Page 38 of Drilled

Then I snapped back to reality. I couldn’t dump all of my shit onto her. I made my past choices, and there was nobody who could get me out of this situation except myself. The last thing I was going to do was drag her down with me.

I got up from the barstool. Her hand dropped.

“Thanks for the patch-job,” I mumbled.

A heaviness fell over her eyes, but I ignored it and swept past her, finally leaving this time.

Once I was free from the suffocation of the house, I pulled out my phone. Inside, I shored up the last bit of feeling I had behind my resolve. I still had the number memorized, couldn’t forget it even if I wanted to. He picked up on the second ring.

“It’s been a long time, Miller,” said the shady voice on the other end of the line. “I thought you were out of the game. Or is this just a wellness check?”

“No such thing,” I answered. “Tell me you’ve got a card tonight with a five-figure pot. I’m ready to come back for it.”

13

Lane

The guard brought in my newest client, still cuffed and clearly not fully comprehending the gravity of the situation just yet. He plopped himself down in the seat in front of me, wearing a knowing, rakish little half-grin.

I eyed him, making a quick mental checklist. He was wearing a flashy, water-resistant windbreaker and had an air of unearned confidence despite being handcuffed to a table. He was definitely cocky and I wasn’t sure how much of that would translate into a smooth case.

“I’m Lane Whittaker, your court-appointed public defender,” I said, opening the manila folder and laying the arrest report flat on the steel table. “Everything we say in this room is strictly privileged, Mr. Williams. But right now, the State is charging you with Criminal Trespass and Class 4 Gambling for running the cash bag at that Pilsen warehouse. That carries a potential one-to-three-year sentence, so I need you to start talking before we head into that bond hearing.”

He leaned back, his cuffed hands still resting on the table.

“Do you have any questions for me before we proceed?” I asked.

“Not a question, really. An offer,” he said with the smooth tone of a man who was used to getting the right things from the wrong people.

I internally groaned but kept my face impassive. “This isn’t a negotiation and I’m not your prosecutor, Mr. Williams.”

“Call me Devon,” he said.

“Okay. Do you have any questions for me, Mr. Williams?” I rebutted.

He chuckled, seemingly amused. "Look, Ms Whittaker, I’m just a small fish. You go to the State's Attorney, tell 'em I can give 'em 'The Warehouse.' It’s this massive, invite-only setup down in the Pilsen industrial corridor. It rotates spots every two weeks so the cops can't track it." He tapped his thumb against the table for emphasis. "I got the actual names of the crooked bookies running the main cards. They're dropping five-figure offshore bets on these fighters, clean money laundering. You get me out of this trespass charge, and I'll put all of that on a silver platter for them."

I didn't blink, just returned his smile with one of my own and capped my pen with a slow, deliberate click that echoed in the small lockup booth.

“That’s a nice story but you’re mistaking me for a narc. That’s not my business. My job is to keep you out of Cook County jail on a gambling charge, not to help you orchestrate a dangerous, half-baked deal with the State's Attorney's Organized Crime Unit."

His easy grin flickered for a moment. “Come on, miss, they want the big guys. They'll drop this chicken-shit charge in a second if—"

“If you had hard evidence," I cut him off, leaning forward to lock eyes with him. "Which you don't. The State isn't going to trade a felony-level gambling structure charge for vague hearsay about Pilsen bookies from a guy who got caught holding the cash bag. If you try to pitch this to the prosecutor without me, they will let you talk yourself straight into a heavier conspiracy charge. So you're going to keep your mouth completely shut, and let me do the talking at your bond hearing. Understood?"

He didn’t look very happy with that but obliged, sinking back into his chair. Unfortunately for me, the very obvious carrot he was trying to dangle had successfully piqued my curiosity. Not for the sake of any latent narcotics investigative tendencies, but for the connection between the Warehouse and a grouchy, bike-riding contractor that I couldn’t get out of my head.

I desperately wanted to know what was going on with him. The idea that Dax might’ve gone back to his past kept looming in the back of my mind and it left me feeling uneasy. I couldn’t help but wonder if he didn’t have any type of affiliation with this underground fight ring, especially considering it may very well have been the biggest in the county.

I glanced at Devon. Beneath that slick demeanor, I could tell that he was still trying to think of a way to make this information work as leverage. He’d only been caught holding the cash bag and because it was a non-violent, lower-level offense, he wouldn't be going to prison. But that prior strike in his docket was definitely the source of his muted panic.

This wasn’t his first rodeo. If I could play off his anxiety just right…

“Look, Mr. Williams, I know you’re probably nervous about where this charge leads you. That’s fair. But if you want a deal, I’m going to need a gauge on your credibility. Before I hand anything over to the State, let’s test to see if there’s anything worth the effort. I might know someone on this roster. A guy, about six-foot-one, lean, jacked, heavy hands, lethal speed. Runs an old Ducati. You seen him on a card recently?"

Devon quirked up an eyebrow. “I might’ve.”

After a full minute of silence, I waved my hand. “Care to elaborate on that?”