Hope to Lie (DeSantos Book 2)
Page 18
The drummer nodded. “Lucky Alexis covered your ass.”
“Fuck you. Anyone want a drink?”
Alexis noticed activity upstairs. Chris was holding the door for the woman from the label. Her agent schmoozed the group. He looked like he had it in hand for the moment. “Thanks, guys. You all rocked.” She quickly listed a couple of the high points of the night, being certain to list everyone’s best points, even including Dylan’s contribution on the last original. “Boring meeting time. Have fun out there with the crowd, just don’t step on any toes. I didn’t know there would be so many bikers out there.”
“What gives with that?” Dylan asked.
“They’re here as a favor. Be careful. And next time you get the chance to play in front of someone from a record label, don’t fucking drink.” She walked up the stairs and her agent motioned her into the offices he’d taken over for the night.
~~~~~~~
Ghost waited until Chris left the table. Crank held court all night, with Chris sitting between him and Redd like he was important or some shit.
Ghost needed to approach the table at least once. Otherwise, someone would notice. His spot was too new for that kind of disrespect. The old man looked like shit. Was drinking water, like a pussy, too. Redd saw him and motioned him over.
“Ghost.”
Crank looked up, but his eyes weren’t focused. “Look what the cat drug in. How many from your crew showed?”
Shit, even blasted on something, the man was still sharp. “There’s eight of us.” Ghost slipped into the empty chair between Redd and the old man.
His wrinkles twisted up. “Last I knew you had twelve.”
“I’ll let them know that you missed them.” Ghost tightened his fist under the table so no one would see. His old president and two of the ones who’d voted against him didn’t show out of spite. The other member had an excuse because he was on a run, but it wouldn’t matter to the old man. Dealing out punishment for missing the show would be fun though. He smiled, despite the severity of pissing off the old man. He addressed the gathering at large. “Blue is quite the piece of ass, hey?” There were some affirmations in answer.
Crank flattened his hand on the table. “That’s Princess, deviant motherfucker.”
Redd laughed. “He means you, Ghost. My old lady would have my balls if I tapped that. But she’d have to stand in line behind Prince. Did you see the eye sex during her one song? I would have sworn that kid lost his dick when he was shot, but it looks like it still works.”
Crosstalk around the table speculated on that statement.
Redd leaned over to Ghost. “You buying in on the corporation?”
“Why should I?”
“Can’t beat clean money.”
“Fuck. The kind of money I’ve got coming in makes that look like dog shit.”
“You know, one of these days, you’re going to get caught. When you do, I don’t know your stupid ass. Won’t that be strike three for you?”
“Like it fucking matters. They gotta catch me first.” Ghost laughed, as he flagged down a waitress and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “Whiskey for the table. Leave the bottle.”
“Can’t drink,” Crank said.
Redd laughed. “You old fucker. Since when you turn down whiskey?”
“They bumped my patch to Fentanyl this week. Flying higher than a fucking kite right now. Can’t say I want to stop breathing this week, so go fuck yourself.”
“Hell, Ghost can hook you up with that shit for free, right?” Redd nudged him.
“My shit would kill you.” He smiled. Like that would be a bad thing.
The waitress laid out shots before leaving. Ghost took the one in front of Crank spilling the stuff on the top and moved it next to his own. “If you’re dying, why not just divvy up the shit?”
Crank ran a finger through the spilled alcohol on the table and tasted it. “Because the feds are watching. They’ll be auditing you for a fucking decade and freeze everything. This way, it gets bundled up legal like and no audit.”
“They wouldn’t tie it up if they don’t know about it. I could move at least another seven hundred K with my contact.”
“Yeah, and we’d see six hundred K back because of your overhead. No fucking thanks.” Redd downed another shot.
“What, you want out already, chicken shit?” Ghost had to work with Redd to move through the port at Philly, but the fucker complained all the time about it.
