Page 53 of Making His Bones

“Oh, God!” I said, although I couldn’t help chuckling a little. “You were just wearing a t-shirt!”

“You remember!” said Galileo happily, in true form not letting a thousand three-inch-long spines deter him from cheerfulness. “It was a hashtag HotForElektra t-shirt.” He turned to Tiago. “I got one for you, too.”

Tiago stuck out his lower lip. “Good!”

Galileo went on. “We were both rooted so heavily that if we tried moving, the spines only became more deeply embedded in our flesh. It was like we were sacrificing our mortal flesh to a higher good.”

“What did you do?” I asked, sitting up straight. I’d had a few run-ins with those jumping cholla myself, back in the day. Once I’d parasailed into a cluster of them. Friends helped me pick out the spines with combs and tweezers, but the ones in my balls I had to do myself. And I couldn’t reach those with my mouth.

“Well, Tobiah tried to help me, and Knoxie tried to help Wolf. Within a few minutes, Wolf’s dog Beetle came to the rescue.”

“I love Beetle,” declared Tiago. “He is very fluffy.”

Beetle was a beautiful Great Pyrenees mix. He’d been rescued by Tanner and flown out as a gift to Wolf, payment for some work Slushy had done for the pilot service.

Galileo said, “He had some tools in his mouth, and we clapped and laughed. Well, Knoxie and Tobiah did. We didn’t. Wolf said, ‘good boy!’ We really hoped he’d brought some extraction tools.”

“What’d he bring?”

Galileo looked morosely at his helper. “Well, Beetle brought a . . . a . . . “

“Consoladore,” said Tiago, jaw set firm.

My own jaw hung low, but my voice came out high. “You’re fucking kidding me! Wolf had a fucking dildo in his truck? Fuck, I’m surprised he didn’t have one around his waist. Wait! His tool belt!”

“Exactly,” said Galileo. “Eventually Knoxie was able to feel around on his tool belt, and sure enough, there was a pair of needle nose pliers.”

I frowned. “But how did that help you get out—can I help you?” I asked as a form moved in the doorway.

Slushy, the consigliore of the club, stepped in. As always, he wore a three-piece suit with a blazingly bright jewel green tie.

“Gentlemen,” he greeted us, then looked at Tiago. “Kid. Listen, I want to congratulate you on the progress you’ve made toward nailing those Pitchfork crocodile kickers. They’ve really gone all deliverance lately. They’ve been on my radar since they got one of my couriers so drunk on rotgut he nearly died.”

“Wait,” I said. “You use those kids to deliver stuff?”

Slushy held up his hands. “Only to bring me a few Stratocasters! You wouldn’t believe how much cheaper the made in Mexico ones are, and nearly as good. You can actually hear the notes that go up to eleven.”

In agreement, Tiago played some raunchy air guitar.

I had no idea Slushy played. I really couldn’t even picture it. Some John Denver tunes on an acoustic, maybe. “Well, listen. Those assholes shot me out of the sky. They’re making two hundred proof grain alcohol—“

“They could be selling it to CBD oil makers,” said Tiago.

“What?”

“CBD oil. They use the powerful licore destilado to make CBD oil. I make it at A Joint System when there are no dogs to wash.”

“Really,” I said. That gave me some ideas, but I wasn’t sure what they were yet. “Listen, Slushy. I want those fuckers gone. They know who killed Elektra’s daughter. I assume you’re not fond of Elektra, but this is her fucking daughter we’re talking, and I’m pledged to nail whoever did it. It’s some close relative of theirs, we know. A first cousin at least.”

Slushy wrung his hands. “Well, we don’t want this shit hitting the FBI’s radar. We’re moving hardware. Why draw attention to ourselves? Have you ever thought about sending the Pitchforks on a trip to the Dominican Republic?”

I chuckled. Tourists had been dying in mysterious circumstances there lately. “We can do that? No, I want to get them face to face, if you know what I mean. But we need them alive until we can figure out who buried little Delilah.”

Slushy sighed deeply. “Yeah, kids.” His daughter Gudrun had hooked up with a Boner. “Right. Until then, you need to be Mr. Off the Grid, just your average asswad wearing Sketchers working in an archery range.”

“I don’t have Sketchers,” I protested.

“Listen,” said Slushy confidentially, perching himself on the other side of the mattress, “I was just confabbing with Ford and Lytton. As much as we don’t want to be in the FBI’s crosshairs, they were impressed with your lady’s show of bravado in front of the Pitchforks.”