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Marcella, lying naked on the bed behind him, sat up and handed him the phone. Vincent looked at the ID and smiled. It was the call he had been waiting for. “Give me the good news, Armando,” he said as he answered.
“We have him, sir.”
Vincent smiled and did another line. “You have no idea how exultant that makes me, Armando.”
“Do you want us to kill him, sir?”
“No, Armando. I desire to do that myself. I think he and I have a lot to talk about first. Where do you have him?”
“He’s in the car with me… Well, not with me, sir. He’s in the trunk. I caught him getting off a bus in Chicago. You were right, as usual, Boss. He went home to roost.”
“So you’re still in Illinois?” Vincent asked as he held the back of Marcella’s head while she took her turn at the magic dust on the mirror.
“Yes, sir,” Armando replied. “If I start back now, we should be there in sixteen to eighteen hours.”
“I’ll be in ecstatic anticipation of your arrival.” Vincent hung up the phone, licked the small mirror in front of him, and kissed Marcella. He was a happy man. He was going to be back on top of the world, as he once was, and he had met the woman that he would allow to sit on the throne next to him. He had visited the bakery again today. He was getting addicted to more than just the bear claws.
“We need to celebrate,” he told Marcella.
Marcella smiled and said, “What can I do for you, Señor?”
Vincent pulled his wallet out of his pocket and took out a business card. “Escort Services” was embossed in gold with a phone number underneath it. He couldn’t stop thinking about the auburn-haired woman at the bakery. “Call and get me a redhead. Tell them to make sure she’s a real redhead.”
Marcella was always disappointed when he needed someone besides her to satisfy his needs, but he knew she understood. She had to. He was a great man, and great men had great needs. She took the card and dialed the number.
While she spoke to the person on the other end, Vincent started to tamp out two more lines on the mirror, but stopped. Instead, he sprinkled a small amount on one of Marcella’s nipples and licked it off. She giggled as she tried to give the person on the phone the credit card number they were using, and she had to start over. He poured some onto the other nipple, and as she was wrapping up the conversation, she moaned loudly as he sucked it off. She ended the call just as he dropped his pants and drew a line on his cock and said, “This one’s for you.”
San Antonio, Texas
Bexar County Jail
Monday Morning
Corbett hadn’t sleptall night. He refused to. He still didn’t know what had gone wrong with Freeman. If these guys knew he was a cop, his cellmate would slit his throat without hesitation. He wanted to stay awake, but the damned blue contact lenses were irritating his eyes, making it even harder for him to keep them open. They were dry, and he didn’t have any fluid to moisten them. He splashed water in them often, which at least helped him stay awake. He hadn’t slept the night before, either. He was running on adrenaline at this point, and when breakfast was served, he gulped the bad coffee down quickly.
Things had been going well with his cellie, though. The general had asked him a lot of questions, and using the cover he had created to infiltrate the Sons of Satan motorcycle gang recently, he had answered them all appropriately. At least he assumed he had. The older man had yet to slit his throat, so that was a good sign.
They had also talked a lot about their bikes. The man told Corbett that he owned a motorcycle shop, and tinkering with his bike was like therapy for him. Corbett told him about his Harley, Stella, whom he had spent the past five years restoring. They both rode soft tail Harleys, and Ayden was impressed that such a young guy knew so much about bikes that had been made in the sixties and seventies before he was even born. Corbett told him his brother had left Stella to him when he died. He didn’t tell him the truth about how he had died, however.
“Corbett!” he heard after breakfast had been served. “After you eat, get your jumpsuit on. You’ve got court.”
Corbett knew that he didn’t have court. It was Gomez. He had told Corbett if he needed to talk to him, or get him out of there, that was how he would do it.
His cellmate looked up from his breakfast and said, “What are they charging you with?”
“Possession of a controlled substance with the intent to sell, and possession of an unregistered firearm,” Corbett told him.
“You got a lawyer?” Ayden asked.
Corbett had told Ayden in one of their talks the day before that he had just got in from NM. He used the same story he had for the bike gang he had infiltrated: “I’m just in from out of state. I’ve been in New Mexico meeting up with a couple of other Nomads out there… arranging some business deals.”
In response to Ayden’s question about the lawyer, he said, “I got one out in NM. I haven’t found one here yet. I got pulled coming back into town by an overzealous pig who decided to tear my bike and my pack apart because he didn’t like my tattoos.”
“When you get in there, tell the judge you want the blonde lady. There are only two white ones, her and a fat guy. Fat guy doesn’t give a shit. The broad, she’ll fight for you like you’re a decent citizen. Her name is Ward. If she tries to get out of it, just tell her Ayden sent you,” he told him with a laugh.
Corbett had to ask... “She get anything back in return from the Brotherhood?”
Ayden shrugged. “Not that I know of. Maybe she just believes in us.”
