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“Mamacita here didn’t like her drink. Did you, bitch?” He grins.
Nadia growls behind me. “Go to hell.”
“That one, she needs a lesson or three.” He grabs his junk. “I’d be happy to do it.”
It takes everything I have not to take him down yet.
I take in the tattoo on his arm as he does this. It’s familiar, and as I play over everyone in here, they all have gang-style ink, but they’re not all the same.
Oh, lots have the same as the tag they actually spent money on and getting it done in neon, but there are other symbols on a few of them. Which is unusual. This is a bar, but it’s what I wanted to find. Gang run, gang owned and, by the looks of it, also their club house.
“Who are you working for?” I ask.
The guy sneers. “Myself.”
“Bullshit.” I move a hand in the air. “This isn’t your club. You’re working for someone. Who?”
I’m not expecting him to tell me, but I need to think, and keep things as safe as I can for Nadia and her nephew.
Just one little thing, a slip, something to tie whatever is going on here back to home. O’Grady, girls missing, bigger and darker gang influences . . . it’s not good, and it doesn’t add up to much.
Yet.
A lot of strings, and I don’t know where they’re going. I pull the wrong one and all kind of bad shit might happen.
“See, you mentioned using Nadia here, passing her on. Sounds a lot like trafficking to me. And using kids for drugs. It’s not just the De Lucas who look unkindly on that shit. So, if you’re working for yourself, then you’re a fucking moron.”
“And you’re a De Luca out of his pond.”
I grin. “I’m an enforcer. Top enforcer. Considered family. You know exactly what that means. Anything happens to me or mine like these two and you’ll bring half the outfits down on you.”
“Not—”
“Jurisdiction? Enforcer. More leeway. So, want to talk?” I cock my head. He’s going to try and take me down soon. He’s getting twitchy, the guys around him twitchier. It’s like a meth convention without the meth.
“Not really. I’d rather see you bleed. I’m looking at prospects, me. Climbing the social ladder. Working with the real players. Not here, across the border, you know.” He offers another smile.
Yeah, like Cabeza. And one of the twitchers has Cabeza style ink. I say style, because it’s not legit. Most don’t have one, and when they do it’s small and discreet.
Twitcher Cabeza takes a swing and I shift, grabbing his arm and twisting it high behind his back, breaking one of his fingers as I do. He squeals.
Now I smile. “Not smart. Want to know what I think? I think our little punk here walked into something he shouldn’t have, and you beat him and tried to extort money.” I look at the leader. “C’mon, he’s fuckin’ sixteen. He hasn’t got that kind of money.”
He narrows his eyes and points his knife at me. “I’m gonna have fun beating the shit out of you.”
“From over there?” I twist the guys arm a little more. I could dislocate his shoulder, but I don’t. Not yet. I’m at a disadvantage with him, but he’s also perfect for throwing at a few of them, so I keep hold.
“Fuck you,” he says, puffing up.
But he makes no move toward me. Neither does his buddy, the other one I picked as a professional. Two of the gang members take a step, but they’re uncertain, which normally would be bad news for them.
Here’s what I’m thinking. With such a mixed group, these are wannabes, the guys who didn’t make it or are with small crews with no power, like, I suspect, the ones that own this place. They fucking stamp people. The guy at the door had a stamp and inkpad. No self-respecting gang does that shit.
Doesn’t make them less dangerous, just helps me sort them into groups. I’m seeing a dirty little group playing at been tough with gold tooth here as an outsider ringleader, looking to use what he can. Just like I first thought. In plain sight or looking to move up.
Fucking wannabes. Try hards. The type Lowlanders might use if they fit the bill for dirty work that’s untraceable. Like maybe trafficking?
It’s people like this that play where other gangs and outfits don’t.