“I don’t like owing the fucking mob. You get dead that way.”
Crank nudged him by reaching in front of Ghost. “Not loud enough. They might not hear you in Lansdowne.” He laughed and licked his finger again. “Fucking miss whiskey already.”
Ghost poured a half shot and put it in front of him. “You only die once.”
Crank looked at him, the fog in his eyes clearing. “What the fuck do you know about death?”
“It fucking hurts, and you piss yourself.”
“The pissing part makes it a bitch to clean up. Do you clean up your messes, or do you just let them rot in a swamp where they’re found by little kids?” Crank picked up the shot glass and sipped a small portion. “Ah.” He smacked his lips. Then he smiled. “When I die, all you fuckers will have to figure this shit out on your own.” He turned the glass over so the contents spilled on the table. Then he set it down, lip down. “I’m out. Dogs!” Four probates jumped to the call. They guided him down the stairs.
“How long you think he’s got?” Ghost said out loud.
“Not nearly long enough. That’s why we have got to get this shit set up with Prince. You need to get your ass in this.” Redd stood up. The table tipped as he hefted his weight upward.
“Why Prince? That kind of money, we could own the east coast pharma trade, become real players.” Ghost stood too because he hated being looked down on.
“You got a problem with Prince?”
“His ass is so tight it fucking squeaks.”
“That tight ass makes legitimate money. Knows his shit too.”
“You sure about that?”
“Sounds like he knows his shit, got those business degrees and shit. So, why the fuck does it matter? The old man wants it this way.”
“When Crank’s dead, you going to crawl out of his asshole or just die with him?”
“Fuck you.” Redd walked away, taking the crew who’d been taking up much of the space with him. The only ones left in the section were stragglers and some of the band who had been on stage earlier.
Ghost moved to the bar. A scrawny guy from the band was getting drunk. He slid onto the stool next to him. “You know Blue?”
The guy made a face. “Alexis?”
“The bitch on stage tonight.”
“Yeah, I know that bitch.”
Ghost reassessed his strategy. The kid should be celebrating, planning the next steps. But this smelled of something else. Something Ghost could use. “Sounds like you hate her. Why work with her?”
The answer almost surprised him. Almost.
Chapter 18 — Plans
He was going to do something really fucking stupid. But Daniel Mills wanted this. He’d watched the crowd in the VIP area all night. There were no less than five chapter presidents in attendance tonight. But his target was in the parking lot. He wasn’t alone, but the odds were better because one of the four had peeled off to bring a vehicle around.
“Hi, Crank.” He walked up, hand out to shake the old man’s hand.
“I figured you’d be here.” The old man shifted his cane to the other hand and took the handshake.
It surprised the fuck out of Agent Mills, but he followed through. “Couldn’t let Alexis and Chris down.”
“Still following DeSantos, huh?”
“He’s slow on the introductions. I just wanted to say hello.”
Mills laughed. “True.”
“How’s it feel to want?” Crank motioned to the three around him to give him space. He pointed at one. “Go find out what is taking the car so long. And you two, go over there.” He waited until they’d stepped away. “Fucking buzzards circling the corpse. I’m not dead yet. Your boss authorize this?”
“No.”
Crank smiled. “Good.” The car pulled up, the crew waiting for him to finish and watching Mills in case he made a wrong move. “When you go missing, it will keep him wondering.”
“Yeah, it will.” Mills held out his hand again. “Nice meeting you.”
Crank eyed his hand skeptically, but slapped his aged skin against the agent’s, palming the business card he’d hidden there. “No, it wasn’t.”
The car drove away.
His boss didn’t know he would make contact tonight, but he knew what Mills was working on, and how it intersected with the Brigand motorcycle “club.” Meeting Crank tonight wasn’t in anyone’s plans but his own. He didn’t want to wait for an undercover assignment, he wanted this one. An in, like the one he’d been trying to cultivate with Chris, wasn’t going to happen to just anyone. It would be him.
