Page 50 of Reno

“Jer clean.”

“No shit.”

“When Rex comes back een, I’ll check heem,” he said. “Maybe he’s clean, too.”

I gave a nod. “Clean as that pretty little head of yours. DO you shave that fucker yourself?”

He wiped his hand across the smooth skin. “Todos los dias, Amigo. Every fahking day.”

I smirked. “Sounds fun.”

Crip returned, and was promptly patted down. After satisfying himself that Crip was unarmed, he waved his hand toward the rear of the home. “Follow me, Amigos.”

We entered the room, a lower level with furniture situated to take advantage of the coastal view. Thankfully, everything faced the ocean—and Goose’s field of vision. The first breath I took confirmed Alacrán was the one who’d bathed in the cheap cologne.

“Meet my amigo, Angel,” Manos said.

Alacrán stood.

“Pleasure to meet you.” I held my breath and extended my hand. “Tyrone Tiddlewood.”

“Angel Ramirez,” he said, his tone free of any hints of his ancestry.

“Theese is Rex Ramirez,” Manos said, patting Crip on the shoulder.

“Rasmussen,” Crip said, correcting him. “Rex Rasmussen.”

Alacrán gave Crip a lengthy handshake, looking him up and down the entire time. “Angel Ramirez.”

Manos seemed uneasy with the awkward handshake. Nervously, he waved his hand toward the many pieces of vacant furniture. “Have a seat.”

I wasn’t about to sit anywhere near Alacrán. I didn’t want to smell him any more than I had to, and I sure didn’t want to risk being killed by a wayward bullet if things went awry.

The furniture was situated in a “U” shape, with everything giving a view of the glass wall. I took a seat on a white leather loveseat positioned at a ninety-degree angle of the sofa Alacrán was seated at.

Crip sat beside me, and Manos flopped down next to Alacrán.

Despite the 65-degree outside temperature, a fireplace on the far side of the room was ablaze.

Alacrán crossed his legs and cocked his head to face me. On the coffee table in front of him, a pistol and cell phone sat. I glanced at the pistol and recognized it as a .45 caliber Colt. His taste in weaponry was much better than his taste in cologne, that much was certain.

“Is funding in place for the business transaction you speak of?” he asked.

His failure to mention “the transaction” as being a drug deal warned me to use caution to do the same. “Funding is one hundred percent secured if the price is agreeable.”

“The price you spoke leaves little margin for profit.”

I shrugged. “I make up for it in volume.”

He uncrossed his legs, studied Crip, and then crossed them again. “I must be honest,” he said, making eye contact with me as he spoke. “I don’t trust your friend.”

His eyes were like that of a wolf. Looking into them, you realized what lied beneath couldn’t be trusted. Nevertheless, I gazed into them, considering how I wanted to respond.

“If we’re being honest,” I said, “I guess I’ve got something to admit as well.”

His brows raised.

“I don’t trust you, either,” I said flatly.