Tightening his arms around Deloris, he pressed another kiss to the curve of her forehead, skin warm against his dry lips.
Even reach out to Retro.
Chapter Five
Einstein
“Be there in a minute.” Dragging a hand roughly down his face, Einstein forced his eyes open and yawned as he blinked wearily at the darkness shrouding the room. The knocking at his door resumed, and he pushed off the bed, stepping into the jeans he’d discarded last night. “Hold your goddamned horses.”
At least the room had become familiar over the past months, so he was able to make a beeline for the door. Yanking it open, he stared into Alex’s bleary eyes. The prospect’s hand was lifted in preparation to resume the pounding, and Einstein reached out and grabbed it, stopping the forward movement.
“The fuck you need, man?”
“Popova is downstairs, wants to talk to Retro.” Alex ducked his head, failing to hide a wide yawn behind his shoulder. “You’re next in line.”
“Popova? Gregory Popova? What does he want?” Einstein yawned again and stretched his neck side to side. “What’s he here for?”
“Figured I’d leave the hard questions to the big boss.” Alex hooked a thumb towards the stairs. “I’ll go let him in and keep him in the main room until you get downstairs.”
“Good call letting him cool his heels outside.” Einstein praised the man’s decision as he stepped back into the room and snatched open a drawer, pulling a shirt from inside. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
Alex disappeared from the open doorway, and Einstein walked to the attached bathroom. He took a few seconds to splash water on his face, wiping away the droplets and yawn-forced tears before he put on the shirt. Back in the bedroom, he yanked on socks and stomped into his boots; then, just before he walked through the door, he settled his vest on his shoulders. The welcome and familiar weight let him breathe easier, and by the time he’d descended the staircase, he’d pulled on his club persona completely. His brothers might know how vulnerable he was after the death of his family, but no way did an outsider need to see anything other than a perfectly composed member left in charge.
Popova stood near the bar. While Alex was nearby, it didn’t look like the two were talking, which was good. Alex had clearly exhibited he knew what was and wasn’t acceptable, so that wasn’t a surprise. Popova, though? Total wildcard in this situation.
“Pooka.” Einstein used the nickname he’d heard Retro employ on numerous occasions. Always when the conversation was either easy or incredibly difficult. It was “Greg” otherwise. “What warrants the invasion of our clubhouse at zero-dark-thirty.” Flashing a smile to indicate no offense, he was pleased when the expression was returned.
“Einstein.” Popova stretched out his hand, and Einstein met it with a meaty smack before clamping on and shaking up and down once. “Well met, my friend.” Well, that’s a good sign. The representative of the mob in Birmingham didn’t call people his friend often, and it was usually a signal of comfort. “I hated to have to wake you.” No apology, no surprise. Apologies in the mob were symbolic of weakness. He’d heard both Popova and Retro dance with words enough times to understand the avoidance. “I’d hoped for Retro, but by your presence, I’m assuming he’s unavailable.”
“You tried to call him first.” He didn’t know for sure, but half of the dance in the information business was making informed assumptions. “Him not picking up should have been a clue.” I didn’t get an alarm from Marlin, so that means— “Smart idea not going to his home second.”
“My thoughts exactly. My little cousin’s husband is a family friend, but showing at his home unexpectedly isn’t a tactic a man should employ.” Popova ducked his head, fingers running up the back of his neck. “Not and remain welcome.” He lifted his chin and stared into Einstein’s eyes. “Which is why I’m here.”
“Do we need privacy for the conversation?” Einstein didn’t shift and would not be the first to break their locked gazes. No weakness for the mobster. “Or are we good here?”
Popova’s face registered a flicker of apprehension, and Einstein wasn’t surprised when he dropped his eyes and offered, “Private would be good.”
“Follow.” Spinning on his heel, Einstein led the way to the large office used for outside meetings. The club had a smaller war room that was protected against electronic eavesdropping, but they kept the knowledge of that space close to the vest, only allowing phone calls in there, no video, and no in-person interviews.
