chapter 92
AFTER DRIVING BY the police station four times, the Tennessee Mexicans were convinced that the money bag was inside. The GPS tracking program installed on the laptop showed the bag’s location in the middle of the municipal police station. The Mexicans were pissed. They turned their attention to the ankle bracelet on Moon Pie.
According to the tracking program, the Chocolate City Club was their next stop. They closed the computer when they pulled through the packed parking lot of the juke joint. By the types of vehicles in the lot, they knew that they would not be welcome. Neither one wanted to go inside to look for Moon Pie, so they quickly decided to wait and follow Moon Pie to a more private location. No matter how well armed they were, this was not the place to make a scene. The Mexicans drove back to West Point and parked downtown by the granite memorial to Delta-blues legend Howlin’ Wolf.
“Why he was named Howlin’ Wolf?” Guillermo asked in broken English, shutting his car door.
“Who knows? Why would somebody be named Moon Pie? This Southern rural culture fascinates me,” Julio said, as he lit a long cigar.
“Americanos locos.”
Julio walked closer to the monument and carefully read the inscription. “Guillermo, take my picture. Señor Wolf is famous.”
Guillermo snapped a quick picture of his boss with his camera phone. He marveled at how Julio acclimated himself to the area before a confrontation. Guillermo knew this wisdom was the result of years working the streets. It provided Julio with the confidence to move slowly and precisely when the situation warranted. Julio made it a point to understand his quarry.
“What now, señor?” Guillermo asked, anxious to do something of value.
“I want to go back by the old hotel where the money bag stayed for a day and see what we can learn. We may have missed something,” Julio said, pointing with his cigar.
“Tengo hambre. ¿Desea comer?”
“We will eat soon. Paciencia,” Julio replied, checking his holstered weapon hidden under his camel-hair jacket.