Evan Arden 05 Irrevocable (7 page)

“Which guys?” I ask.

“Can’t tell for sure.”  Jonathan pulls up the surveillance on his laptop.  “White dudes, I can say that.  Tried enhancing the picture, but the camera is too far away.”

The picture is grainy and taken from a distance.  I can make out two men wearing the kind of grey-blue overalls guys in mechanic shops wear.  One of them strikes me as familiar but only slightly.  I don’t think I actually know him, but maybe I should.  I can’t put my finger on it.

“So Marcello sold some of them off early,” Paulie says.  “He probably made a deal with someone before he even got the weapons—maybe in exchange for info on them.”

He’s really getting on my nerves.  He’s also probably right.

“I want to know who Marcello met.”  I tap at the screen.  “White or not, they could still be southern gangs.”

“We have no more worries from the gangs in the south,” Paulie says confidently.

“Yeah,” I say as I lean back against the wall and cross my arms, “thanks so much for taking care of that, Paulie.”

Jonathan laughs, and Paulie glares at me.  He starts to open his mouth but doesn’t get the chance to speak.

“Enough.”  Rinaldo walks in and silences us all with a gesture.  Lucia follows him into the room and sits on the couch.  “Get me up to speed.”

Beni takes it upon himself to tell Rinaldo everything we’ve learned, and I let him.  He seems to like playing top dog though he doesn’t seem capable of actually figuring anything out for himself.  He and Lucia exchange a few glances, but she says nothing.

Once Rinaldo has all the information, he turns back to me.

“Is there anyone left of Marcello’s group?”

“Just one,” I tell him.  “Goes by Harpy.”

“James Hartland,” Jonathan says as he clicks around on his laptop.  “He was one of Marcello’s dealers.”

“Talk to him,” Rinaldo says to me.

“Not going to be possible,” Jonathan says.  “Looks like he got checked into the hospital.  The dude’s in a coma.”

Rinaldo glares at me, and I shrug.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Other options?”

“Watch for sales on the street.”

Paulie’s suggestion is beyond useless.

“There won’t be any.”  I push off the wall and walk up next to Rinaldo.  “We should be checking the police reports and hospitals for gunshot victims.  Look for those who’ve been hit with Rugers.”

“I can do that,” Jonathan says.  “It will take a while though.”

“Focus outside the south.”  Rinaldo taps his fingers on the desk.  “Especially anything happening around the Russians.”

“You got it.”

The group begins to disperse as Rinaldo sits at his desk and looks over more of Becca’s paperwork.  Beni trails behind, waiting for Lucia to say goodbye to her father before following her out of the office.

“Anything else, sir?”  We’re the last ones in the room, and Rinaldo is looking a little nervous.

I can’t pinpoint why.  Yes, there are missing guns but not that many.  We’ve had bigger losses in the past, and they didn’t put him on edge this much.

“No, you’re good to go.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

He looks up at me and sighs.

“I’m sure, son.  See what you and Jonathan can track down.”

“Will do, sir.”

As I am about to leave, Felisa walks in the door.  I watch as her eyes widen a bit when she sees me.  She’s not expecting anyone else to be there, and she hesitates before moving the rest of the way inside.

“Come on in,” Rinaldo says.  “We’re done here.  Evan, contact me later.”

“Yes, sir.”  I walk out into the hallway, but don’t quite leave.  The door is only partway shut, and I can hear them talking inside.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt,” Felisa says.

“Not at all,” Rinaldo replies.  There’s a pause in the conversation, and I’m fairly sure their greeting has become more intimate.  “I’m worried about him.”

“You worry about him a lot, darling.”

Darling.
  I feel a little nauseated.

“He’s very important to me, Felisa.  He is as much a part of my family and this organization as anyone.  In some ways, he’s the strongest and most suited to come after me, but I don’t know…”

“You’re wondering if he’s stable enough.”

“As long as he’s working, he is,” Rinaldo says.  “It’s when he’s distracted from his purpose—that’s when he’s the most dangerous.”

“Do you think he’d hurt you?”

“Me?  Oh no, Evan would never hurt me.  I’m more concerned he’ll hurt himself.”

“Maybe you should have someone watch him,” Felisa says.

“He would notice,” Rinaldo replies.  “It would probably just get whoever was following him killed.”

