“Uh-huh.” There’s no other reason for me to be here. Charlie makes nice, pretends that we’re family, but the truth of the matter is that I’m his dark and sometimes slightly evil secret weapon. Would he have kept me around if I had been more business minded, utilized me to launder his money or work his contacts like he said he would have last time we talked? Maybe. But even I know I’m more useful to him as a savage monster.
“It’s Rick.” He collects a razor blade from the wooden desktop and starts cutting another bump of coke for himself. The man is a professional, and makes short work of it. Surprised the fucker has any septum left. Once he’s done, he points the sharp edge of the razor at me, leaning across the desk. “The little shit’s been selling to the bike gangs.”
Selling to the bike gangs? I can’t help but laugh at that. “His father’s president of an MC. What did you expect? I told you your stock would end up in their warehouses if you let Rick anywhere near it.”
“Drugs, guns—I don’t give a shit about that.” He waves his hand in the air. “He can sell those to whoever the fuck he wants to.”
“Then what the hell is he selling?”
Charlie sits back in his chair, his eyes still wider than they have any right to be. He’s gripped by a level-ten paranoia; the coke always does this to him. “Information, Zeth.” He still hasn’t blinked. “Information! The bastard’s been selling information to some small charter in Southern California, some nobody fucking gang that no one cares about. Telling them what we got in our warehouses. When we receive shipments. Valuable information, Zeth.”
“And have the warehouses been hit?”
Charlie shakes his head rapidly. “That’s just it. Not a peep.”
I’m probably risking my balls by saying this but the question has to be asked. “Then are you sure the kid’s not just talking to family? You know how it goes. One charter and the next, they’re all interrelated. All messed up in each other’s business, screwing each other’s women.”
“No! I heard ’im. I heard ’im telling them about the girls from the shipping container. This ain’t no family matter. This is about cold, hard cash.”
If Charlie wants to ingratiate me to his cause, then he probably shouldn’t have brought up that godforsaken shipping container. It’s been a sore point between us since I found out the old man was responsible for moving young girls in the skin trade. I still haven’t decided if I can overlook it yet without taking some sort of action. The old man probably wouldn’t have mentioned it if he wasn’t so messed up.
“How did you hear him?”
“On his phone, fuckhead. You think any of my staff ain’t monitored? I didn’t come down in the last shower. I gotta make sure my interests are protected.”
On his phone? What the hell does that mean? A listening device? A bug in Rick’s phone? And not only in Rick’s phone. Charlie just said it himself: you think any of my staff aren’t monitored?
Any.
My blood is suddenly running hot. I get that hazy blur to my vision that never bodes well—I’m going to flip if he has done what I think he’s done. “You got a bug on my phone, Charlie?” I ask him quietly. Carefully. The old man has a temper like a lion, but then so do I. I don’t want to set him off, especially in the state he’s in, without knowing the facts, but it’s almost fucking impossible to keep myself in check. Charlie’s angry expression fades a little, like he’s suddenly realized what he just told me. Like he’s just realized what a major fuckup admitting something like that to me would be.
“No, no, not you. Of course not you. You’re family, ain’t you.” There we go again with the family bullshit. As if to prove the point, Charlie offers me up a small white bump of the coke still scattered all over his desk. “I need you to watch Rick, okay? He’s supposed to meet them tomorrow night down on the wharf. They’re exchanging something. I wanna know what. I want you to take back whatever it is, and then I want you to kill that little shit. You ’ear me?”
I wave off the coke, shaking my head. I’m not buying his vague dismissal of my question; if anything it’s confirmed the worst. Motherfucker. The girls were bad enough, but if he has been spying on me… I try to loosen the muscles in my body. Loosen them enough so that I don’t shake with the all-powerful rage building inside me. “What time’s the meet?” I grind out.