phone resting in the center console vibrated, and Bump said, “Speak of the devil,” after accepting the call.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Avispón growled.
“You talking about the fire?”
“I’m talking about the fire.”
“Man, you really think that’s me?”
“You’ve started fires before, you little pyro. And they found your Talons there too.”
“I burned those houses after everyone was dead.”
“And the Talons?”
“Someone else has some. I don’t know.” Bump eyed a mangled deer carcass on the shoulder of the road, a chilling sight. Dead people, even those with the backs of their heads blown out and their brains dripping down the curb, didn’t bother him, but these roadside corpses made him shiver. He’d seen four since crossing the state line. What was it about Wisconsin and Minnesota that these gaunt, horselike creatures were so rampant? Bump held his breath as they passed the shredded carcass.
“Then pat yourself on the back,” Avispón said, “because you’ve inspired some other shit weasel to act just like you.”
Shit weasel? Bump thought. That’s a new one. The cartel boss had a tendency to change expletives as often as he changed mistresses. Apparently “fuckwit” and the fashion photographer had been replaced.
Avispón continued. “Remember what I told you. If this isn’t you, then you kill White and then you kill the shit weasel who keeps fucking up with your Talons.”
“I know. That’s what I’m doing.” Someone was out there making Bump look bad, so of course he would put a stop to it. Reputations didn’t maintain themselves. “You shouldn’t’ve put that bounty out there. Just call me; I would’ve handled it.”
“What do you think I did?”
“I would’ve appreciated more than just a single call. I was at the hospital.” He’d been checking on his mom after her accident.
“What’re you complaining about? I would’ve never offered you half a million if you’d answered your phone. Now the bounty’s out there. Go claim it.”
“Half a million isn’t worth this trouble.” That wasn’t entirely true, but he had a point to make. “I would’ve appreciated another phone call.”
“You see White’s all over social media?”
“I haven’t looked.” Bump was sure Avispón hadn’t been looking either—he wasn’t on social media—but his wife, daughter, and mistress could’ve certainly shown him something of White’s. That fashion photographer had quite the Instagram account; she was followed by thousands and followed thousands herself. She would’ve seen White’s posts, then asked Avispón about it. Which is why he’s moved on from “fuckwit” to “shit weasel,” Bump thought. Avispón had no time for someone who asked such embarrassing questions.
“When will this be handled?” the cartel boss pressed.
“On my way to Duluth right now.”
Tiff gave a hushed cheer beside him.
“Who’s that?” Avispón asked, hearing the woman’s delight.
“My girl,” Bump said, and left it at that, still annoyed she’d come along. He’d wanted to leave her behind, but she’d seen some photos of an “amazing” lighthouse in Duluth and wouldn’t take no for an answer. She’d actually threatened to blow his balls off otherwise. They’d been sitting on the couch watching the Bears game when the topic came up, and when he kept refusing, she’d grabbed the pistol on the coffee table and shoved the barrel into his crotch. That crazy bitch. She hadn’t been joking either. She would’ve pulled the trigger if he’d said no once more. So now she was riding shotgun, and he had his balls still in his pants.
Tiff leaned close to say hello, but Bump raised his hand and shook his head. She shrugged, not needing to win that battle, and sat back in her seat.
“If you don’t take care of this,” Avispón warned, “I’m sending ROD.”
Bump had heard that warning a few times over the last year in relation to a couple of other hits. “ROD” stood for “Rubén,” “Oscar,” and “David.” He had no idea what their last names were, and it didn’t matter. The three of them were Avispón’s attempt at putting together a death squad that was efficient on both sides of the border. His ultimate goal was to send them after some Castor guy. Evidently they were pretty good within Mexico, responsible for nearly two dozen disappearances in the last twelve months, but outside of the country, they were still a work in progress. Very raw, by the sounds of it. Bump acknowledged Avispón’s threat with a snort.
“Want me to send them now?” Avispón asked quickly.
Bump chuckled. “I don’t care. If I can’t do anything, they won’t be able to either.”
“You’re laughing,” Avispón warned, “but I got this girl working with them now. She’s the real deal. From China. A Triad ninja. She killed a forty-man outfit in Tianjin in a single night once.”
“I’m sure she did. Does she wear all yellow and carry a sword?” Bump asked, thinking of the Tarantino movie. “Actually, I killed all the Latin Kings in Chicago last night. And at least a hundred Black Disciples. I used a toothpick, so—”
Avispón hung up.
Bump regretted that last comment. He already was pushing his luck with the man; he didn’t need to antagonize him, but sometimes his ego wouldn’t shut up.
On the road ahead, a car was braking; Bump lifted his foot from the gas. Another deer carcass, torn to hell, was spread like chunky jam from the center line to the shoulder. He swerved to avoid the larger bits.
