“Yeah. Fat Mike. That’s what he goes by.”
“If I needed you to testify to that in court, would you be able to do it?”
Gerald looked troubled. “Would it be like the other times the chief has had me do it?”
Will looked to Tarlton for guidance.
Tarlton nodded.
“Yes,” Will replied.
“Then I can do it.”
21
›› The Bloody Skull
›› Charlotte, North Carolina
›› 2156 Hours
The bar was more a clubhouse for the Purple Royals than a business enterprise. The bikers came there when they were in town, and they circled the wagons there when they were under attack from the outside world.
Victor Gant sat in the back office and gazed at the security monitors mounted on the wall in front of him. Although no sheet of paper showed it, he owned the bar. The business and the employees were wholly subsidized by the Purple Royals.
The people he’d hired to run the place didn’t exactly have it made. But they could at least live well enough. All they had to do was be available for the nights the gang was in town.
And the gang was definitely in town. Word had gotten out-over the phone, by word of mouth, and through the TV-that Victor’s son was dead, shot by a federal agent. Now the place was packed.
Heavy metal crashed through the surround sound system. The dancers worked the crowd, more enthusiastic than they’d been in months because the money was flowing like water. Victor thought the bikers were acting like children; certainly they were creating a mess in the bar.
He tried not to let the men’s pursuit of a good time bother him. But it did. He couldn’t isolate himself that well. He felt Bobby Lee’s absence in a way he never would have thought possible before.
He reached for the longneck bottle on the desk and took a sip. The beer was warm and flat. He didn’t know how long it had been sitting there. Too long.
His eyes roved the security monitors, searching for anything to distract him. Some of the women were attractive, not the used-up specimens the bar usually held. A lot of those women were on their last legs, coked up and decaying from the inside.
Today, not even the new ones held his attention.
You’re bordering on dinky-dao, brother, he told himself. Totally whack. You need to pull yourself together.
But it was hard. He kept seeing Bobby Lee in his mind. The young man had been all the immediate family Victor knew he was ever going to have. And that family had been wiped out in a heartbeat.
Reluctantly Victor dropped his feet off the scarred wooden desk and threw the flat beer into the nearly filled trash can. The glass bottle shattered and tinkled down among the others.
His leathers creaked as he walked out of the room and onto the main floor. Bikers stepped aside in front of him like the Red Sea parting for Moses.
He paused at the bar and called Creeper’s name. Creeper wasn’t the man’s real name, of course, but so many people knew him by Creeper that likely only the law enforcement agencies would know what his given name was now.
Creeper was young and hard. He hadn’t pulled Nam with Victor and Fat Mike and the others, but he’d made his bones in the first Gulf War. The vets got together and argued over who’d had the worst war, those who’d slogged through the jungles or those who’d slogged the desert.
They even each had their own conspiracy theories. The Nam vets pointed to Agent Orange as being responsible for so many cancer-related deaths. The first Gulf War vets had the mysterious “malaise” that had descended on them and might have been part of a biological weapon Saddam Hussein had been bankrolling.
Creeper turned and looked at Victor.
“Hey, boss man,” Creeper said. “What’ll you have?”
“Beer.”
“Coming up.” Creeper squatted and reached into the cooler beneath the counter. He brought up a fresh longneck, peeled the lid with the church key, and slid the bottle down to Victor’s waiting hand.
Victor took a long draw. “You seen Fat Mike?”
“Not yet.”
“Soon as he gets here, send him in to me.”
Creeper shot him a thumbs-up.
Victor made his way back to the office, a pit of roiling rage in his chest. He sat at the desk once more and used the remote control to flick through the television stations.
The need to do something vibrated through him. His hand actually shook as he brought the longneck to his lips. That hadn’t happened even when they were back in the bush taking heavy fire.
News footage of the standoff at the tattoo parlor started to roll on-screen. Victor muted the anchor’s commentary and just stayed with the images.
There behind the glass, he saw Bobby Lee standing with his hostage. He knew how scared his son had been. He looked so young; this was the first time he’d gotten into a situation that was so far over his head.
In another minute, Bobby Lee would be dead-again.
Victor sipped his beer, but he couldn’t turn away from the impending violence.
His cell phone rang.
Victor thought about not answering the call. But he was looking for a distraction of any kind.
He flipped the phone open and said, “Yeah?”
›› 2203 Hours
“Ah, my friend, it is good to hear your voice.”
“It’s good to hear yours.” But you’re a little late calling in condolences. Victor drank some more beer. Tran was his partner in the heroin business. No one knew that. They’d been very careful to set the business up that way. Rather, Tran had been careful to set things up like that.
They’d met in Vietnam. Tran had been a Kit Carson scout, one of the regulars who’d defected from the North Vietnamese army to lead recon missions for the American troops.
That had been back when both sides had figured the Americans were going to win the war.
A Kit Carson’s life expectancy hadn’t been high. If he was caught by his old army buddies, they tortured him as long as they could before they killed him. And his new army buddies weren’t the most trusting. A number of Kit Carsons had gone down under “friendly” fire that was anything but. The Department of Defense had a name for such things too. Misadventure sounded equally innocuous.
Tran, though, had seemed to flourish as a traitor to his people. When the tide of the war had changed, Tran had changed with it by going back to the NVA and claiming to have been a prisoner.
However, the friendship he’d had with Victor Gant had included a lucrative black market trade that involved drugs and women. During the thirty-plus years between, they’d found a way to do business. The latest thing with the heroin was by far the most lucrative.
“I just found out the bad news and wanted to call and see how you were doing,” Tran said.
“I’m fine.”
“You sound a little rocky.”
“I said I’m fine. Drop it.”
Tran didn’t acknowledge that one way or the other.
Victor sipped beer. Both of them were careful not to mention the other’s name.
Tran was based in Vietnam, where he oversaw the poppy growing and the production of raw opium. Back when he’d first gotten everything together, he had contacted Victor and explained how he’d gone into the drug
