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We’d buried the plastic barrels with ropes tied in a net around them. Once my guys found the ropes, they were able to lift it fairly easily – if you call four grown-ass men struggling to pull a 400-pound barrel out of a hole in the ground ‘fairly easily.’
One down, two more to go.
I’d told Peters I had a couple hundred pounds buried out here, but it was closer to a thousand. Didn’t want him thinking it would be more lucrative to double-cross me.
Einstein had said that a pound of meth wholesale in LA or San Francisco would go for around eight or nine grand. The deal I’d cut with Rodrigo only gave me $3000 a pound – but that meant I didn’t have to have my own distribution network, my own manpower, and best of all, I didn’t have to fuck with the Santa Muertes over territory.
So roughly three and a half million in one transaction. Not too fuckin’ shabby.
With that much dough, I could pay Peters enough to shut him the fuck up, build ten new labs, hire a shitload of help for Einstein, and live like a king until the next batch was ready.
Richards, California would be the new meth capital of the USA. Hell, maybe even the world.
If Jack Pollari and the DEA didn’t fuck with my plans first.
The DEA.
Goddamn those assholes. Of course Jack had turned traitor. I should have seen it comin’.
Oh well. I’d dealt with one DEA agent already.
I could deal with another.
139
After the whole thing went down with Jack at the Roadhouse last month and I’d tossed the bum out on his ass, there was only one thing still sticking in my craw:
What the fuck had happened to Roach?
I’d sent him to the motel to ‘question’ Fiona, and he’d said there was somebody else in the room with her.
At the time, I’d figured it was that Abrams motherfucker, her boss back in LA. That was the most logical assumption.
Or maybe it was a local PI. There were only a couple in Richards, so it’d be easy enough to check. But unless she was throwing a shit-ton of money at them, I didn’t see why any local private investigator would risk helping her. They knew better. Crossing the Midnight Riders – crossing me – was a good way to end up as coyote chow.
The night I’d sent Roach, I’d gone on and on to Jack about how maybe Fiona was a Fed – but I was totally bullshitting the entire time. It was a smokescreen to cover my real plans. I mean, no little private investigator bitch was going to be able to put the DEA or the FBI on our tails that fast. No way in hell.
Part of me thought back to a year ago, when Venus got gunned down in the alleyway.
Was I right back then? Was she talking to the DEA?
I hadn’t seen a hint of them for the last year.
Had it all been some stupid misunderstanding?
If so… oh well. Spilt milk and all that.
But what the fuck had happened to Roach?
It’s possible he’d actually tossed the room, then left and gone on a bender… but that didn’t fit. Roach wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but he knew how to follow instructions. And he was smart enough to know never, ever to fuck with me.
Did that Abrams guy kidnap Roach? Maybe kill him? What the hell was I dealing with here?
After kicking Jack out of the club, finding Roach was my first priority.
140
Isent Eyeball to Roach’s place. No dice. I had him canvas all Roach’s normal spots – Decker’s Gun and Knife shop, local dives, the other titty bars besides the Veils – but nobody’d seen him.
