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He opened his mouth again, and I could tell he was going to keep being a little bitch about it, so I added, “But I can promise you this: it’s going to be very bad for Jack Pollari.”
Rodrigo’s eyes flashed fire, as I knew they would.
Back in the day – the good old days, when he still had a pair – Jack had done a stint in Chino for goddamn near bashing Rodrigo’s head in during a street fight. Made Rodrigo look like a bitch in front of his boys, and caused a lot of further aggravation between the Riders and the Santa Muertes. The fighting lasted for years, until we brokered a truce where the Santa Muertes got a shit-ton of our territory for their drug deals. All that bad blood had been getting in the way of business.
Apparently they’d had to put a metal plate in there to keep Rodrigo’s skull together. Needless to say, he disliked Jack even more than I did.
He spat on the ground and rattled off a bunch of vicious-sounding Spanish, followed by, “You tell that puto that I’m gonna fuckin’ cut off his dick and shove it down his throat someday.”
I smiled. “Don’t forget the huevos.”
Rodrigo rattled off something about chinga-ing somebody’s madre, then fired up his hog and rode off.
I just stood there and looked in the canvas bag again at the first piece of the puzzle.
32
The second piece of the puzzle clicked into place in a dive bar an hour east of Richards.
I was sitting in a booth when the two guys walked in. They surveyed the shadows of the bar, letting their eyes adjust, until they finally spotted me and ambled on over.
They’d never seen me before in their life, but it wasn’t exactly genius-level deduction on their part. The place was empty except for me and the bartender.
The shorter one resembled a weasel, with beady eyes and scruffy facial hair that looked more like pubes than a beard. The taller guy was acne-scarred with a receding hairline. They were both tatted up and wearing dirty jeans and rock ‘n roll t-shirts.
They’d come with middling recommendations from Gene, a pal of mine in LA.
Not too smart, but they can follow directions. And just dumb enough to do whatever the fuck you want without asking too many questions.
Exactly what I needed.
And they’re Mexican? I’d asked.
Well, strictly speaking, they’re from Bakersfield.
Fuck you, you politically correct cocksucker.
Gene laughed. I guess. One of ‘em’s Puerto Rican or some shit, I think.
Close enough. You, uh… ‘attached’ to these guys?
Nope. You lookin’ for disposable meat, Lou?
You’ll understand if I don’t answer that question. Anybody important going to be missing ‘em if they don’t come home?
Nope.
Alright, then.
I’d promised my buddy two grand for the info, and here we all were.
“You John?” the Weasel asked.
I’d told my buddy to give them a fake name… just in case.
“Yup,” I said. “Gene sent you, right?”
“Yeah,” the Weasel said as he scooted into the booth across from me, followed by Baldy. “Name’s Emilio. This here’s Jesus.”
