“No shit, Sherlock.” Cherry studied the man’s face on the screen. The expression was placid and calm. “Who the fuck is this goddamn icy when restrained by an unknown component. I need to shake him up.”
“I don’t wanna watch you do wet work, brother. I’m with you. This doesn’t feel right.” Busk stood and put a heavy hand on Cherry’s shoulder. “But my trust in you is unwavering. The club’s trust is the same.”
“Denis has a PI. A good one. Ricky—”
“Ricky Parrado? He is fucking good.”
“Probably. I didn’t get a surname, but I’ve got a phone number. I think we do a couple of things fast. First, I’m going to get ahold of Ricky and get that rolling. Then, I’m going to push the guy in the room, but we get Ricky started on his documentation, too. Ideally, we’d have feedback before we have to decide to cut him loose, or take him out.” Cherry looked at the screen again and caught Chuck Manning staring into the camera. “Why do you say he doesn’t buy the booze?”
“He tried and failed to conceal a flash of a grin when you were acting clumsy. I don’t know what tipped him off. You play that part well. I agree with the plan. Make it so.” Busk looked at his watch. “I’m might not be able to be here for much longer. I’ve been away from home longer than I planned. Junebug is gonna roast my ass if I don’t call or come home. Ruger will be here.”
“Give Junie a call. I’m going to the bar and take care of the smell of booze. Maybe that was the tip-off.” He shrugged. “Worth a try.”
Outside in the main room of the clubhouse he noticed more members than usual were hanging around.
Salty came over. “No detonators, man. Just the C4 on the bike. No second player, either. We didn’t find any prints or ruts from a second bike.”
“Good news? Mixed news, maybe. How sure are we that there aren’t detonators on the bike itself? Under the seat, next to the battery, under the tank? I’d say check it over with a toothpick and a mirror.” He waved to the prospect manning the bar. “Shot of whiskey, man.” The shot glass slammed down in front of him, filled with brown liquid. Cherry lifted it and took a sip, then another. He dipped a finger in the liquid and painted a line down the side of his throat, as if he’d missed his mouth with the first attempt.
“The fuck are you doing?” Rooster walked up behind Salty, head cocked to one side as he looked at Cherry.
“Busk thinks our guest didn’t believe the booze bit. I need every edge I can get with this one, so this way I’ll at least smell the part.”
Both men laughed and Cherry grinned.
“Do what you gotta do, I guess.” Salty lifted a finger to his brow and tipped a sassy salute. “I’ll go take the bike apart, see if we missed anything.”
“Says the bike isn’t his, same with the cut. Send me a picture of the dismantling and I’ll show him, see if that was truth.” Cherry sipped a little more whiskey, then slid the glass back across the bar. “Thanks, Prospect.”
Back in the room with Chuck Manning, Cherry nearly burst out laughing when he caught the man sniffing the air. He smacked his lips, and took his seat again.
“Well, Chuck.” He blinked slowly. “You’ve got a lotta identification for a guy on a covert op. I’m a little concerned that’s not your real name.”
“It’s my name today.”
“And that, in a fucking nutshell, is the problem. Chuckie.” Cherry rocked to one hip and pulled a knife from his pocket. He played with the button snapping the blade into place, popping the steel out and pushing it back into the hilt. “I’m not a fan of people pulling my leg on a whim. Thing is, you don’t strike me as a guy who likes much whimsey in his life. Blood and screaming, sure. Whimsey? Nope.”
“What do you want me to say?”
Cherry tipped his chin down and stared at his officer plate for a minute. Then he lifted a hand and tapped on the patch with the tip of the knife, moving his eyes to stare at Chuck Manning from underneath his brow.
Without additional prompting the man revised his question. “What do you want me to say, Enforcer?”
“There we go. That’s a little respect.” He sneered at Manning. “Your contact for the ASMC doesn’t know shit about a Chuck Manning. Also said the cut we have in hand is one that was stolen. So ASMC you ain’t, and Racer you ain’t, and I’d bet the moon that Chuck Manning you ain’t.” He moved his jaw side-to-side. “So who and what you are is something I’m very interested in.”
“I don’t think you’ve got hold of Apollo to ask him about me.” Manning breathed in deeply and Cherry watched the tape move with the shifting of the man’s chest.
Nothing is loosening up that I can see. The fact he’s trying it in front of me is something though.
“Oh, you don’t think Apollo would pick up if I dialed? Are you fucking ignorant?” Cherry looked at his nails, beginning to clean under each with the knife. His hands were trembling slightly, not enough to get in the way of what he was doing, but just enough to hopefully sell the booze a little more. Sure enough, he saw Manning sniff quietly.Motherfucker is subtle.
“I don’t know. With the beef between the clubs, I’d like to think he’s smart enough to answer.” Manning shrugged as much as he could.
Cherry’s silenced phone vibrated twice against his leg which meant Ricky had called back with something he needed to know. Manning glanced at the bulge in his pocket and tipped his head to one side.
“That’s something important to you. That two-pulse thing. You’re quite happy to get that message. What is it, Enforcer? That message? What’s it supposed to mean?”
Without engaging with Manning’s questions, he stepped behind the chair. With rough hands, he tugged on the strips of tape winding around the man’s torso. The makeshift restraint was still very tight, no places fraying. Cherry twisted the man’s hands so they stuck out from the sides. He ignored the shouts of pain. Muscles and veins were strained in Manning’s neck and his chin dropped to his chest, groaning a final time.
