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The place was a stark reminder of where he had started out. That little shack Victor would lock him inside down on the bayou was not much better than these makeshift tents in the abandoned shipping yards.
Henri scanned the length of the alley, and his eyes skidded to a stop on two men who were dressed a cut above everyone else, stepping out from one of the gatherings further up.
They were in baggy jeans and hoodies, and the bling around their necks told Henri he’d found the men he was looking for. The ones who kept these three blocks well supplied and one hundred percent dependent on them for their next hit.
Henri pulled off to the side, put his car in park, and took a quick look in the rearview mirror. A couple of the locals had moved out into the street to see who the newcomer was. As Henri pushed opened the door, his nose was assaulted with the foul stench of urine, alcohol, and what he could only assume was the final result of enjoying too much of Ricky G’s finest.
Henri shut the door and made it a point to send a death glare to those behind him, and though most of them looked stoned out of their mind, they all seemed to understand the universal expression: You come any closer to my car, I’ll fucking end you. They all stopped where they were and waited to see what was going to happen next.
Henri rounded back to look at the two he’d come for, and wasn’t shocked in the slightest to find he now had their undivided attention.
Rich car. Townie. Fresh meat. These two weren’t stupid—well, actually, if they worked for rAz, they were total fucking morons, but they knew a potential new buyer when they saw one. The key was not to spook ’em. Henri knew Ricky’s kind: jumpy, paranoid little fuckers. He had to play this just right. Henri saw the taller one straighten up and puff out his chest, a show of dominance and bravado.
Little punk is gonna have to do better than that if he wants to intimidate me, Henri thought, and as he got closer, he saw the same guy slip a hand inside the pocket of his hoodie to no doubt palm the butt of whatever personal security system he was packing in there.
Henri sized each of the men up. The taller one, the one who seemed to be taking the lead, looked to be in his mid-twenties. He had a red cap on with the black hoodie pulled up over it, and as Henri got closer, he noted the guy had a wicked scar slashing through his left eyebrow and a burning cross tattooed up one side of his neck. He was chewing gum and eyeing Henri like he was a piece of shit on the bottom of his shoe.
Henri flicked his eyes to the guy standing to his right and automatically dismissed him as a threat. Young, barely eighteen, in Henri’s estimation, the second guy was sporting bleached blond hair cut to his scalp and blue eyes that looked slightly frantic. He appeared a little green around the gills, and possibly high, due to helping himself to some product, as he looked between Henri and his buddy, who seemed to be getting a little twitchy.
Right, it was time to get things started before assumptions were made and bullets started flying.
“Hey, what’s up, guys?” Henri said, cool as can be as he approached, and slipped a hand down into the front pocket of his jeans to finger the wad of cash he’d put in there earlier. It was imperative these guys didn’t suspect anything from him other than interest in what they were selling, and the best way to do that was to flash some cash around.
“Nothin’ much,” Bleach Boy said as he gave Henri a once-over that ended in a sneer designed to express just how lacking he found him. “You need somethin’? Or you just cross one too many bridges and end up on the wrong side of town?”
Henri took a step closer, flashed a couple of the Benjamins in his pocket, and shrugged. This reaction was the exact one he’d been after. “I don’t know. Did I?”
Bleach Boy looked to Red Cap, whom Henri suspected was actually Ricky. He gave a clipped nod and then indicated that Henri follow them up one of the side streets, and Henri didn’t hesitate. But, not willing to let his car out of sight for even a second, he made sure to position himself so the Aston Martin was in his line of sight—then Mr. G finally spoke up.
“How you know I’m selling?”
Henri aimed his eyes at the gold chain hanging around Ricky’s neck, then let his gaze wander down over the clothes that were probably worth a couple hundred at the least. “I don’t know. Let’s just say it was a lucky guess.”