“Is he really that quick to respond that way?”

“It’s the only way he knows how to respond.  Now, enough of that—I have something for you.”

I hear Rinaldo’s desk drawer open and Felisa gasp.

“Oh, Naldo!”  I tense at her use of his nickname.  I’ve never heard anyone call him that but Lele.  “It’s so beautiful!”

“Well, if you want to learn to play tennis, you ought to have the right kind of bracelet!”  He laughs.  “Shall we head to the court?”

Not wanting to be spotted, I head down the hallway and quietly open the door to the stairwell.  Once outside, I lean against the Camaro and smoke a cigarette, waiting to see if they’ll come down together.  Only a few minutes pass before they exit the building, and Rinaldo has his arm around her.  She’s smiling up at him, and he’s beaming back at her.  The tennis bracelet on her wrist sparkles in the sunlight.  Though I’m standing in plain sight, they don’t look in my direction as they get into his car and head off.

I’m tempted to follow.

Ralph appears beside me, shaking his head.

“Oh yeah?  Why not?”  I glare at him.

“Because you’re pissed off, and you’ll do something stupid.”

I shove the cigarette between my lips and inhale deeply, biting down on the butt.  I finish it and throw it to the ground before getting into the Camaro and slamming the door shut.

I don’t like it.  I don’t like it at all, but I’ll refrain from doing anything about it.

Yet.

I head off to locate Jonathan.

I really need to figure out how to handle this.

There’s nothing like a good bar fight to relieve tension.

At least, that’s what Jonathan often says.

Sweetwater has always been my least favorite place to hang out, but I seem to end up here all the time anyway.  A typical sports bar, it’s filled with large-screen televisions and features a college-aged, male crowd with an extra boost of testosterone.  It’s a close walk back to my apartment, so it has that going for it.  Jonathan lives nearby as well, and he’s pretty friendly with the bar staff.  I can’t stand the bartender, and I’m pretty sure he knows it.  He always takes forever to bring me a damn drink.

It’s a pretty young crowd tonight, and the bartender is checking a lot of IDs.  Chicks are buying lemon drop shots and guys are nursing beers, hoping to stay just a little more sober than the women they surround.  Half of the guys are watching a basketball game on the big screen televisions, hooting and hollering every time a basket is scored, which is more than a little annoying.

I return with two bottles of domestic beer to the table Jonathan has procured.  Bottled beer is not my preference, but they are easier to obtain than a draft, and I’m not about to wait for the asshole bartender to actually draw the good stuff.  Jonathan always starts the night with a big glass of chocolate milk, but he had already bought a carton and finished it while we were walking to Sweetwater.

“That chick at the bar is checking you out,” Jonathan says.

“Which one?”

“The blonde.”

I glance over quickly, determine which one he’s talking about, and then look down.

“Not my type.”

“Oh yeah?”  Jonathan elbows me.  “What is your type?”

“The type that wants my cash, not my phone number.”

“Ha!  That’s custom.”  He keeps laughing as he chugs half the beer.  Looking up at the closest television, he makes some comment about the teams that are playing, but I don’t care and barely listen.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

There’s a group of four guys at the table behind us.  At first, I think they are big basketball fans, but their shouts don’t correspond with plays from the game.  I glance over my shoulder.  They all have some degree of facial hair and are dressed in decent clothes.  They’re closer to my age than that of the student population, and I get a bit of a yuppie vibe from them.  The loudest one in the group has a scraggly beard and wears a jacket.  He looks like a college professor right out of the seventies.

When I listen more closely, the conversation is political in nature.  I quickly tune it out.

“I still think you should tap that,” Jonathan says as he points the top of his beer toward the blonde at the bar.  “Hell, give her my number when you’re done.  I don’t mind.”

“You into sloppy seconds now?”

“Dude, I haven’t gotten laid in a month.  I’d take anything about now.  I’ve been spendin’ my nights doin’ nothin’ but diggin’ into the past of that guy Rinaldo has guarding him now.”

“Paulie?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s up with him?”  I lean back in the seat and put my feet up on the chair opposite me.  “I thought he was already vetted.”

“He was,” Jonathan says. “Becca checked both him and Cody out, but after that shit with Marcello’s gang, I’m lookin’ a little closer.”

