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CHAPTERTHREE
Apprehension grips me as I get off my bike at the very fancy restaurant near the outskirts of town. This isn’t a place I would ever be caught dead. I can tell the other patrons in the area feel the same way I do. I catch a few wary stares as I pull off my helmet and walk toward the restaurant. It’s one of those joints where the entire restaurant is hidden by a wall so the only person you see when you enter is the host. He has a list, of course.
“You must be Mr. Abner,” the man says with a heavy French accent, though I suspect he’s never set foot out of Louisiana. He looks me up and down as if I’ve somehow brought down the whole value of the restaurant by entering. Never mind that I was invited personally. Summoned, more like.
“Nicholas is fine,” I say through gritted teeth.
Usually, I don’t like to use my real name. The only person who ever uses it is my beautiful wife, Tori. Out of her mouth, it sounds like an incantation. But whoever invited me here addressed me by my full name, so it’s best to see who they are and what they want from me.
The host escorts me through a door and into the crowded restaurant. It’s dim inside. I immediately know this is the kind of place where big deals go down. Half of the decisions about the fate of New Orleans are probably made in this room on a daily basis. Dozens of eyes stare on me as I’m led to the back of the room to a private booth.
The message in their eyes is clear. I don’t see them, and they don’t see me. My entrance into this restaurant was the equivalent of signing a non-disclosure agreement. If word gets out that I saw the chief of police having dinner with the richest club owner in the city, people might speculate. The men in here are practiced at keeping each other’s secrets. I better quickly learn to do the same.
“If it isn’t the famous leader of the Ruthless Kings,” a man stands up and greets as I approach. His voice is at a normal volume, but in this small room, it’s like he’s shouting it from a rooftop. I turn to glare at the patrons, reminding them of our unspoken agreement.
“Davis Thompson,” I say flatly, sitting down across from him at the booth. “I have to admit, of all the people I imagined had summoned me, you were not high on the list.”
The man chuckles and swishes a dark red wine around in his glass. Davis Thompson is a notorious journalist in the city, best known for his shady methods of getting a story. He’s a “Gotcha” journalist at best and a ruthless shark at worst. I’m beyond intrigued by his invitation to have dinner with him.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Nicholas. You’re a legend in my world,” he says with a twisted smile.
I think back to his articles I’ve used as packing material and remember he’s covered a few of our take downs over the years. Most of the time, we’ve gotten no acknowledgment in the press for the part we played in those situations. It’s a hazard of the occupation. No one wants a motorcycle gang to be the hero of a story.
“I wish I could say the same,” I quip, not wanting to betray how uncomfortable I suddenly feel. I can’t imagine what the man wants. Whatever it is, it won’t be good. He’ll want a scoop for a story or information that I’m not at liberty to give. Knowing him, he’ll find a way to twist whatever I do or don’t say into the story he needs.
“I understand your hesitation,” he answers with a smile. “I’ve had to do this all very cloak and dagger, which isn’t my usual style. But I have a proposition for you. This isn’t a conversation we could have over the phone.”
“And what conversation is that?” I ask curiously.
“The one about me running for mayor,” he says quietly, leaning over the table so he can’t be overheard. “I officially announce my candidacy on Monday.”
“Congratulations, I guess,” I tell him, unsure what that has to do with me.
“The thing is, Mayor Prudent is well beloved in this town. He’s got a high approval rating, and I need a guaranteed way to take him down.”
“Knocking off politicians isn’t in my skill set,” I deadpan, offended that’s what he thinks of my brotherhood. We have a strong sense of justice that doesn’t include murder, unless absolutely necessary.
Davis laughs a loud, cheerful laugh that makes me like him even less, if that’s possible. Something about him rubs me the wrong way, though I can’t quite put my finger on it.
“No, no, no,” he says through his laughter. “I would never suggest such a thing. Could you imagine? That wouldn’t only end my political career before it begins. It would ruin the rest of my life. I don’t need anything violent. I need help finding information on him that could possibly paint him in a less than favorable light.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you a journalist?” His request takes me by surprise. Why would a man in his position and with his skillset need me to dig up information?
“I’m a great writer, I’ll admit,” Davis says with a small chuckle. “I know how to take information and weave it into a compelling web of prose. When it comes to the actual research, I prefer to outsource the work.”
Somehow, this doesn’t surprise me. Davis strikes me as someone who coasts by on good looks and charm. It would be too much to ask that he do any real work to get by. He probably grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth, bossing people around his whole life.
“While this certainly is an interesting offer, you surely must have other people you could turn to. How hard is it to dig up information on a politician’s past?”
Davis taps on the table twice. A waiter appears out of nowhere, clearly summoned. He takes our orders, but I’ve lost my appetite. I’ve been in this situation before, on the cusp of helping a local official. Several years have passed since I worked with the former chief of police to stop child trafficking into the New Orleans gangs. I let him send an undercover cop into my home, and he ended up being the perpetrator.
This situation is different. Back then, I had a much larger stake in what was happening in the community. My son, Nicky, was in preschool at the time. We’d considered sending him to the very preschool a gang shooting took place. In desperation, I thought with my emotions instead of with my head. If I’d been thinking more clearly, maybe I would have seen who Damien, the undercover cop, was.
People had been hurt. I still can’t be around Hex and Juliana’s adopted daughter, Charlie, without thinking about what she went through due to my mistake. She and Graveyard’s wife, Meredith, were kidnapped by Damien. Charlie was forced to use her gift to bring Graveyard back from the brink of death. All because I wasn’t thinking with my head.
I’ve grown as a leader since then. I hadn’t been in charge of the Ruthless Kings for long when I made that mistake. The experience has helped me to learn and adapt, and I have a pretty good idea of who Davis Thompson is. He’s an enthusiastic upstart who thinks New Orleans needs a breath of fresh air. He has money and charm, but no substance underneath. Still, he’s paying for dinner. I’ll probably never have the opportunity to eat at a place like this again.
We order our food and wait. He prattles on about the things he plans to do as mayor. He reminds me of the preppy boys in my boarding school gunning to be prefect. They said the right things, pinning down the problems they saw with the school. Once they were given power, it was clear that they only had one aim. They didn’t want to fix anything, they only wanted the title and the prestige.
