Lawyer Trap

45





DAY EIGHT–SEPTEMBER 12

MONDAY


With his car surrounded by bikers, Draven walked through the side streets of downtown Pueblo, hugging the buildings and keeping a good lookout for alleys and doorways in case Harleys rumbled up the street.

He was six or seven blocks away when he realized he’d made a huge mistake. Because of all the frustration trying to open the goddamn tattoo woman’s safe, he’d completely forgotten to grab the logbook.

He immediately turned around and headed back.

Shit.

It would have only taken him three seconds to pick it up.

Now he had to go all the way back.

Dodge the a*shole bikers.

Risk being seen by some busybody with a cell phone.

He kicked a pop can lying on the sidewalk. It turned out to still be half full and drenched his sock with sticky syrup.

Goddamn it!

He managed to get back into the tattoo shop without incident, then stayed low and crept to the front window and looked down the street.

Oh, man!

The bikers were still there, about six or seven of them. Worse, someone was hooking the car up to a tow truck. Draven hugged the floor for ten minutes or longer and then looked out the corner of the window as the truck went by. Faded white lettering on the door said, “Bob’s Recovery and Repo Service.”

“Screw you Bob,” Draven said under his breath.

Two bikers followed the tow truck.

The remaining a*sholes split into two groups and headed off in separate directions.

No doubt to scout for Draven.

He found the logbook and checked for the name of the woman who had been in the shop the same day as him, getting the tattoo on her breast. She was Isella Ramirez. Then he shoved the book under his sweatshirt, checked the back of the building, saw no one, and left.

Two cabs sat in front of the downtown Marriott. Draven got in the front one and told the driver to take him to wherever it was that the used car lots clustered together. Five minutes later he got dropped off on Main Street, about a mile north of town. At a place called Harvey’s Quality Cars and Trucks, he bought the cheapest car on the lot—a rusty 1979 Ford Granada—under a false name for $450 cash, and then headed north on I-25.

Mia Avila was going to be sorry for sending him on this wild goose chase.

Very sorry.

On the way back, he stopped at a payphone and called Chase, the stripper. “Have you got some time for me today?”

“You’re going to give me another eight hundred, right?”

“Absolutely. That’s the deal. I have it right here in my hand.”

“Then I got all the time in the world, sweetie. I just have to get my ass to the club by seven—eight at the latest.”