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Vincent was celebrating. The confirmatory text from Eddie had elevated his mood, after which his already extravagant tastes had taken a turn for the lavish. “Let’s do it all again, Ronnie,” he yelled with a mischievous grin, raising his voice above the music which pounded the room. “Same for me, same for the girls.” Ronnie turned smartly to leave but heard behind him, “And see if you can get them to keep thatfuckingdoor closed. I can hardly hear myself snort in here.”After all,he mused,there’s no use making illicit millions if you can’t enjoy it in peace.
The jet-engine roar of the dance floor finally subsided as Ronnie firmly closed the thick, green door which hid this exclusive room. Vincent slid further down into his massive leather couch with an exaggerated sigh of relief, and then levered himself forward once more to reach the square glass table that was the VIP room’s centerpiece.
“You wanna do another line, Vinny?” asked a tipsy, topless peroxide blonde in skimpy red lingerie.
“Bruna,” he said, hands together in appreciation, “my darling, your situational acumen is as outstanding as the surgeon who created your fabulous tits.”
“So... Yes?”
“Yes! Lay it out, my girl! Build me a mini mountain range, you fine, buxom strumpet.” Bruna and Jacqueline had exchanged confused glances all night, but at least this request was as plain as the powdered nose on Vinny’s face. Within moments, the over-sized line was neatly prepared and was then — just like the previous five — enthusiastically vacuumed up their client’s nose. “Yes,” he beamed, “yes, my beauties. This,” he announced, waving regally at the table encrusted with high-grade Columbian cocaine, “is the only white girl I care to dally with.”
Although affable enough to the management, Vincent’s VIP status depended purely on his supplying great coke at amicable prices. A small cut of the night’s take, and complimentary passes on request, sweetened the deal. In exchange, the proprietors were able to keep important guestsvery happy, andturned a blind eye to the dozens of laws Vincent broke when availing himself of his favorite back room in town. “Now that you’ve tasted the fruits of Brazil,” Jacqueline said with a smile, her accent thick and undeniably sexy, “you’ll never want to go back.”
“You speak the truth, my harlot of wisdom,” Vincent proclaimed, massaging his nose. “Would you care for one?” He turned, grinned and said, “When you’ve finished doing that, of course.” The full-figured Brazilian girl had laid back, naked save for her fishnet stockings, squeezing her fake breasts.
Somehow, Vincent managed to sense the vibration of his phone. He began the call with a flourish of his wrist. “Speak!” Vincent watched Jacqueline’s writhing as Curt delivered news in his business-like tone. “It pains me,” Vincent replied after a moment, “when the most polite of reasonable requests receives not even the courtesy of a reply.”
Marcella emerged from the bathroom, her hair tidy once more after the earlier disarray, and wearing what had been a much-needed change of dress. Glancing at Vincent, then at the arched back of Jacqueline, she smiled warmly and sat seductively on his knee.
“Curt, when you were a boy,” he paused, fixated on the show taking place on the sofa opposite. “I assume you were once a boy? When you were young, did your father teach you how to deal withdisrespect? Oh, well, I’m sorry about that, Curt. I didn’t know. Did he deserve it?”
The women on the couch played and moaned loudly. “Well, did yourmotherteach you about disrespect? She did? That’s excellent. She was a good egg, by the sounds of things.”
Marcella didn’t wait to be asked but brought out Vincent’s stiffening cock and began a warm tongue-bath. “I think your moral compass is guiding you with assurance, Curt.” Marcella’s hands joined her mouth, slipping up and down Vincent’s shaft as it grew to full hardness once more.
“Curt, my vengeful envoy, I’m going to have to call you back in just a moment,” he said, his eyes closing as Marcella sucked him at an especially pleasing angle, “Yeah, in about...” he managed not to gasp with pleasure, “ten minutes? Uh, better make that half an hour.”
Route 72
12:20 a.m.
There wasa flicker of recognition as Corbett and Hank passed through the tiny, sleeping town of Pawnee for the third time. Theirs were virtually the only headlights around, and Corbett proceeded at a measured speed, neither purposeful nor deliberately slow. He simply created a window of time and let Hank fill it with priceless information.
“So, let me imagine it in my own mind,” Corbett said, piecing together what he had learned so far. “We’ve got large and regular shipments coming into a port here in Texas somewhere, right?”
“It ain’t Houston, that’s all I know,” Hank repeated.
“OK, fine. Then, it gets transferred and brought up the coast?” Corbett wanted to confirm.
“They drop it off in the middle of nowhere, outside some national park,” said Hank. “Little boats come out to meet it, all real quick.”
“Great. Then what?”And this time, try to tell me something I don’t already know.
Hank fanned out his hands from a central point, like an explosion. “A little here, a little there, all in normal-looking vehicles.”
“Like the car you drove,” Hank added.
“Oh, now I see how Raven is driving your old Pontiac. The gang gave you your own car.”
“Yeah, a new one pretty often, too, but that didn’t matter, because they always found a way to track us.” Hank’s fist opened and closed like a beacon transmitting.
“Interesting. Where do they hide the trackers?”
“Dunno,” Hank admitted. “I tore that sucker apart, so I know it ain’t in my car. Tossed my cellphone too, got a new one, just in case, cost me damn near my last dollar. Still don’t know where it is.”
That’s OK, buddy. I sure do.“Doesn’t matter. So you’ve got a regular trip set up to Boston, did I hear that right?”
“Yeah. I did it maybe four, five times. Piece of cake. But then, on the last one, things got ugly.”