He whistled low, then high, then higher in a tonal progression, grinning when he heard the prospect respond, “Got it, boss.”
Retro’s always been a step ahead of everyone in the region.
Using vocal orders versus verbal ones kept their guests guessing. At multi-club meetings, he’d heard more than one wanna-be attempt to utilize the same communication tactic. The only one successful so far was the IMC out of Louisiana. Their territory might be the full Gulf Coast these days, but the area around NOLA would always be their home base. It was important to continually update personal impressions and internal responses, so he wouldn’t be caught off guard by any progression in territory or information.
Another Retro tactic, he thought, hiding his grin as he swung through the open door into the office and stepped to the far side of the table. Popova closed the door with a thud, then thumbed the deadbolt installed above the doorknob. Einstein frowned.
“Not sure anyone other than the prospect is awake, but whatever makes you feel better, man.” He gestured at the table, pulling a chair away and standing there with a hand on the back. “Wanna sit, or we doin’ this on our feet?”
Popova’s hand drifted to the inside of his jacket, and Einstein froze. He hadn’t marked the unseasonable fashionwear and hadn’t patted down the man, nor had he asked the prospect to do it. Einstein’s gun was upstairs, resting on the nightstand farthest from the door. Well, shit.
“Might want to go a little slower with that pull, man.” Tensing, he evaluated his options and settled on the chair underneath his hand. He could lift and throw in a few seconds, and if Popova’s piece hadn’t cleared his holster by the time the chair was airborne, it would buy him enough time to go over the table and take the man down.
“What?” Popova looked down, seemingly surprised. “No.” He lifted his gaze, alarm clear on his features. “No, no. No, man. Nope. Not in the clubhouse.” His head shook as his hands spread wide in a gesture that had his palms out in a clear stop sign. “Not outside of the clubhouse either. Not in my lifetime. I wouldn’t dare incur Retro’s wrath like that.” He held up a finger and thumb, folding his other fingers against a palm in a minimizing gesture. “I’ve got something you need to see, man. Not bringin’ the heat to you. No threat here, man.”
“Good to know.” Einstein twirled a finger. “Still, go slow.”
“You got it.” Popova plucked the inside edge of his jacket to pull it away from his body, folding it back to expose the interior pocket. Using the pincher he’d made, he dug around in the tellingly flat pocket until coming out with a piece of paper. “Here. This is what I brought. It’s a transcript of a conversation my uncle thought you should know about.”
“A transcript?” That implied it was something premeditated, if there’d been time to put a recording of a call or meeting into place. “Of what?”
“He got a heads-up about a meet.” Popova confirmed Einstein’s assumption as he let his jacket fall back into place. “There’s activity surrounding the Monster Devils.”
Einstein’s muscles locked up, tense and tight enough it was hard to pull in a breath. He managed, then blew it back out slowly, knowing he’d not been able to hide the shift from Popova. Dammit. “Tell me.”
“There’s an outfit lookin’ to leverage Scar’s connections. Mafia side of things. They’re lookin’ for a way to deal with him in his grandfather’s footsteps. Word is Scar can’t be found, and you and I know he’s being very careful about covering his tr
acks. This—” He shoved the paper towards Einstein. “—is them becoming impatient.”
Accepting the folded object, he teased the edges apart, smoothing the creases away until he could easily read the contents.
“Have you read this yet?” He glanced up to see Popova’s head moving side to side. “Okay then.” Blind handoff. Huh. Studying the words, he began reading. “Subject one: There’s got to be a way to get to the asshole. Have you looked at everything? Subject two: Looked at all his crew, yeah. Subject one: And his family? You look there? Subject two: Mommy and daddy are removed. They got no gains from the family biz. Waste of time to follow through there. Subject one: And the brother?” Einstein stared at the paper, then lifted his gaze to Popova’s face. “What brother? I never heard Scar talk about a brother. Who are these people? Who was at the meeting?”
“No idea on any front.” Popova shrugged lightly. “But this isn’t the first time I’ve heard mention of a second grandson of Franco’s. It’s come up occasionally, but I never had anything to wrap my fingers around when it came to digging. There and gone again, you know?”
