“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” He says.
“Because I didn’t want to borrow the money from you,” I say. There’s hurt in his eyes when he hears me say it, and I feel that hurt echo in my voice. But it’s the truth. “You know that what we have is just temporary, this is just on until we settle our business — it’s what you’re always talking about, anyway — and if I ended up borrowing cash from you, we’d just end up even more stuck together.”
“You still should’ve told me. It only makes things worse if we’re keeping secrets from each other.”
I laugh. Bitter, angry, it tastes like ashes in my mouth. Then I take a finger and pull down the collar of his flannel shirt. “Then, since we’re sharing secrets, you want to tell me what happened to your throat?”
“Careful, Violet,” he says, his voice suddenly dropping low and menacing.
But I don’t heed his warning; my best friend’s life is on the line and I care too much about her to back off to any threats now.
“Or what, Mr. Sovereign Citizen? You’ll come after me just like those Death’s Disciples? I’ve already got one biker gang trying to hurt me, what’s it matter if I add another to the list?”
Just when I expect him to lash out at me, to strike back with some threat or put down and try to put me in my place, he releases a deep breath and shakes his head.
“Let’s go back to Bowen Dale. I think I’ve got something that’ll change his mind about helping you.”
“I don’t want your money, Crash,” I say. “Five grand is too much.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not carrying that kind of cash. But I have something else we can give him. Something better.”
* * * * *
Bowen Dale’s sharp voice calls out the second I hop out of my truck in his driveway.
“Violet, unless you’ve come to give me my money, I’ve got nothing more to say to you. No offense, young lady, it’s just business.”
Next to me, Crash and Mack both get off their bikes. Strapped to the back of each of their motorcycles is what looks like a bedroll, but which I’m sure has to be something more; Bowen Dale doesn’t seem like the type to give two shits about camping.
“Mr. Cooper, we’re here to talk business,” Crash calls out. “You all right if we come inside?”
An angry huff cuts through the quiet cold of the Colorado night air.
“Only you and Violet. Leave the Irish one outside.”
“What the fuck do you have against the Irish?” Mack shoots back.
“My first wife was Irish. Her name was Maeve. Met her overseas while doing a little job for some independence-minded friends. She was fantastic in the bedroom, every time left me feeling like I’d just had the most orgasmic brush with death, but hearing that accent still gives me flashbacks to the kind of marital haranguings that would make even a moral man run screaming into the arms of the slimiest divorce attorney just to find liberation. No offense, and I’ll even leave some beers on the doorstep for you, but I can’t allow your accent to penetrate the sanctity of my home.”
“Fine. Leave me three beers and we’re good, old man,” Mack answers.
“Sorry,” I whisper to Mack.
He shrugs. “It’s fine,” he replies. “I didn’t want to go into that fucking mobile home, anyway.”
Then he takes the bundle from the back of his bike and hands it over to Crash. From the looks of it, it’s much heavier than just some blankets.
“Come on,” Crash says. “Let’s go make a deal.”
We approach the door under the watchful gaze of Bowen Dale Cooper. In his typical fashion, he has each of us raise our arms and turn around in a slow circle to check us for weapons before he allows us to enter his home. Once he’s satisfied, steps aside and we enter his living room.
It’s blazing warm. There’s a small fire blazing away in a little gas stove he’s got set against the far wall. There’s a plush, luxurious leather sofa and a large wide-screen TV set up opposite it, with some old black and white movie playing on it. BD leaves us standing in his living room for a moment while he runs to the refrigerator and fetches the three beers for Mack.
“Do you have my money?” He says.
I shake my head. Crash does the same.
“Did you really drive all this way to waste my time? I enjoy living here, Violet, it’s quiet and close enough to Aspen that I can get into trouble if I want to, but if you keep bringing guests over to my place for nothing more than useless chitchat, I will have to move.”
“Can it, old man,” Crash snaps. “We don’t have cash for you, but we’ve got something better.”
“Show me.”
Crash sets the two rolls of blankets onto the floor, unstraps the bungee cords binding them together, and unrolls them, revealing a clutch of what looks to be assault rifles in each of them.
I take a step back, reflexively.
What kind of deal am I making here? Selling guns? Assault weapons?
I wish this wasn’t happening. And, even though it is, I hope to god
