‘Then get up and get the fuck out,’ Gates said. ‘I’m done. Conversation over. Take it or leave it.’
There was a lot more behind the words.
Gates was a sick puppy, and he probably terrified everyone he spoke to bluntly. To those unfamiliar with the world of criminals, this was a major-league player, threatening and imposing and manic.
To King and Slater, he was a fairy.
They couldn’t exactly let that show.
Sooner or later, they’d have to cave.
King said, ‘Fine. Works for me.’
‘Cash,’ Gates said. ‘Upfront.’
‘Half now,’ King said. ‘Half when she leaves. She needs to be up to our standards.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Gates said. ‘My product is the best.’
‘Half now,’ King repeated. ‘Half later.’
Gates stared him down.
King stared back.
Gates said, ‘Alright. Eight grand. And a hundred for the cognac.’
King didn’t react.
He drained the rest of the tumbler in a gulp, reached into his inside jacket pocket and came out with a neat wad of brand-new 100s. A band around the notes labelled its value at ten grand. He snapped the band, peeled off eighty percent of them, added an extra bill, and passed the neat package across.
Gates took it and shoved the bills in his pocket, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
Slater thought, Don’t worry. We’ll get that back.
Gates said, ‘Follow me.’
He got up and led them to the back room.
16
King stayed on Gates’ tail.
Slater imperceptibly reached out a hand and held him back a few steps.
King lowered his voice enough for the music to drown it out and said, ‘What?’
‘What exactly are we doing?’
‘This goes deeper than just this club, right?’ King said. ‘There’s more than one entity. There’s cops and judges, too. Bent ones.’
‘Yeah,’ Slater said, unsure where this was headed. ‘So?’
‘So we complicate things.’
Slater put it together. ‘Oh.’
‘You get it?’
‘Now you’re the one starting a war.’
‘Do you approve?’
‘You’re damn right I do.’
They caught up to Gates as he smacked the door to the back room with an open palm and sent it swinging inwards. He stepped through and held it for them.
King went in first, and came face-to-face with four Central American guys. Whether they were Mara Salvatrucha or Calle 18 didn’t matter. They were gangsters through and through, two in wife-beaters and two in tattered tees. All four had shaved heads and pockmarked skin and dead black eyes. Three of them were covered in identical face tattoos — XVIII on their foreheads, and Mayan inkings on their cheeks and nose. One was unblemished.
King put it together. Calle 18.
They’d seen unimaginable atrocities, either here or back home. Whether home was San Salvador or Tegucigalpa or Guatemala City —again, it didn’t matter. They’d probably committed a great deal of the horrors they’d seen themselves. King had met enough real gangbangers to know these boys weren’t faking it.
They were ruthless killers, and they’d resort to whatever means necessary to obey their boss.
Gates said, ‘These are my guys.’
Slater followed King into the cramped room and said, ‘Yeah, I don’t like the look of your guys.’
Exactly how an idiotically oblivious new customer might behave. King had to admire it. It brazenly added legitimacy to their performance.
Because no one in their right mind would say that in front of real gangsters. It made King and Slater look like fools, as intended.
The thug on the left ripped a snub-nose revolver out of his sagging jeans and waved it in Slater’s face.
He shouted, ‘You don’t like us, mayate?!’
Slater ignored the disgusting racial slur, because an idiotically oblivious new customer wouldn’t have understood the translation. He sure understood, though. Mayate meant “black beetle.” It was the Spanish equivalent of a white man using the hard “R.”
He thought, I’ll remember that.
He made his voice shake and said, ‘Shit. Sorry. Relax. Put that away.’
Gates said, ‘You still got a problem with these boys?’
King said, ‘No problem at all.’
Gates signalled to the marero, and the gangster tucked the revolver back into his waistband.
But he seethed with barely suppressed rage.
Low-level gangsters don’t make it very far by subduing their emotions. Which ends up getting them killed a whole lot sooner anyway, and perpetuates the vicious cycle.
Slater eyed the revolvers with the curious gaze of a man who doesn’t see guns very often. He said, ‘Your guys can just carry those around out here? How’s that work?’
Gates said, ‘We’re untouchable. Helps having a DA and a sheriff on the payroll.’
He winked at them.
Hook, line and sinker, King thought.
Gates said, ‘So we’re good to go?’
King nodded. ‘We’re good.’
‘Give me your number first,’ Gates said. ‘I want to be able to contact you.’
King pulled the burner phone from his pocket, fed Gates the number, and waited for Gates to dial. King’s phone screen flared up, proving the number’s authenticity.
Gates nodded his approval.
‘Melanie,’ Gates called.
She stepped out of an en suite bathroom, clutching a second Long Island Iced Tea, already half-finished. Her eyes were cloudy and she swayed from side to side. Gates had loaded her up for the night ahead. Probably sprinkled a double serving of something special in her second drink.
She shook the dewy glass at King and Slater and smiled. ‘One for the road.’
They smiled back.
It took all their willpower.
But then the performance was largely over, and the four mareros led the trio out to the alleyway through a discreet corridor connected to the back room. The limo was already idling out front — King marvelled at Gates’ expediency. It was long and black and indistinguishable from the fleets that trawled the Strip. The gangster without the face tats got behind the wheel — a makeshift chauffeur — and the other three piled into the rear compartment.
Melanie followed, and King and Slater ducked in last.
There was enough space to stretch out, so the three mareros bunched together on the rear seats, but they all took their revolvers out and rested them on their laps in case the guests got any ideas. Melanie sat between King and Slater, close to the door, and King poured himself a glass of expensive champagne from the mini-bar for theatrics’