~~~~~~~
Atlantic City, two weeks later
Money gets you everything. The warehouse had heat, soundproofing, two offices, one conference room, and a practice space with room for a tour bus if Alexis was silly enough to want to spend her money on something so monstrous. It also had a three-month sublet option so she could audition for band members, work on originals, and prepare for recording in April. It certainly beat the Cave in sheer size alone. The best part? It was one of Chris’s new properties, so she felt like she was paying him back for some of his generosity. The drawback was its location. At over a half-mile from the nearest bus line, she contemplated trying to get her driver’s license again and a car so she’d be able to get back and forth without rideshares. Then again, Chris’s advice about being frugal had implanted in her head. A month or two of rides wouldn’t equal the expense of a car. And, once she got on tour, she wouldn’t need a car because the label had promised a van. Then there’d be storage fees. So, nope. Rideshares would be cheaper overall. If she limited them to the worst weather and late practices, she’d save even more.
Six figures, a good six figures. The shock of so many numbers strung together in her bank account manifested every time she looked at it. Of course, it wasn’t in her regular account. It was the band-only, music-only account. Every expense, every trip to and from practice, all went on a shiny new credit card that was linked to a business account. Twenty-nine years old and she had a business account.
The thought made her giggle.
“What did he do?” Jeremy, the keyboardist from Juilliard, was helping her arrange some of her songs. He was brilliant and knew it. But also a lifesaver, and completely worth what he’d requested for pay. He also was being not helpful in picking a new bassist for her band.
“Huh?”
“Mr. Emo.”
Jeremy had a name for every person who auditioned. Yesterday, the girl who’d come in was “Nancy,” the guy the day before was “Spice.” Nancy had been decent, but the scars on her arms were too fresh to take a chance. Hence, named after a famous addict. Spice had been terrible. Yes, definitely a wannabe. Emo was in black from eyeliner to boots. It wasn’t a bad look. And it certainly wasn’t his playing which had made her laugh. “Nothing. Got distracted by something else.”
“Are you sure he won’t disintegrate if he sees sunlight?”
“Who knows? Maybe he sparkles. He goes on the list.” They had three names on the list so far. Callbacks were next week, and the final choice hired before Valentine’s Day. It gave them a month to be certain it was a good fit, work on material, and still left a cushion if they weren’t a fit for the band.
“Sparkles.” Jeremy laughed silently. Mr. Emo had a nickname now.
An annoying buzzer, masquerading as a doorbell, interrupted the audition. Alexis got up to see who it was. “Sparkles, you sound great. Jeremy will get your info. I expect you at a callback next week.” The kid looked confused yet hopeful at the same time.
The setting sun was a contrast to the dark warehouse space. It streamed in the glass door of the reception room. The blast of it silhouetted the shape of the person standing in front of the door. He, by the shape, could see her coming clearly, but she couldn’t make out details until she was at the door.
“Dylan.” She hoped her voice was as flat as the greeting.
“Let me in, it’s colder than a witch’s tit out here.”
“See, it’s that kind of misogynistic tripe I can’t stand.”
“Oh, fuck you, and that bullshit. I’m here to audition.”
One of her eyebrows threatened to merge into her hairline. “Audition?”
“Yeah, open up.”
“No.”
“Aw, come on, Alexis, you know I’m perfect for the band.”
She blinked. Too many thoughts spun through her head all at once. They canceled each other out. One came back before she became a complete brain-dead zombie. “You’re a drunk.”
“I quit drinking. Just for you. Now open up.”
Alexis took a deep breath and straightened her spine, making her all of five-two-and-a-half, maybe five-foot-three, and let fly. “First, never quit for someone else, it doesn’t work. If you aren’t doing it for yourself, you will fail. I am not going to be blamed when you go to the Cave tonight and get so fucking obliterated that you are charged with public indecency for urinating on the wall. Nor am I cracking you loose when you freeze that way. Second, you had your chance. You fucked up that intro. I hire professional musicians, not…” She made certain to get close to the glass so she could look him in the eyes, “…fucking alcoholics who can’t differentiate between C6 and E9.”