“How long have you known the Scarlouccis? Not known about the outfit, but Franco and Scar?” Einstein raked through his memories but found nothing to support the idea of a brother. “I’d have thought Scar would be shouting for his brother to join him, given how he feels about family.”
“My family has dealt with the Scarlouccis for years. They run Philly and control two major ports on the East Coast. They’re a staple when it comes to negotiating anything through there.” Popova chewed on the inside of his bottom lip. “Uncle Dolph knows them better.” A phone came out of the front pocket of his pants, and he looked at Einstein. “Okay if I text him?”
He approved the contact with a nod, surprised when Popova received a near-instantaneous response. Looking up from his phone, Popova scowled. “He said he hadn’t a clue about a brother. If Dolph hasn’t heard anything, and the Bastards’ network hasn’t turned up anything, should we even consider there’s anything there to pursue?”
“Why did you need to get this to Retro right away?” As important as the message was, as a standalone tip, it didn’t warrant that kind of urgency. “What labeled this red for you?”
“Keep reading.”
Einstein lifted the paper, not willing to lower his gaze. “Subject two: Lost him in Montana. Understand he’s in Alabama now, so we’re looking there.” He pulled in a slow breath and repeated, “Alabama,” softly as he shook his head. “Subject one: Watch out for those bastards—I’m assuming that should be capitalized?”
“My thoughts too.”
“Subject one: Watch out for those Bastards; they’ve married into the competition.” Katrina Fainburg. “Subject two: Yes, sir.” He turned the paper over, finding the other side blank. “That’s it? The sum total of what you got?” Popova nodded. “Sounds like they know Retro’s old lady is Uncle Dolph’s daughter. You catch that?” With a grimace, Popova nodded again. “Yeah, good call to bring it straight here. I’ll get on it now.” Einstein gestured towards the door. “Anything else to report?” He knew the phrasing would irritate Popova, making it seem as if he was subservient to Einstein and, by extension, to the Bama Bastards. “This is good, Pooka. Good job.”
From the scowl on Popova’s face, Einstein might have ground it in a little deep, but he didn’t care. This was a potential threat to Retro’s family and needed his attention immediately.
“Nothing else. Uncle Dolph told me to pass on that if he finds out anything more, he’ll be in touch. Either through me”—being made a messenger boy was clearly an irritant, something Einstein banked for future use—“or directly. We didn’t think it should wait for daylight.”
“Agreed.” He stared at the words typed on the paper again. “You get any kind of lead on who this is, we need to know. Without knowing the players, it’s harder to plan for eventualities.”
“I hear ya.” Popova stepped backwards to the door, not taking his gaze off Einstein.
He fought a smile at the man’s caution and sense of self-preservation. Been in business in Birmingham for years and is still alive. Maybe he’s got a right-sized sense of things. “Be a stranger.” Rounding the table, he walked through the door in front of Popova as if leading him from the room. “Unless you got more for me.”
“I’ll pass your sentiments along,” Popova said quietly.
When Einstein glanced over his shoulder, he saw Popova’s head was on a swivel, moving as if the room were filled with threats instead of a sleeping prospect at the bar and Einstein. “You do that.” He stopped in the middle of the room and kept his gaze on Popova as the man moved past, noting how he angled his body to never give Einstein his back. “Healthy fear you got there.”
“Keeps me upright.”
The door banged closed, and Alex snorted, picking his head up from where it had been pillowed on his forearms. “What?”
“Nothin’, prospect. Sleep on.” Covering the distance to the door, he opened it a crack, just enough to see Popova stepping into the back seat of a dark sedan. Einstein closed it, armed the alarm, and turned back to see Alex staring at him. “I’m going to be in the quiet room for a bit. You’re good to catch some sleep. I’ll see anything on the cameras.”
“Not going to argue it.” Alex walked to a couch and flopped onto his back, one arm coming up to cover his eyes. “I’ll take the chance to catch some shut-eye, but I’m gonna be here if you need me, boss.”
