Page 78
Unknown.
Stone shifts his crystal stare across the table to Sheldon Martinez. “Toke.”
His olive fingers tuck his fresh rolled bit of bud behind his ear. “Fenced most of the shit from that first load we took as collateral. Gave Harry a fucking tip – so he’ll stop his whining like he hasn’t had his dick touched since juvy – returned the weird fucking Blues Clues cat statue to the Egyptian museum it was apparently stolen from – got checked for any weird fuckin’ ancient virus that I could’ve unknowingly picked up per Frogs hypochondrium ass demanded-”
“Hypochondriac,” corrects the man being accused of it. “Hypochondrium is a portion of the abdomen.”
“And,” Toke speaks up louder to override Frog being heard, “invested the rest of the dough in the usual ovens around town.”
We keep plenty of cash for the club.
We also reinvest it back into the community.
Shelters.
Food banks.
Clinics.
Educational programs.
Recreational ones.
Anything that boosts the town for the better or protects the town from the worst.
Stone nods in approval prior to cutting his gaze to the seat beside him. “Kegger.”
“Kids mostly handled.” His fingers fold firmly together. “First one we found – orphaned – so we asked around and one of the inactive members of a chapter out west offered to take him in. Their oldest just left for college, and they’ve got empty egg syndrome or some shit.”
“Nest,” I correct my best friend under my breath.
“Yeah. That.” He shoots a finger in my direction. “Redhead is currently at one of the shelters where Tags can keep an easy eye on him while Dive gives one more look through the databases of missing kids and reported missing on soc’ before we try to get him a home somewhere that ain’t the fucking system.”
Fuck foster care.
And fuck feeding more victims to that machine.
“And the Thai girl – who called Flames out for his shitty accent-” we collectively snicker leaving him to simply shrug from where he’s standing in the back corner, “-is on her way home back to SoCal via a first-class plane ride by Jet and his co-piloting Old Lady.”
“Mack,” Stone states to the Round Table member on the other side of him.
“All of their vehicles have been seized,” announces Iason Crawford, one of the oldest, active cut bearers we have. “Guess shit happens when you park where you shouldn’t or someone repainted the area to appear to be a no parking zone leaving his tow truck buddy no choice but to take the shit away to an impound lot where you can’t get it out because your paperwork keeps getting deleted from the system,” he casually flings his calloused, ivory finger in Dive’s direction, “and your bank accounts have been flagged by the Feds so you can’t get into them either to pay fees even if the paperwork is found.”
In spite of exhaustion rolling through me, I smirk.
“Their yacht was ‘suspected’,” he cockily beams, “for use in narcotics trafficking so the DEA had no choice but to put that shit on lock down.”
“And local transport?”
“They have access to it when their devices aren’t dropping calls and car services aren’t ending up at the wrong address. GPS can be unpredictable like a good match.”
The boxing reference is expected.
It’s where his nickname came from.
Doesn’t box much anymore but has the cauliflower ear to prove he did and can still a lay a man out with one punch.
Post Stone’s nodding of comprehension, he calls on another Round Table member. “Deeds.”
