Page 115 of Tito

Tito

Hoping to dislodge my heart from my throat, I took a drink of coffee. My mind flashed to the police officer sucking in his last breath.

I was fucked. My future with Reggie—my future entirely—evaporated before me. A month earlier, I was ready to walk away from the MC and never look back. With reluctance, I agreed to one last job. Now the MC was under investigation by my lover’s father, and I was staring the death penalty in the face.

If I had only listened to my instinct.

There was only one way for me to live with myself. I had to tell him the truth and damn the consequences.

“I work for him,” I admitted.

“His aunt is listed as the sole proprietor of the LLC that own the car washes,” he said without looking up. “I suspected you might work for him. I didn’t know.”

He knew far more than I expected. Crushed by the thought of losing Reggie, I stared beyond him, toward the exit.

“There wasn’t a piece of the police officer’s bodies that was so big it wouldn’t fit in a thimble,” he said without emotion. “But I did identify them both, and I got a ballistics report on the weapon used. I found satisfaction in knowing that the same weapon was used in a bank heist eighteen months ago in Indio that I suspected was the work of this same group.”

Cash was supposed to have tossed his weapon in the ocean. Leave it to Cash to fire the same gun on multiple crimes, allowing law enforcement to tie multiple crimes to one weapon.

“The last thing I got.” He raised a charred piece of spring steel and looked it over carefully. “Was this unique lockpick. It has some markings on it that stumped me at first, but I was able to get an expert to trace it to its origin. The pick is from a set that was assigned to Frank ‘Fingers’ Ferretti, a famous safecracker and locksmith from back east. Rumor has it that his daughter Alessandra is living here in San Diego. So, I’m liking Alessandra and this Graham Baker for being together on this robbery. Interesting fact about Alessandra. She holds a record at a racetrack back east. Lime Rock. My guess is she’s Baker’s getaway driver.”

He set the lockpick on the table and looked right at me.

My stomach knotted. I felt like I was going to vomit.

“Police work is far different than most jobs. Assembling cars, for instance,” he said. “Part X attaches to part Y, and then spring B is stretched into place, followed by bearing C. Then, when that subpart is complete, the assembler starts again with part X. His job is to assemble this particular widget, and that’s it. He knows going in on Monday what his assignment will be, and he knows how he’s going to tackle it. Police work is like improv acting. It’s a lot of guesswork, a sprinkle of skill, and a dash of being in the right place at the right time.”

Reggie’s father was unique in many respects, one of which was that didn’t have to speak to make his thoughts clear. His eyes did it for him. When we first met, I could see uncertainty in them. When Reggie and I expressed our love for one another, his pride and joy were evident.

I peered into his piercing gray eyes. There was no disgust, hatred or regret. Not that I could see. Only disappointment looked back at me.

He shifted his attention to a passing car in the street. “Oftentimes, police officers are left to make decisions that will affect the lives of others based on a hunch or a gut feeling they have.” He met my gaze and held it. “I’ve never been one of those guys. Before I make a decision, I want all the facts. Without them, I can’t proceed and feel right about it. Once I have all the facts, I’m never wrong about the decision I make.”

He leaned forward and locked eyes with me. “I want the gun that was used in that crime.” He cleared his throat. “Strike that request. I need it.” He slid from the booth and stood. “Meet me here tomorrow, at nine am. Bring the weapon.”

He tossed a twenty-dollar-bill on the table and turned away.

* * *

Pacing his office floor,Baker was angrier than I’d ever seen him. After a few laps the full length of the floor, he paused and glared at Cash. “You were supposed to have thrown that goddamned thing in the ocean at one point in time. Then, at another, you were to have tossed it in the incinerator at FFMC’s clubhouse. Now, we find out you’ve been using it all along. What in the fuck were you thinking?”

“It was my lucky gun,” Cash murmured.

“Lucky?” Baker cackled a sinister laugh. “Lucky? Not so fucking lucky now, is it?”

It was worth mentioning that the one thing that drew the police to us wasn’t the firearm, but the tattoo on Baker’s hand. I wasn’t about to mention it, though.

“Get the gun, and bring it here,” Baker insisted. “Tito’s got to take it to Marcie’s Diner at nine am.”

Cash spat his reply at Baker’s feet. “Fuck. That.”

Baker sauntered to his desk, opened the drawer, and slapped a pistol onto the wooden surface with a clank! “Go get it, or I’ll put a bullet in your head where you stand.”

Cash weighed his options. He spread his feet shoulder width apart and crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you threatening me, Bake?”

“No,” Baker replied. “I’m making the rest of this club a promise. You either go get the pistol right now, or I’ll drop you where you stand. You lied to the club on multiple occasions, all of which put everyone in this room in jeopardy. I’m tired of your lies. I’m sick of your bullshit. I’m done sticking up for you every time someone has a beef with you. You’re no longer an asset. You’re a fucking liability, Cash.”

Cash glanced around the room and then met Baker’s angry gaze. “Guess it’s time to go.”