Tiff glanced up from her phone to catch the reason for the sudden jerking of the car. “Gross.”
The deer’s head was resting upright near the shoulder, its eyes open, wa
tching them pass. Bump shivered. Any animal bigger than a dog that ran loose in the wild wasn’t right. But it was encouraging to know this horrid mess meant there was one less deer in the world.
The next time they stopped for gas, Bump made Tiff get out and pump, then he sent her inside to buy some scratch-offs for his mom while he watched the nearby fields.
~
Jacob settled into his preferred table at the Coffee Princess across from the espresso machine. From there he could watch the barista go about grinding, tamping, and pulling shots while he conjured up clever phrases and verbs for his book. He got a good ten minutes of writing in before the interruptions started.
First the adoption agency needed him to resubmit schedules 1-B and 1-G, which he’d done twice already. Then, Tina (“I told you to get out of Minneapolis, didn’t I?”) wanted to know if he’d received her latest social media report, which he had but couldn’t decipher. And most recently Simon had reached out after having reviewed Jacob’s new chapter. He liked what he saw, but once again he suggested Jacob consider using a ghostwriter, as time was of the essence. “At least for the basic bits,” Simon emailed. Jacob misread that as “basic bitch,” and it wasn’t until he’d replied that he noticed what Simon had actually typed. “Sorry. Ignore that last email,” Jacob quickly sent off.
By the time Missy called, asking where he was, a full hour had passed and he’d made little progress.
“You’re here? At the hotel?” Jacob said as he gathered his notes.
“In the lobby. I thought you were going to be waiting,” Missy answered.
“I am. I was,” he corrected himself. “Be there in two minutes.”
As promised, after a two-minute sprint, he was at the inn, out of breath and sweating.
“I like this place,” Missy said, giving him a kiss and wiping his brow. The lobby had a Roaring Twenties vibe with a grand fireplace and etched columns of thick oak that dropped from a copper-tiled ceiling. “I bet they go all out during the holidays.”
“If we’re stuck here long enough, we’ll find out.”
Missy wrinkled her nose.
Jacob gave Quincy a hardy pat on the head. “He’s not wearing his eye patch?”
“I took it off. He looks like a freak. And he hates it.”
“But his eye’s ready to pop out.”
“It wasn’t so bad earlier. It’ll go down. He’s just stressed right now.”
“So you brought the patch?”
“It’s in my bag. Put it on him if you want. See if he lets you.”
“Maybe later. Look at this.” Jacob pulled out his phone and showed Missy a photo of a terrier wearing a bejeweled eye patch.
“Not in a million years,” she said, smirking. “But he wouldn’t look that out of place here. I saw a really weird dog earlier. It was all purple. Like the lady had dyed the poor thing for a Vikings game.”
“I saw it too. It was for Prince Fest. Hairless, right?”
Missy nodded. “Yeah, kinda nasty.”
Jacob gave a sneer, but not about the dog. He pointed at a Burger King bag on the couch behind Missy. “You didn’t, did you?”
“I did.”
“Bleh. Why?”
“They’re good for you,” Missy said.
“It’s trending again on Twitter, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“It is. I can see it in your eyes. Hashtag Impossible Burger.”
“So what? You bought cocaine so you could post about it.”
“I bought it to get a dealer arrested, not to post about it.”
“But you posted it. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Jacob had no intention of answering that. He grabbed Missy’s suitcase with an exaggerated flourish and headed to the elevator. Quincy, his leash tied to the suitcase, had no choice but to come along.
Missy snatched the paper bag from the couch and went after them. “And you weren’t thinking about posting anything when you were driving to Tijuana to meet the cartel?”
“No comment,” Jacob chirped as he stared up at the brass roman numerals displayed over the elevator doors.
“That’s what I thought.” Missy gently poked him in the ribs. “Quit being a little bitch about a soy burger.”
“Fine,” Jacob said, “but if it kills me, I don’t want you posting about my death.”
“What’re you talking about? I’d milk your death for all it’s worth.”
“Hmm. Can I at least ask that you don’t put my body in any compromising or suggestive positions post–burger death?”
“I’m not promising anything. Whatever’ll get the most likes.”
“Wow, Quincy. I die, and it’s a free-for-all.”
“Damn right.” Missy laughed. “To the victor go the spoils.”
According to the numerals, the elevator had only descended two floors. “Want to just take the stairs?” Jacob asked.
“I’m fine waiting.” Missy held up the fast-food bag. “You in a hurry to get to these?”
Jacob remained where he was. “I sent a couple forms to the adoption agency this morning. Wasn’t sure what address to put down.”
“The address they’ve already got,” Missy answered quickly. “It’s not like the mailbox burned. We can still get mail.”
“That’s what I ended up doing. Maybe we should get it forwarded, though.”
