chapter 85
TAM ARRIVED AT his gated hideout in Bayou La Batre, Alabama, exhausted from the stress of being hunted. Alexa had attempted to call him several times, but he didn’t trust her any longer. In his gut, he had known that the trip to Tupelo would be a mistake, but because Alexa was so crazy about Rascal Flatts and this was going to be her best bet to meet the band, he gave in. He should have trusted his instincts. He didn’t believe she had knowingly participated in the sting, but she was now a substantial liability. Tam spread the word within his organization that no one was to have any form of communication with her. No text. No e-mail. No phone calls. Nothing. She’s on her own, at least until I can order a hit on her. It will have to be up close and personal, preferably to appear natural—possibly a slip and fall in a hotel shower. I can’t risk what she might divulge under pressure.
Moon Pie had been picked up for questioning, since he was in possession of the Mercedes’s ignition key and because of his now clearly established association with an alleged drug dealer and escaped prisoner. Through the jailhouse grapevine, Tam had learned already that Moon Pie had kept his mouth shut about even knowing Tam. He realized that he had probably lost the Benz but wrote it off as a cost of doing business, albeit a very expensive one. Tam had never been a big fan of Moon Pie because he seemed to fly by the seat of his pants, and he used him for the one trade route only because he didn’t have an alternative. Although Moon Pie had come through for Tam today, he had also lost the client’s money. This had to be resolved before he would continue using Moon Pie. Tam respected loyalty, but he also demanded dependability. About the only thing that didn’t go to shit this weekend is that I still got my load of drugs, Tam thought.
Tam needed to relax, to think through his next moves, but first, he had one piece of important unfinished business. He placed a hand on a black monitor outside a heavy metal door. Once the pad read his palm print, the door unlocked with a click and a hissing sound. Tam walked into the vault room, put on a pair of white cotton gloves, opened one of several large safes, and withdrew four stacks of bundled hundred-dollar bills. He closed and locked the safe and then walked over to a metal table in the center of the room. He removed an appropriately sized Tiffany box from the shelf under the table, placed the cash inside the box, and taped it closed.
After closing and locking the vault-room door, he called one of his most trusted associates. When he arrived, Tam gave him the box and a slip of paper with the name and address of a Vietnamese family in Biloxi.
Tam handed him the box and instructed, “Take this box and give it to the family tonight. Do not say anything else. Do not tell them where it came from.”
The courier nodded his understanding and bowed slightly, leaving Tam alone.
Tam removed the gloves as he walked over to a bottle of Macallan eighteen-year-old single malt sitting on the bar.