We parked, and the guys stood in the front of the house, gawking.
“Shit, man, look at this place.” Tank pointed to the sculpted gardens surrounding the house, and to the fountain in the front. “Imagine having this guy as your neighbor? Neighborhood association meetings, that kind of shit?”
“You can see me in a place like this, right, Blaze?” Mad Dog smiled, flashing his teeth, one gold capped. “Drinking tea with the Queen?” He pantomimed an exaggerated “tea sipping” gesture, his pinky out, and Tank laughed, his fat stomach shaking.
“Yeah Boss,” Tank said.
“Come on, you shitheads.” Being here was putting me on edge.
Security patted us down and had us surrender our weapons, unsurprisingly. A bodyguard with a stony expression guided us toward an office. “He is expecting you. You two only.” He glared at the others, and Mad Dog nodded toward them.
“Wait out here," Mad Dog said.
Guillermo greeted us, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than my ride. The far side of the room held a heavy dark desk, and shelves lined the walls, filled with books.
“Welcome,” he said. “I appreciate your coming here. I don’t get out as much lately as I used to. Security concerns.” He spoke casually, but I noticed a tremor in his hand. “Why don’t we sit?”
I looked down at the upholstered chair, then back to my dirty jeans. Whatever. I sat down. Jesus, as expensive as these things had to be, they sure didn’t make them comfortable.
“Let’s talk business.” Mad Dog was about to lay on the hard sell, I could see it in his eyes. He’d do most of the talking. I was there to back him up, because he was a good salesman when he had to be.
“Yes,” Guillermo said. “Business.” He paused. “I am in need of protection. I'm not in the habit of thinking short-term. I want a long-term relationship."
"You were working with the Furia MC," Mad Dog said.
"I'm sure you've heard the rumors about them talking with the Armenians."
"I've heard," Mad Dog said.
Guillermo shook his head. "I no longer have use of their services," he said. "The Armenians are too flashy, run by people without any sense for longevity in this business. I don’t operate that way. It attracts attention I do not want to attract. Now, this nasty business-this betrayal by the Furia, has put me in an awkward position. I've had to change shipping routes, warehouses. I have no desire to be involved in anything high-profile - gang warfare, that sort of thing." He waved dismissively, as if it were beneath him.
"Neither do we," Mad Dog said.
"When I make an alliance, hire protection, it means you are working with me exclusively."
"Absolutely," Mad Dog said. "We can offer you the full resources of the club. Whatever you need."
Mad Dog was talking, and my mind wandered as I looked over at the bookcases on the walls. Volumes lined the shelves - Greek, Roman, Asian history. I wondered if he read these or if they were just for show. He did seem well educated, the type of guy who would have read all of these books. I narrowed my eyes, trying to read some of the spines from where I sat, and Mad Dog’s voice blurred as I let my mind wander. This room reminded me of Althea.
Althea was my last foster mom, the one before I went to juvie. I reached her when I was fifteen, a few years in the system by that time - too far gone, or so I thought. She’d raised some thirty odd foster kids before me, but never lost hope-no matter what. I was running with a bad crowd then, trying to get jumped into this fucking white power gang in LA - not because I was racist but because I was white and everything fell out that way by race. I was a punk, propping myself up with aggression, attempting to maintain control, trying to get away from my life.
Althea had this huge room in her house, at least it seemed huge to me at the time. What did I know? I was a fifteen year old kid whose idea of fine living was having a kitchen with a stocked pantry. She had this library in her house, a whole room full of books inside shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. The bookshelves were filled with everything imaginable-history, art, mystery, old westerns-and she had encouraged me to read. Fill your mind with something other than the shit from the streets, she said, thrusting The Art of War into my rage-filled adolescent hands. This room was like being transported to another time and place.
“We can do that,” Mad Dog said, looking at me.
I cleared my throat, focused on the present. “Right.”
“We’ve been growing, and we’re ready to expand,” Mad Dog said.
"Do you have the capacity to deal with the kind of volume we're talking about running? I'll need warehouse coverage, protection for my trucks, interference at checkpoints. This isn't the small time meth trade anymore."
Mad Dog nodded. "We have the muscle, and we cover the mileage up and down the coast now, through the southwest. The volume will be higher, but we have the manpower."