“Good man.” Einstein strode up the short hallway to the interior room the club had modified for this usage. “Sleep easy. I got this watch, brother.” Alex has a month left; time to start talking about support for his patch. If Einstein threw his weight behind the prospect, he knew other members would give the man more serious consideration. With how many members Retro and Mudd had added over the past year, there’d been less focus on the prospect than normal. Gotta fix that for him. The man’s putting in the effort—the club better match every fuckin’ ounce.
Door closed and lock engaged, Einstein turned to the computer setup along one wall. He used the scanner to quickly transmit the transcript to the device, the process transforming the image to typed words. He then set the conversation running through a database they’d built up through the years, logging thousands of meetings to create enough data for software they’d acquired that performed diction pattern recognition. Clicking various additional prompts started the process of distributing the information to key BBMC members, prefaced with his brief description of where and how the text was acquired. It would send in a priority order, waiting for recognizable activity on the member’s device before transmitting. That left things less vulnerable to sniffing and disruption. Most of the members had become adept at managing their online time, utilizing the Plane Mode to keep their devices offline until needed. In any group there was always one member who would assume the always-on position, ensuring access to everyone.
Once upon a time, Einstein had believed the efforts were overkill.
Not anymore.
Not after seeing what Mudd could dig out of an idle phone, or what Myron could do. He was the Rebel Wayfarers’ head tech guy and a certified genius, the author of several software packages the BBMC utilized. Including the pattern recognition stuff. Their day-to-day communications were behind an encrypted set of code that the government was still trying to crack. Myron had told Einstein they’d come close a couple of times, but his built-in alarms had given the necessary warning, giving him time to modify enough to not only stay ahead of their efforts but to leapfrog them based on what Myron called the “attack vector.” Treating the government as unwanted hackers and bad guys helped keep things in perspective, solidifying the us-versus-them mindset all members needed to survive.
Picking up the landline bolted to the wall, he dialed Marlin’s phone from memory.
“Yeah?” At least Marlin sounded wide awake and ready for action, leaving Einstein to shake his head.
“Get yo
ur text?”
Marlin made a grumbling sound, then grunted.
“I’m going to get in the wind, come over. We’ll do two-by-two shifts until we know more.” Einstein flicked on another monitor and clicked over to the camera views from Retro’s house. “Where are you?” He rotated through several feeds without finding Marlin. “Brother, you’re still at the house, right?”
“Yeah.” A sigh followed by the sound of water. “Takin’ a dump. Headed back outside now.”
The door of the small pool house opened, and Marlin stepped into view. “Got you. I’ll be there in a few.”
“You sure this is warranted? Send a fuckin’ prospect, man. You’re supposed to keep the clubhouse up and running.” Marlin waved at the camera, and Einstein snorted. “I know Buzzkill won’t work the detail, but there’s others, man. You don’t gotta do everything.”
“Shut up. I’ll be there.” He ended the call, snorting again when he saw Marlin flip off the camera.
The software hadn’t indicated the checks were complete, but he looked at the output on the screen anyway. Like with fingerprints, diction matching could only do so much, requiring a human for the final comparisons. The number of potential matches was twelve, not the expected zero, which meant they’d have some audio to listen to. Crazy Mike did well with that, and Einstein sent him a quick message to reach out as soon as he was cogent. “At least that looks promising.”
Out in the main room, Alex had flipped to his side, knees pulled up with one hand speared between his thighs. His other hand rested in front of his face, and something about the positioning had Einstein pausing to look harder. He snorted, then choked on a laugh. “Jesus. Linus. We’ll see what he thinks.” He kicked the side of the couch, biting back another laugh when the man rolled to his back, his hand following but staying an exact distance. Einstein shoved the side of one boot against the couch and gave it a push, the legs scraping across the wood floor.
“What?” Alex sat up facing away from Einstein, his head jerking back and forth. “Who’s there?”
Tangled Threats on the Nomad Highway Page 6