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Shop talk is the reason why Charlie has called me over here tonight, though. The man never married, but his mistress, Sophie, is out of town visiting her mother so the place is empty—no curious ears to overhear something they really shouldn’t. I pull the Camaro into the long driveway leading up to Charlie’s estate and wait for the gates to buzz open. The burst of static crackles two seconds later. The security guards are well used to my ride. Know not to keep me waiting.
I park up and head inside, not bothering to knock. Knocking is for people like Rick and O’Shannessy, the lower grades who’ve only been with Charlie a couple of years. I fucking grew up in this house. I lost my virginity here to one of the Mexican housemaids that used to clean up after me when I was a snot-nosed teenager. I broke three of my ribs sparring with a martial arts instructor out on the back tennis court. My current digs are humble compared to this monstrosity of a house, but I never felt at home here. I never felt I deserved this. I always felt like I deserved the stinking shithole my uncle had raised me in during the first miserable part of my life. Dirt poor, lowest of the low. That kind of poor works its way inside your very psyche. No matter how big the roof over your head may grow to be, how many maids you’re fucking, or how many hundred-thousand-dollar cars are parked in the driveway, ready and at your disposal, you can never really escape it.
The lights are on inside Charlie’s place, blazing away, lighting up the whole house. Crystal chandeliers, Persian rugs, antique furniture—the works. The boss may have lived in this country for more than half his life, but the guy still seems to believe he’s stuck in 19th-century England.
“Charlie!” I make my way through the sprawling ground floor, headed straight to the one place I can always count on finding the man: his study. Just as I predicted, when I push the door back the grey-haired bastard is bent double over his disgustingly ostentatious desk, snorting a line of blow. He sits up, eyes the size of silver dollars, holding his fingers to his powder-rimmed nostril.
“Well, if it ain’t my most entrusted employee.” He sits back, wipes his hands on the front of his pinstripe waistcoat, leaving smudges of white behind. “So glad you could join me. Did you lock the door behind you?”
“Of course I did.” The very first thing I learned about Charlie was that security was his number one priority, especially in his own home. Woe betide the person who leaves a fucking window cracked. Ever.
Charlie shrugs one shoulder, nodding his head. He gestures to the chair waiting for me on the opposite side of his desk. I sit in it like I’m supposed to, making myself comfortable. “Got a job for you, son.”
“Uh-huh.” There’s no other reason for me to be here. Charlie makes nice, pretends that we’re family, but the truth of the matter is that I’m his dark and sometimes slightly evil secret weapon. Would he have kept me around if I had been more business minded, utilized me to launder his money or work his contacts like he said he would have last time we talked? Maybe. But even I know I’m more useful to him as a savage monster.
“It’s Rick.” He collects a razor blade from the wooden desktop and starts cutting another bump of coke for himself. The man is a professional, and makes short work of it. Surprised the fucker has any septum left. Once he’s done, he points the sharp edge of the razor at me, leaning across the desk. “The little shit’s been selling to the bike gangs.”
Selling to the bike gangs? I can’t help but laugh at that. “His father’s president of an MC. What did you expect? I told you your stock would end up in their warehouses if you let Rick anywhere near it.”
“Drugs, guns—I don’t give a shit about that.” He waves his hand in the air. “He can sell those to whoever the fuck he wants to.”
“Then what the hell is he selling?”
Charlie sits back in his chair, his eyes still wider than they have any right to be. He’s gripped by a level-ten paranoia; the coke always does this to him. “Information, Zeth.” He still hasn’t blinked. “Information! The bastard’s been selling information to some small charter in Southern California, some nobody fucking gang that no one cares about. Telling them what we got in our warehouses. When we receive shipments. Valuable information, Zeth.”
“And have the warehouses been hit?”
Charlie shakes his head rapidly. “That’s just it. Not a peep.”
I’m probably risking my balls by saying this but the question has to be asked. “Then are you sure the kid’s not just talking to family? You know how it goes. One charter and the next, they’re all interrelated. All messed up in each other’s business, screwing each other’s women.”
“No! I heard ’im. I heard ’im telling them about the girls from the shipping container. This ain’t no family matter. This is about cold, hard cash.”
If Charlie wants to ingratiate me to his cause, then he probably shouldn’t have brought up that godforsaken shipping container. It’s been a sore point between us since I found out the old man was responsible for moving young girls in the skin trade. I still haven’t decided if I can overlook it yet without taking some sort of action. The old man probably wouldn’t have mentioned it if he wasn’t so messed up.
“How did you hear him?”
“On his phone, fuckhead. You think any of my staff ain’t monitored? I didn’t come down in the last shower. I gotta make sure my interests are protected.”
