“Ruben has been murdered?” Ford was doing a good job pretending it was all a surprise to him. More boots stampeded down the front walkway. In the doorway, I could see Ford hold out his hand in the “stay” position, telling Faux Pas, Knoxie, Speed, and a couple others to hold still.
A frightening click told me that someone was prepared to shoot. Abel Ochoa probably had his barrel directed at Ford’s temple. Ford slowly raised his hands, confirming my belief. “You damn well know he’s been killed, you fucking pinche guey. Que te jodan and your fucking family, Illuminati. We’ve been supplying your dispensaries with product for years and this is how you repay us?”
“I didn’t know anything about it, Abel,” said Ford, smooth as butter. “It was none of my doing. I heard some vague gossip that Ruben was dead, but that’s it.”
“It’s true,” cried Maddie. “Ford knew nothing about it.”
I guessed Abel transferred his barrel from Ford’s head to Maddie’s then. “Oh yes, my beautiful cabróna? Then who did know about it?”
“Leave her the fuck alone, Ochoa!” yelled Ford. “She knows less about it than I do!”
“We’ll fucking find out about that,” sneered Abel, and he was banging out the door with his henchmen. I glimpsed one of the captive women was a Leaves of Grass cleaning woman. The last thing I saw was someone reach out and whip the pistol from the back of Ford’s jeans, then bash him on the head with it. However, Ford followed them through the screen door. I heard a scuffle and some more thuds.
Out front, Abel yelled, “I want to know who took out my father! I won’t blast this pretty little lady’s brains all over the parking lot if you hand over whoever killed my father!”
I jumped when the back swinging screen door creaked. It was only Slushy, though, creeping bent over, holding two bows in one hand, a sheaf of arrows in the other. He was a bizarre sight in his suit and tie, holding what amounted to little kids’ bows.
“Here,” he whispered, handing me one and some arrows, “for protection.”
“They’re Ochoas,” I whispered back, although no thugs were close by. “Coming to get whoever murdered their father.”
“Don’t tell me who,” said Slushy, crouching down beside me.
“I won’t. And I’ve got a better idea. You stay here.”
I stayed crouched over so any Ochoa glancing in the window wouldn’t see me. I tiptoed past my friends to my office and unlocked the wall safe. I took out the small handgun Lytton had provided me with—the one I’d never learned to use. It was loaded, though, I knew, so I tiptoed back and gave it to Slushy. “Trade you,” I said.
Slushy handed his bow to me, too, without even looking at it. “Wow. Just, wow.”
“You know how to use it? It’s loaded.”
“I work at a fucking archery range, Pippa,” he whispered. “But I also work for a motorcycle club. So yeah, I do.”
“What the fuck?”
There was a big clamor out front. Men swore in Spanish, the Mexican cleaning woman screamed, and Abel yelled, “No dispares! Es un camión de combustible!” Don’t shoot! It’s a fuel truck!
Fox! Since there were no enemies in the lobby, I ran half-crouched to the front window for a good view. Sure enough, Fox was driving the fuel truck in a slow semi-circle around all the beaner vehicles and scoots. He even casually leaned his bare arm out the open window, like he was taking a Sunday drive. What was he doing? I could’ve had Slushy shoot Abel who was clutching Maddie, but someone else would’ve shot one of our men who lined the front porches of the rooms down the line. It would’ve just been a bloodbath, a free-for-all. We had to be strategic. I didn’t know where all the male Mexican workers had gone. Probably hiding in the rooms. This wasn’t their beef.
And we had to figure out what Fox’s end game was. He could’ve just hidden in his truck somewhere until this all blew over. But he just drove casually out into the open, as though daring them to kill him. Did he have a death wish? Was all this mercenary murder finally too much for him? Was he willing to take a bullet for the club? Well, that much was obvious.
I couldn’t see Abel Ochoa, but it sounded like he was waving his gun around, he was that frantic. “You fucking pinche guey! You fucking Anglo! Get the fuck out of the parking lot!”
Fox’s expression was sunny and carefree. Had he lost it? Did his golf bag not have a full set of irons? “Don’t worry, Ochoa. I’m just here to gas up the equipment. Don’t mind me.” And he continued in his half-circle, making a circuit of the parking lot.
“Who are you, you pinche guey? Who is he?” he asked in a quieter tone.
“Fox Isherwood,” said Maddie, clear and steady. “He’s not one of us. He just drives trucks for us.”
“Then how did he know my name?” hissed Abel.
I could practically hear Maddie shrug. “Doesn’t everyone know you?”
That was a smart answer. Flattering the guy’s ego while avoiding answering the question. But Fox’s lack of concern must’ve gotten to Ochoa, because the guy let go of Maddie and stepped off the verandah. Now I could see him waving his pistol.