Page 6 of Bram

I stood there for a minute, hand pressed flat on the desk, trying to unroll my spine. The release notice sat there, a time bomb counting down in sans serif. I wanted to sweep it into the trash. Instead, I opened the file drawer and locked it away, third folder from the back, under a different name.

I watered the succulent. I went back to the plea deal.

But all I could see was Bram Jackson, and all I could hear was the word “next.”

four

Bram

The church room was always cold in the morning, no matter how many desert summers had baked the concrete foundation. The air conditioner was a lie. You only felt the difference when you stepped into the windowless back of the clubhouse, straight from the oven outside. I liked it that way. It kept the mind sharp, and it made the patched men sitting with me at the table think twice about stretching things out.

Today, just three of us: Rusty, Kodiak, and myself. No prospects, no hangers-on, nobody else trusted to sit this close to the club’s nervous system. The only light in the room was a yellowed bulb hanging from wire so old it hummed when the table got loud. Everything we needed to run the next seventy-two hours was laid out between us: a hand-drawn map of the 58 from here to Bakersfield, the call sheet for the upcoming hardware run, and a single manila folder with my name written across the tab in blocky Sharpie.

Kodiak ran his thumb along the edge of the map, callused and deliberate. “Best place to intercept is at the Buttonwillow stop.” His voice sounded like someone had left a gravel filter in his throat, but he only used it to deliver facts, never opinions. “Route’s two exits shorter if they take the sixty-eight, but nobody’s dumb enough to cut through Wasco with a load like this.”

Rusty snorted, “Tell that to Fat Jerry. He damn near got himself killed last summer taking that detour.”

“Fat Jerry’s dead,” I said.

“Which proves my point.” Rusty shot me a lopsided grin, the kind that would’ve looked like a threat on a smaller man. He wore his years heavy around the neck and across the knuckles. “We’re not using the twins for tail this time, right?”

I shook my head. “They’re on perimeter for the next three days. I don’t want anybody from our table inside the county line unless they’re patched and vetted.”

Kodiak nodded, never missing a beat. “I’ll take two men, nobody soft. We’ll post up with eyes from both ends at Buttonwillow. If there’s any movement from the Scorpions, we’ll see it before they get close enough to get smart.”

Rusty flicked his attention to the map. “Who’s our point of contact in Bakersfield now that Oxy John is out?”

“Karen Devito.” I kept my face stone but watched the reaction.

Kodiak didn’t blink, but Rusty raised an eyebrow, his smile going dead. “Wasn’t she running the cam shows out of that strip mall on Rosedale?”

“She’s diversified,” I said. “Runs clean, no heat, and she’s got hands on more legit businesses than anyone else in Bakersfield.”

Kodiak laid the map flat. “You trust her?”

“No,” I said. “But I trust she’s got more to lose than any of the old players.” I looked between them. “And she owes us. Paid in advance.”

We sat like that for a minute, the hum of the bulb a steady bassline under the conversation. I’d learned to let things sit, give the next move time to breathe. Both men knew it, so neither tried to fill the silence.

Rusty broke first. He reached across the table, flipped open the manila folder, and slid a packet of paper my way. “Proposal from Devito,” he said. “Supposed to be a partnership, but she wants final say on who runs the floor.”

He’d left the first page exposed, Karen’s logo—some bullshit with a pair of red lips and the word “Kiss”—front and center. Underneath: a line-by-line breakdown of profit shares, security, and a clause about “indemnification of all business partners.” The legalese was a smokescreen, but the numbers were real enough. I thumbed through the rest.

Rusty said, “She knows what she’s doing, but it’s a long walk from snuff streams to handling our kind of volume. If you want to play this straight, you need to send a message.”

“She’s already on edge.” Kodiak didn’t even look at the packet. “Her guys have been getting clipped for the last month. Someone’s trying to push her out.”

I looked at Rusty. “You talked to her?”

“Yeah. Phone. She was coked to the gills, but that’s her baseline. Says she’ll meet anywhere we want, but only in daylight, and only if you’re there personally.”

I watched the corner of the map, tracing the highway with my thumb, then set the packet back down. “She knows what happened to Oxy John?”

Rusty said, “She’s smarter than he was. Keeps her own crew tight. No freelancers.”

I leaned back, let the chair creak. “You think she’s got the stones for this?”

Rusty shrugged. “She’s not scared. Not of us, not of the Scorpions. But if you want my advice—”