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“Are you alone? Is the line secure?”
I roll my eyes. It’s too damn early for Ghost and his former-spook shit.
“No. I have you on speaker and I’m in the bathroom at a Cracker Barrel. The guy in the stall next to me is Jake, and the guy at the urinal is Leroy.”
“Serious? That’s not part of your routine, Smokey. You OK?”
My routine? From the way he’s talking, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a damn intel file on me.
“Yes. It’s my favorite place in the world to hang out at fucking three in the morning. And I’m not even drunk; I’m just lonely and looking for companionship in all the wrong places. Seriously, I’m at home, on my couch, wondering why you’ve woken me up this early.”
“I thought you’d like to know that I went out looking for something and I found myself in Monterrey. Then I found what I’m looking for.”
“What, like on a spiritual quest? This some journey of self-discovery shit?”
“I discovered something, true. But, considering I’m in the cheapest motel in Monterrey and my roommate is a roach that could give a medium-sized dog a run for its money in a death-match, this is no place for self-discovery. Not unless I’m planning on hitting rock bottom, and that shit happened a long time ago.” He pauses. There’s a rustling noise and then a sound like he’s yelling ‘heeyah,’ like some cowboy. “Sorry. Had to swat at that sucker and remind him of his place on the food chain.”
“It ain’t even on the same food chain, I hope.”
“Oh, I’ve eaten roach before. I was in Cambodia, cleaning up some mess outside of Phnom Penh. It was a scramble; they sent us there with zero supplies, just told us to ‘make do’ and figure shit out on the fly. Let me tell you, when you’ve spent all day digging a corpse-ditch and dousing bodies with homemade accelerant, a big ol’ jungle roach doesn’t look so bad. Hell, it’s a decadent snack. Damn things burst all juicy in your mouth. There’s a decent guts-to-legs ratio, so it’s not too prickly. Great flavor, too. They take on the taste of what they eat, and these roaches had been feasting on jungle fruit and coconut.”
“This is what you called to tell me about? Eating cockroaches in the jungle while you hit rock bottom?”
“Cambodia wasn’t my rock bottom, Smokey. Hell, it was fun.” He pauses. There’s another ‘heeyah,’ and then he comes back on the line. “I don’t like the way this roach is looking at me. It’s acting like it’s eaten human flesh before. You know, once they get a taste for it, they become predatory. I’ll have to kill him once we’re done talking, cause I sure as shit can’t sleep around him. Then, well, fuck, I’ll have to eat it, too. Waste not, want not.”
“Ghost…”
“Shut up. I found him.”
That three-word phrase makes me sit up and forget about being pissed off at Ghost for waking me up at three in the morning. “Erik Marquez? You found him?”
“He has a house out here in Pacific Grove, the city right next to Monterrey. Rents it under an assumed name, Travis Garnier. Like the shampoo. It’s a beautiful little spot. He uses it as a hideout to lie low between jobs. And I think he picked well, because this is a prime location. Scenic area, nice homes, good architecture, cute community. You know they filmed parts of Big Little Lies out here?”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“Great show. You should check it out. Reese Witherspoon, Nicole Kidman, Zoë Kravitz, Laura Dern, and Meryl Fucking Streep are in it. They slay. Adam Scott is in it, too. I find him to be a seriously underrated performer. Oh, and they filmed some of Turner & Hooch out here, as well.”
“Oh, damn, really? With Tom Hanks and the dog? I fucking love that movie.”
“Me too. One of the best buddy cop movies out of the 80s, excluding all the Lethal Weapon movies. Steinbeck lived out here a long time, too. Entire city is nuts for him. It’s a real artistic enclave. Anyway, Erik’s house is about six, seven blocks away from where I’m staying. I’ve had him under surveillance for the last two, three days. Got his routine down. Know when he wakes up, when he eats, when he takes his morning shit, where he shops, where he drinks, how he likes his coffee, all of it. He’s a very regimented guy. Found some other information on him, too: turns out he did some special forces training in Colombia. We’ll have to be careful.” Ghost pauses. There’s a scuffling sound and I hear a solid punch landing. “Listen, I have to cut this short to settle this thing with this cockroach. It’s life-or-death. Call some backup, Hawk, maybe, and get up to the Motor Inn in Pacific Grove. Bring a van. We’re going to get Erik Marquez tomorrow night.”
Before he’s even finished speaking, I’m scrawling a note for Alexandra — Found a lead on Marquez. Back soon. Love, Dixon.
Finally, some answers.
Then we can move on.
I hope.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Alexandra
As I stir awake in bed, I immediately feel something is off. The spot next to me is cold, and Dixon’s smell has faded. It’s nearly gone. In my sleep-fogged brain, tired memories of the night before surface — a phone call, a quiet reassurance that it was just club business and that I should go back to sleep — and a rush of fear goes through me; I’ve spent enough time in the life that I know what those late night calls mean. My thoughts immediately go to a dark, familiar place: a club at war, and people I care about dead.
A plan forms. I scramble out of bed and run to the kitchen. I need coffee, clean clothes, and a weapon. Then I need to get to Reid’s Repairs so I can find out what’s going on. It’s probably not the best idea for me to go barging into the clubhouse uninvited and unannounced, but if something dangerous is happening where Dixon is getting called away in the middle of the night, I’d rather break club etiquette and find out what the hell is going on than deal with the alternative.
It’s only after I have my coffee ready and am sitting down on my couch, steaming mug in my hand, trying to calm my racing thoughts, that I see Dixon’s note. It’s simple, straightforward, exactly what a man like him would write.