“Rinaldo doesn’t trust them?”

“Just bein’ cautious.  I haven’t found anything.”

I think about it for a while, and I’m concerned about how many people in Rinaldo’s organization I don’t know.  I used to know everyone quite well.  Maybe I need to do some of my own investigating if Rinaldo is nervous.  Obviously, someone gave Marcello information about the shipment, and someone still has a collection of our guns.

“How did the South Side gangs manage to get so bold?” I ask.

“Gradually,” Jonathan says.

“Beni thinks it’s because I wasn’t around.”

“Nah.”  Jonathan shakes his head.  “Somethin’ else.”

“Agreed.  Someone has to be working with them, but who?”

“Not the Russians.  They’ve been hitting them harder than us, goin’ after their drugs.”

“Has to be someone inside.”  I make the comment more to myself than to Jonathan, but he still perks up.

“How you figure?”

“Someone is skimming,” I tell him.  “Rinaldo asked me to look into it.  If someone is skimming, and someone is also tipping off the gangs about our business, it has to be the same person.”

“Makes sense.”

“Also explains why they’d go straight for us,” I say.  “If they have someone on the inside, they get that invincible feeling.”

“I think you fixed that.”

“For now, maybe.  It didn’t get all our merchandise returned.”

We drop the business talk in public, finish our drinks, and decide to get another round.  I refuse to deal with the bartender again, so Jonathan goes up to get fresh ones.  I stare at the television screen just long enough to know that Ohio State is playing Wichita and that Ohio is up three points.

“I told the blonde you were shy.” Jonathan makes his announcement as he drops back down in his seat.  “I bet she comes over here after another shot or two.”

“Great.”  I don’t hide my sarcasm.

The game is interrupted by a brief news report of military activity in the Middle East.  The image of a reporter standing near a group of tan buildings surrounded by sand appears on the screen.  I grip my beer bottle a little tighter as I hear the sound of artillery in the background.

“…don’t know why those idiots don’t just take the fuckers out and be done with it.”

The college professor guy behind Jonathan is running his mouth about the war from the other side of a dividing wall, and I’m trying hard not to listen.  I tap my fingers against the tabletop and clench my teeth until the news report ends, and we’re returned to the program already in progress.

“If our military had any idea what they were doing…”

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up?” With a snarl, Jonathan suddenly turns to the guy.  “Talk about a subject where you aren’t totally ignorant—maybe jacking off to pictures of your mom.”

“Kiss my ass,” the professor replies.  He flips his middle finger at Jonathan before turning back to his friends.

Jonathan grabs his drink and takes a long draw.

“Mother jokes?”  I roll my eyes at Jonathan.  “Really?”

“First thing that came to mind.”  He slams the bottle back on the table.  “Can’t stand motherfuckers who spout shit out of their mouths without havin’ a fuckin’ clue.”

I know what he’s doing.  Jonathan has always had my back when it comes to my military past.  He knows a lot more of the details than most people.  I stay out of political discussions as much as possible.   People who haven’t been there don’t know what it’s really like, and I’m not here to educate them on the subject.

As the group behind us orders another pitcher, the professor starts going on again.  I try to ignore his words, but the more he drinks, the louder he gets.  Even the guy’s companions are fidgeting in their seats a little.

Jonathan glances at me repeatedly, and I try to ignore that as well.  He can be a bit of a hothead when it comes to certain subjects, but I’m not one for this type of confrontation.  The professor can have his misguided beliefs if he wants.

Jonathan, however, feels the need to set him straight.

“Maybe if I dropped you in the middle of all that shit, you’d get your head out of your ass!” he yells across the divider.

“It’s your kind of attitude that keeps that war alive!” the professor yells back.

“It’s dickheads like you that get their fucking faces pounded in for being stupid!”

“What makes you the fucking expert?”

They continue back and forth until I feel as if the vein in my temple is going to rupture.  I just want them both to shut the fuck up.  The two of them are shouting over the divider between the tables.  Eventually, I can’t take any more.

“Turn around.”  I meet the guy’s eyes for the first time, and he flinches.  “Go back to your drinks, and keep your opinions to yourself.”