His face twisted. “You bitch.”
“Yes. Proudly a bitch if it means being done with you.”
“You are going to pay.” He nodded his head at her like she was supposed to understand him. Then he pointed at her with his index finger and cocked his thumb back like an imaginary gun. “Pay.” He punctuated it with a shooting movement. His glare stayed fixed on her until he had to step off the sidewalk and get in his van. It returned as he got in the van.
The sun was the wrong angle to see inside the glass. Glare and shadow made the interior too dark. Alexis walked away from the door, pretending to be nonchalant.
Once she was clear of the view from the door, she snuck into the front office. It had high windows. She moved the empty desk inside over to the wall so she could climb on top of it. It took her a full two minutes to get the nerve to peek over the lip of the windowsill. The angle was still all wrong, it forced her to teeter on her tiptoes to see out. Dylan’s van was still there.
The guy they’d auditioned had parked in back, near the loading dock, per instructions, and she saw his car leaving the parking lot. No one else was parked out front, just Dylan.
She scrambled down the desk and went to the back. Jeremy’s stuff was gone, too. She opened the back door. His car was gone, leaving her alone.
Shaking, she locked the metal door, then made certain the dock door was padlocked. There was a distant tick of the heating system. It always ticked after you turned it down. Jeremy usually made certain it was set to a chilly sixty degrees before he left, knowing that heat was an extra expense. Another reason she put up with his particular quirks.
Back in the front office and on top the desk to check out the window, Dylan’s van was still there. If she called a rideshare, they’d be no help if Dylan got out. Damn. The numbers in her contact list, one in particular, taunted her. Chris. Sucking up her ego, she dialed.
It rolled over to voicemail.
She scro
lled down further and called Crank.
~~~~~~~
Two hours earlier, Ventnor City.
Chris knew the car that had followed him from his meeting with Hammond. Knew it and hated it. Vi’s new hobby was making his life miserable. Once she figured out he had blocked her number, she sic’d Daddy on him. The first meeting, she’d shown up. “I just want to talk” must be what the priests of the Spanish Inquisition said before they threw you in the dungeon.
Vi’s idea of talking vacillated between flirting and screaming. Neither turned Chris on. Now she was at the stalking phase. This second meeting was supposed to be business. Hammond had gotten wind of the corporation he was managing for Crank, and also knew about the properties now under Chris’s control. It was a repeat of the pitch he’d given Ellis, but this time, an offer to purchase the parking lot. While the offer had been tempting, the untimely arrival of Vianne Hammond in the middle of negotiation clued Chris in that it wasn’t a serious offer. He’d lied when he said he’d consider it. It was the excuse he needed to leave.
And be followed all the way home by the blonde banshee. Luckily, Alexis was busy auditioning band members for recording. He smiled as he pulled his car into the gated lot outside his building. She had her dream.
He gathered up his briefcase and got out of the car.
Vi wasn’t wearing heels today. That’s why she was fast enough to park her car, illegally, at the curb and squeeze through the gap between the gate and the pole. “I’m not done talking to you.” She stomped up in her furry lambskin boots. They were staining in the slush.
He looked up from her boots. “I am.”
Her eyes narrowed. “No. You are not.” Her voice was colder than the icicles clinging to the side of the building.
“We were done after you cheated on me last summer with the cabana boy.”
“That was August and he meant nothing. I thought you were over that. I mean we were back together for your birthday.”
They’d imploded, she whined, then guilted him, and finally bribed him to come back so she could take him to Thanksgiving dinner with her parents in November. That had gone well enough until it hadn’t. The final straw had been his birthday. Funny she mentioned that. “You mean when you decided to dump me to go to Chi’s bash in New York?”