The elevator made it to the lobby and slowly opened its doors. The three of them stepped in. Missy scanned the ceiling as the elevator started up with a rumble. Jacob, having grown accustomed to the ancient mechanism’s grumblings, stared straight ahead, thinking about PO boxes.
When it seemed apparent that the elevator wasn’t going to fail and plunge them to their deaths, Missy said, “I gave Jenny the mailbox key. She can check it.”
“The fire was in the newspaper here. The lady who owns the café down the street said she read about it.”
“It wasn’t that big.”
“I’m still a little surprised all this has happened.”
“You pissed off the cartel. What’d you think would happen?”
Jacob shrugged. “Nothing?”
Missy snorted. When the elevator stopped with a sharp screech on the fourth floor, she said, “My God. What’s wrong with this thing?”
“Just old,” Jacob said, stepping out. “Right here. 403.” He fished out the keycard. Before unlocking the door, he paused and asked in all seriousness, “Should I really write this book?”
Missy looked at him. “Yes. The story needs to be told. Besides, it’s your account of what happened. You’re not ripping on them like Tina always does; you’re just stating the facts.”
“They kidnap and kill journalists for ‘stating the facts.’”
“Journalists in Mexico, not here. Anything happen to the reporter in San Diego who ran the story? Or the reporter in Minneapolis?”
“No.” The elevator let out another screech as it went back to the lobby.
“We’ll be okay. Just need to be careful. Did you figure out how to get a gun permit?”
“I can get a gun permit anytime; it’s the conceal-and-carry that’s harder. I have to take a class. But I’m actually having second thoughts about the gun. I was reading through the adoption papers again, and they specifically ask if the household has any firearms. That won’t look good.”
“Will it look better if you’re dead?” Missy asked.
Jacob was quiet.
Missy nodded at the room door. “Open it. I’ve got to pee.” When he did, she raced in. “It’s beautiful,” she exclaimed in reference to the view of the lake, not the room, which he’d left a total mess.
Jacob set her luggage near the bed and collected a bunch of notes scattered across the covers. Quincy tried jumping up, but he was still tied to the luggage and was yanked back, returning to the carpet with a meaty thump.
Missy emerged from the bathroom. “What was that bang?”
“Quincy.”
“Aww.” She untied the pug while eyeing
the collection of empty beer bottles next to the TV on the dresser.
“Cheaper than drinking down at the bar,” Jacob offered.
“Looks like you had a party.”
“Only half a dozen there.”
“Leave me any, you lush?”
“Fresh out.”
Missy grabbed the Burger King bag she’d dropped on the floor. “Let’s eat on the balcony.” She swiped a couple of empty bottles as she passed. “No reason we can’t pretend we’re having beers for Instagram.”
Jacob stacked his notes on the nightstand. “Come on, Quincy. Let’s go try not to choke.”
~
Eleanor Linders, Ellie to her friends, was a seventy-year-old widow, although the label of “widow” didn’t strike her as appropriate any more. Such a word was for those recently placed in the position—someone deserving of gentle hugs and heartfelt sympathy. Ellie’s husband, Michael, had died decades ago, broadsided on Highway 53 by a snowplow during the Halloween Blizzard. Visibility hadn’t been more than a few feet that day, but Michael had gone through the intersection like it was high noon on the Fourth of July. Whammo! Salt and glass everywhere. By the time the emergency vehicles arrived, four inches of fluffy snow covered the mess. It almost appeared serene. The car, crumpled and twisted, could’ve been mistaken for a sleeping moose, tendrils of steam occasionally puffing from the engine block like great sighs of contentment.
That had been in 1991, a lifetime ago, and Ellie found it strange she still got called a “widow.” Granted, whenever most people uttered the noun these days, it was usually prefaced with the adjective “crazy,” so maybe it didn’t have much to do with Michael’s departure anymore.
Either way, it didn’t matter to her. If anyone were so bold as to discard their “Minnesota nice” and tell her straight up that she was a crazy widow, she’d likely admit it. She knew she was eccentric. If some people wanted to call that crazy, fine. She was who she was.
The casual observer might’ve said Michael’s death had made her that way, but that wasn’t entirely correct. Ellie always had her quirks. It was only after Michael had met the business end of a fully-loaded, ten-ton snowplow did she let loose. She painted her house the color of a fresh tangerine; she grew her hair out until it could wrap around her neck like a scarf (during the winter months); and she took up gardening, which wasn’t terribly abnormal since most Duluthians had small gardens of tomatoes and carrots in their backyards, but Ellie gardened in the company of a 1903 phonograph from which she blasted Prince albums. The dogs down the block particularly liked “Adore,” always howling along when Prince hit the high notes. Ellie had come to be the happiest she’d ever been even with all the cockeyed stares and whispers.
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