“What do you know, asshole?”  He raises himself up in the seat some more and turns to get a better look at me.  Now that he’s standing, I realize he’s a lot bigger than I thought.  His drunken glare removes any resemblance to a professor.  He definitely has more of a tough-guy look about him when he’s standing.  One of his friends grabs him by the arm and tells him to back off, but he doesn’t move.

“I was over there for three years.”  Unlike Jonathan, I don’t raise my voice.  I just stare into the guy’s eyes.  “I guess I do know a little something.”

“Well, why the fuck didn’t you actually do something to get it over with?”

My stomach quivers.

“You don’t know shit!” Jonathan is now completely out of his seat and taking a step toward the other table.

“Sit down, Jon.”

He looks at me with fire in his eyes but ultimately complies.

“Yeah, sit down and shut up!”  The bearded guy laughs as he drops back down in his seat.

“That dickhead needs to be taught a fucking lesson.”  Jonathan picks up his beer bottle and nearly drains it.

“Undoubtedly.”

With everyone seated again, Jonathan and I finish our drinks in silence as he picks at the label on the beer bottle.  The basketball game ends, but I don’t look to see who has won.

“Sorry if I made that worse,” Jonathan suddenly says.

“You didn’t,” I tell him with a shake of my head.  “I’m good.”

He looks me over and probably knows I’m lying.

“You know I’m always one to take the moral high ground,” Jonathan says with a casual shrug.

That gets a chuckle out of me.  I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Since when?”

“I’m a gentle soul at heart,” Jonathan manages to say with a straight face, “but some people just need to be beaten like a harp seal.”

I laugh at the mental image of Jonathan holding a big club and smacking the guy right upside his scraggly beard.  I wonder if there’s enough hair to make a fur coat.

“Let it go,” I say.  “Drunk morons aren’t worth the trouble.  I got the tab.”

I toss a few bills at the bartender and tell him to keep the change.  He gives me a little salute off the brim of his baseball cap, and I tense at the gesture.  When I get back to the table, Jonathan is back at it with the asshole behind him.

“You don’t know who the fuck yer talkin’ to!” Jonathan yells.  “You need to shut that fucking trap of yours before you end up uglier than you already are!”

“Let’s get out of here,” I say.  I tap Jonathan on the shoulder to get him moving.

“Fucking punk,” Jonathan says, muttering as we start to head out.

Apparently, the guy doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.  Maybe he’s one of those people who just need to have that last word.

“Hey, GI Joe,” the asshole screams, “you’re a fucking coward!  Go crawl back into whatever hole you came from!”

I pause and turn slowly.  I feel heat on the back of my neck as if the desert sun had just reached its peak.  I can taste sand in my mouth, and I can feel the sting of boots against my ribs.

“What did you say to me?” I respond slowly.

“I said”—the guy repeats his words as he squares his shoulders and moves up closer to me—“that you’re a fucking coward.”

There is no thought to my actions.  I ball my hand into a fist and swing.  He’s expecting the blow and doesn’t go down.  He manages to hit me in the face before I jump forward and slam my forehead into his.

He’s not expecting that.

He goes down, and I’m on top of him.  Left, right, left, right.  I pound his face as he tries to kick at my sides and shove me off of him.  He’s got more weight on him than I do and eventually dislodges me.  As he stands, he connects with my mouth, and I taste blood.  I regain my footing quickly and take another swing, connecting with his gut and doubling him over.

I can hear Jonathan laughing and cheering behind me.

One of the guy’s friends grabs his arm and pulls him back.  He’s bleeding all over his shirt from a broken nose and busted lip.  His hands are shaking, and his eyes are wide.  I debate continuing the fight but decide he’s had enough of a lesson for one night.

I feel perfectly calm.

“Next time, use some manners,” I tell him.

From the corner of my eye, I see the bar’s bouncers heading in our direction and figure it’s time to slip out the back door.  Jonathan is still laughing as we quickly exit.

“You rock,” he says as we step out onto the sidewalk.  He grabs a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket and lights up.  “I love hanging with you, bro.”

“Always a barrel of laughs.”  I reach over and snag one of the smokes for myself.

Jonathan holds the lighter out for me as we walk to the corner of the street and wait for the light to change.

“You needed that, ya know,” Jonathan says.

“Did I?”  I rub some blood off my lower lip.  There isn’t much, and I barely feel any pain.