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“That something you can do?”
“Yeah – yeah, no problem.”
“That something you done before?”
“Oh yeah, oh yeah,” Weasel said, in an over-the-top reassuring voice that told me the worst he’d ever done was maybe rob a liquor store.
“This is important,” I stressed. “Can you do it or not? I need to know now.”
Weasel was sweating slightly. “Like I said: no problem.”
“Alright. Here’s the guy you’re going to be taking care of. Memorize that face.” I held up my phone and showed them a picture. “Got that?”
Weasel squinted his eyes at the photo. “Yeah. What’d this guy do?”
“He raped a ten-year-old girl.”
Total bullshit, but Weasel bought it hook, line, and sinker.
“Holy shit,” Weasel murmured. Jesus grunted disapprovingly, as any good messiah would. The energy at the table shifted, and I could tell they were way more onboard than a few seconds ago.
“Yeah,” I said. “So you can see why he’s got to go down.”
“Fuck yeah. Motherfuckin’ degenerate,” Weasel said. “But… why don’t you guys take care of him? I mean – that’s what you do, right?”
I smiled tightly. “There’s some politics involved. I can’t go into it, but let’s just say he has friends in high places. Which is why I’m going to need you two to wear ski masks and these when you do it.”
I used my foot to slide the canvas bag I’d gotten from Rodrigo under the table.
Weasel picked it up, glanced inside, and immediately went white. “Oh, fuck…”
Jesus scrunched up his face. “Whut?” he grunted, the first word I’d heard him mutter. When he saw what was in the bag, Jesus jerked away like somebody’d just offered him a blowjob from a rattlesnake.
Weasel shook his head. “Dude, I don’t know about this…”
“I can’t have anybody know that this hit came from within the Riders. You understand.”
“Yeah, but… the fuckin’ Santa Muertes?” he whimpered.
Okay, so he wasn’t that stupid.
“It’s all been squared away,” I said. “I actually got that from the Santa Muertes. Not that you’re ever going to repeat that piece of information again, ever, ‘cause you’re not.”
“Why the fuck are the Santa Muertes giving you their leathers, man?” Weasel asked. He was definitely spooked.
“Because the ten-year-old was the cousin of one of their members.”
I could see the rusty gears turning inside his brain as Weasel tried to puzzle it out. “But… then why aren’t the Santa Muertes popping this guy?”
I was losing patience. “I told you: politics. It’ll start a war if they do, and it’ll start an internal war if we do it. I’m trying to split the balance and keep the peace.”
“But… why don’t we just wear regular jackets, then?”
I leaned forward slightly. “Gene didn’t tell me you asked so many questions.”
“Gene didn’t tell me I was gonna hafta impersonate a fuckin’ Santa Muerte, either.”
“If you don’t want the gig – ”
