“Fuck strategy.”
“You’re already pushing the envelope. You want to stay as far away from the actual… resolution of the problem as possible.”
“No, I don’t. Let me tell you how it’s going to go down.”
“No, Jack.”
“What do you mean, no?”
Stenzel turned away. “Whatever you have in mind, I don’t want to know about it.”
“You don’t want to know about it? You don’t want to know?” Reynolds flung his glass. It shattered against a wall. “You need to know. You’re going to know.”
“Okay, Jack.” Stenzel’s mouth was dry. “Okay.”
Reynolds rounded the desk and stared him down. His mouth was twisted in an indecipherable shape that could have been a grimace or a smile. His eyes were narrowed and unblinking.
“My friend grabs Sinclair and takes her to Santa Ana. He runs a motorcycle repair shop. Lots of power tools.”
With a distant part of his mind, Stenzel wondered if he had ever allowed himself to know, really know, that his employer was a sociopath. It should have been obvious. There had been more than enough hints-the mood swings from affability to rage, the inner coldness, the shameless manipulations. And on some level he had seen it. But he had never put his knowledge into words. He had never wanted to. Perhaps because he saw so much of himself in Jack Reynolds, or so much of Reynolds in him.
“Of course,” Reynolds added, “the party won’t get started till I arrive.”
“You’re saying you… want to watch?” Stenzel asked, holding his voice level.
“Not just watch. I’m a hands-on guy.”
The images this statement suggested were more than Stenzel could stand. He tried one last time to get through. “Jack, this is not a good idea. This is one task you definitely want to delegate.”
“Wrong. I want to get up close and personal. I want to look into her eyes. I want to break her. I want her to die knowing I won and she lost.”
“Why?” Stenzel asked, hearing the inane pointlessness of the question even as he uttered it.
“Because I always win. Always. She should’ve remembered that. And you, too, Kip. You should remember it, too.”
“I will, Jack.”
“So we’re together on this?”
“We’re on the same page.”
“Great.” Reynolds clapped his hands, smiling-a real smile now, not a frightening parody. “Then let’s get back outside. Can’t keep my constituents waiting too long.”
He left the office. Stenzel followed slowly, telling himself not to be afraid.
37
Fast Eddie’s was essentially what Tess had expected, though at one p.m. it lacked the raucous atmosphere it would no doubt offer after dark. The pool tables were unused, most of the chairs were unoccupied, with only a few all-day drinkers lounging in the corners. Behind the bar a large man was scowling at a wall-mounted TV set that was showing an auto race.
Tess approached the bar, aware that every eye in the establishment had turned her direction-even the bartender’s, though he did his best to look uninterested. She leaned on the bar and let him take his time coming over to her. She pegged him as an ex-con-it was hard to say how, but there was something about the his physique, the prison-buffed muscles that had turned to fat, and the set of his jaw, as if he had learned to keep his feelings hidden from anyone in authority.
“You Eddie?” she asked.
“What?”
“Fast Eddie’s is the name of this place. Is that you?”
“There’s no Eddie. It’s just a name. Because of the pool tables.”
Tess didn’t get it. “Pool tables?”
“Like in the movie. The Hustler, Paul Newman, you know?”
She didn’t know. Was everybody in the state of California a movie nut? Maybe Abby was right. Maybe she ought to start renting tapes, or DVDs, or whatever.
“All right, then,” she said, “so what’s your name?”
“Don’t got one.”
“Everyone has a name.”
“All I got is a nickname.”
“What is it?”
“Biscuit.”
She looked him over. He was well over six feet tall and had to weigh in at no less than 275 pounds. “Biscuit?” she said skeptically.
“Some joker said I was only a biscuit away from weighing three hundred. Name stuck.”
“Fair enough. I’m Special Agent McCallum, FBI.” She allowed him a glimpse of her creds. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I already been asked a lot of questions.”
“They took you down to the police station, right?”
He lifted his meaty shoulders. “It’s not like I ain’t been there before.”
“And you didn’t cooperate. I’m not surprised. Why would you say anything that would get one of your buddies in trouble?”
“I don’t know what buddies you’re talking about.”
“No, I’m sure you don’t know anything at all.”
“That’s right. Now, are you gonna buy something to drink, or are you just wasting my time?”
“I don’t drink when I’m on duty.”
“Then piss off.” He started to move away.
There were a lot of ways she could handle this. Intimidation was one possibility, but she assumed that the interrogators at the police station had already given it their best shot. She decided to try sweet reason instead.
“I can’t say I blame you,” she said mildly.
He looked at her. “Blame me for what?”
“For keeping your mouth shut. The people who talked to you at the police station were working on the assumption that Dylan Garrick was killed by one of his fellow Scorpions. And you don’t want to give them anything that would help them nail one of your friends.”
“I don’t got no friends.”
“One of your customers, then. Your clientele.”
“Clientele. Fuck, I ain’t got no clientele neither. What you think this is, a fucking hair salon?” He turned aside. “I’m telling you what I told the cops. I don’t know shit about anything they was asking.”
“I believe you.”
“Then why the fuck are you still here?”
“Because I think you may know something important, only it’s not what the police were interested in. See, I’m working on a different theory of the case. I don’t think Dylan’s hit was an inside job. I don’t think the Scorpions had anything to do it. I think it was somebody else.”
This got his interest, just a little. “Another gang?”
“Not a gang. I think Dylan may have been shot by a woman he was with. A woman he picked up last night here.”
“A woman? Some hooker, you mean?”
