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“How soon?”
“How soon can you make delivery?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Alright. Tomorrow night, eleven o’clock. You got a place?”
“Lemme get back to you on that. I’ll call you an hour before. Look… there’s one more piece of the puzzle we need to discuss.”
“Madre de Dios – ”
“Hold on, hold on.”
“Is it that fuckin’ cop?”
“No, he’s fine. I got him covered, he’ll do exactly what he’s paid to do.”
I needed to handle this exactly right. No good mentioning the DEA – that could spook Rodrigo and torpedo the whole deal. No, generalities were best in this case.
Maybe not even generalities so much as a few well-placed omissions.
“As you know, Jack Pollari’s been a thorn in my ass lately.”
Rodrigo spat on the ground. “Fuck that maricón!”
“Exactly. Well, his ex-wife, Sloane, heads the Bastards out of Phoenix. She clued me in that Jack’s trying to yank the club out from under me.”
Rodrigo jerked his head towards the barn. “He do this?”
“Yeah.”
“You ain’t exactly inspirin’ confidence as a business partner, ese.”
“Sloane’s willing to sell out Jack, and the Bastards will do backup on the deal – but in exchange, Sloane wants a cut of the Santa Muertes’ territory.”
Rodrigo laughed once, a vicious sound. “Then you can tell that puta to go fuck herself.”
“Well, what I was thinking was, we use her until the deal’s concluded – and then we off her.”
Rodrigo frowned. “Won’t the Bastards come after us?”
“Sloane’s running the whole show. If she goes, the Bastards will fold like a house of cards. Just to be safe, we’ll take out the club’s top brass, too. And once that’s done, you can pick up Arizona for yourself. Lots of new territory for you to sell all that meth comin’ your way.”
“Ahhhhh… hahaha,” he chuckled, pointing his finger at me like You sly dog, you. “I like the way you think, cabrón.”
I didn’t feel a thing about selling out Sloane. After all, if she were in the same position, she’d do the same in a heartbeat. I mean, if you’re willing to sell out a man you claimed to still love, who the fuck wouldn’t you sell out?
Plus, in a dog fight, always put your money on the bigger, meaner dog. And the Santa Muertes weren’t dogs, they were rabid wolves.
“I take it your faith is restored in your business partner, then?” I asked.
He looked down at the two bodies lying at our feet. “It is if you can handle this shit.”
“Not a problem. My guys will take care of it. Well, they might have to carve Fat Boy up into pieces, but… question is, what are you going to tell the Cartel about it?”
“That Jack Pollari and his puta of an ex-wife did it,” Rodrigo said. “I’m just gonna need their bodies afterwards… you know, to cement my promotion.”
“It’s a deal… El Presidente,” I said, and we both laughed as I shook his hand.
