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Mamba helped Samson hire the bouncers for Club Wicked. Samson liked his ideas, so a few months ago he made him head of security.
“Won’t help.”
Samson pushed away from his chair, rounded the desk and motioned to the leather couch against the opposite wall while Samson sunk into the matching leather chair.
Samson shot him a hard look. “You hittin’ the blow again?”
“Fuck, no.” Mamba jerked his head from side to side. “Can’t believe you even said that shit to me.”
“Hey, I hadda ask, especially when you’re doin’ shit even I think is sketchy.” Samson threw up his hands. “Does Cobra know you’ve been struggling?”
“Nah, and that’s the way we’re keeping it. Him and me just got straight after all the bullshit with the Marauders and I don’t want him having anymore doubts.
“And I don’t want him up my ass when he finds out you’re in debt up to your eyeballs and I didn’t tell him.”
“The connection is based in Tijuana, and the deal I’m working on should get me outta the hole. Their contact called me after the party. I’m meeting them tonight in the Golden Nugget garage.”
When an arms deal went bad last year Mamba and Rattler settled the score. Marita, the cartel’s connection in Tijuana, liked the way Mamba handled himself and wanted to recruit him. Of course, Mamba turned her down, but she wasn’t a woman who gave up easily. Over the last months her offers became more lucrative making it hard for Mamba to ignore.
Two weeks ago, she showed up at Club Wicked on the same night Mamba was working security—coincidence, doubtful—Marita didn’t do anything on the fly.
Silence stretched between Samson and Mamba until Samson pushed out of his chair. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I’m telling you all this incase I mysteriously disappear after tonight.” Mamba twisted his lips to sell the sarcasm, but he did have his doubts how the meet would go down.
Samson smirked then his face flattened. “Let me give you a loan.”
“And for the hundredth time, shut the fuck up with that shit. I’m not taking your money.”
“But you’ll do some sideways meet at the Golden Nugget garage.” Samson drew in a breath. “One thing I gotta agree with Cobra—you’re stubborn as shit and just as thick headed.”
“Fuck you too.” Samson threw his muscled arm around Samson’s shoulder and fake punched him.
The two men did the man hug back slap thing and Mamba headed for the door, then turned back. “Thanks.”
* * *
Later that night,after Mandy was asleep, Mamba backed his bike out of the garage and coasted down the driveway. He didn’t rev the throttle until he hit the street so as not to wake Mandy. The last thing he wanted was to wake her and make her worry about where he was going in the middle of the night. She’d already questioned him about taking on the extra nights at Club Wicked, and he didn’t need her adding this to her list of unanswered questions.
If this job was everything Marita promised he should be over the hump and out of debt without Mandy knowing anything about their financial difficulties. Mamba didn’t like taking a job without Cobra knowing about it, but if it got him out of the hole it was worth it.
What he told Samson earlier was only half true. Sure, he loved giving Mandy the good life, and he was glad he could lighten her mother’s burden and help take care of Achilles, but it was more. When he looked at his beautiful home, and his resort worthy backyard, a sense of accomplishment washed over him.
When he’d first met Cobra years ago, Mamba remembered him asking what he did with all the money he won from his fights. At the time, Mamba threw out a flip answer about spending it on partying and getting laid, but Cobra had been right. Mamba pissed away his money with nothing to show for it, and he refused to go down that hole again. He wanted something to stand for all his training and hard work. He liked walking into his gleaming kitchen decked out with granite countertops and top line appliances. It proved to him what he did mattered, and for once his life mattered. Might’ve been fucked up but truth, he needed the big house and all the fancy trappings way more than Mandy.
Mamba rolled into the second-floor garage of the Golden Nugget, cut his engine and parked his bike. He scoped out the elevator and waited in the empty garage. His feet shifted and his gut twitched. Much the same feeling he’d get right before taking a hit of meth or coke. The same nervous anticipation with a shudder of excitement.
The heavy metal door of the stairwell creaked open and a massive guy emerged. He made eye contact, but Mamba kept his game face firmly intact. The reason for this meet was so the Tijuana crew could offer him a job and for him to accept it. Simple, except in the outlaw world nothing was simple, and everything came down to money.
The two men sized each other up, but since he was here to present the deal, Mamba stayed silent.
“I understand you need money.”
Strange opening line but Mamba would play along.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Another awkward silence broken by the elevator doors whooshing open. The sudden sound and movement had Mamba reaching to the .38 at the small of his back.
