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That hypocritical, motherfuckering pussy – selling out to the goddamn DEA –
“And what’s your take on all this?” I asked.
She laughed. “To tell the truth, I think Jack’s about the losingest horse I could back. I don’t trust him to wipe the shit off his ass, much less take down you and the Santa Muertes. Be that as it may, the longest bets do have the highest payoffs.”
“…but?”
“But I’d be willing to trade a 50-to-1 longshot for a sure fuckin’ thing.”
“Like?”
“Talk it out with the Santa Muertes. Get me a slice of California – the Arizona border all the way to Riverside. Say, everything bordered by the 15 and the 40, ‘cept San Diego.”
Riverside was a city an hour east of LA. The 15 and the 40 were Interstates. Altogether, she was talking about 40,000 square miles. “That’s a shit-ton of territory.”
“Yeah, but San Diego and LA are the diamonds. I’m only askin’ for rhinestones, and you know it.”
“Well, unfortunately, I don’t have any dealings with the Santa Muertes,” I lied through my teeth.
Sloane then proceeded to knock out my teeth.
“Well then how come they gave you those jackets for that fake-ass rip-and-run you organized three weeks back?” she asked with a coquettish smile.
My guts went cold. “Who told you that?”
“Jack. Seems he and that PI slut figured it out.”
God DAMN it.
Jack wasn’t dangerous enough to actually worry me… but it might be a good idea not to underestimate him.
So I tested the waters on negotiations. “Unfortunately, I don’t think the Santa Muertes are gonna give you shit, Sloane.”
“Tell them it’d be in the best of both of your interests if they give me somethin’. Otherwise I’m gonna have to put my money on the underdog.”
I glared at her. “You walk in here and threaten me?”
“I walked in here to make a deal, Lou,” she snapped. “If you can’t make that happen, why don’t you tell me who I should talk to instead of you, and stop wastin’ my fuckin’ time.”
I grinned. I couldn’t help myself.
What a woman.
“Jack doesn’t know what he gave up when you guys split.”
“Yeah, well, I never did like that ‘for poorer’ crap they make you say when you get married. It was supposed to be ‘for richer’ all the way.”
“And taking the Riders legit wasn’t ‘for richer.’”
“Damn skippy.”
“What’s Jack planning?”
She shrugged. “I have no goddamn idea.”
“You want me to sell this to the Santa Muertes, you gotta do better than that.”
“He wouldn’t tell me – said he needed the Bastards’ ironclad guarantee before he spilled the beans. All I know is it’s supposed to go down seven days from now.”
