“You don’t give me the money. You lend it to me. Maybe cut the interest in half and give me a break on the repayment schedule.” I cross my fingers. An extra 50k will put me back at the tables and I can feel my luck changing. I’ll have him paid back in a week.
Renfrew mulls this over, then says, “Okay. I can live with those terms. The question is, can you?”
I can almost see the fucking bastard’s smug smile. 150k is like a drop of water in a swimming pool.
“You don’t need to worry,” I reply. “I’ll get Toper his fix and your money back.”
“Get over here, then,” Renfrew says. “The clubhouse.”
“On my way.”
He hangs up. Renfrew’s not big on long goodbyes.
I head to my car, a sweet second-hand Boxster that I’m five months behind on payments. That’s why I got it hidden in the bowels of a six-story parking lot. The odds of it getting ripped off are pretty good and if it does, the payout from the insurance company will get me out of hot water with the bank. And if it doesn’t, well the odds of the bank finding and towing it are 20 to 1 in favor of me.
The 311 Boys clubhouse is in a slum area of town and it isn’t pretty inside or out, but it works for the gang because it’s smack in the middle of gangland. It’s where they recruit the lowlifes for the shit they peddle. Pimps, prostitutes, drugs. Color of skin or ethnic background don’t matter on this petty shit, but you wanna be in the inner circle, you have to be as white as fresh snow on Heavenly Mountain in Tahoe.
At the clubhouse, I’m patted down by two of the gang members, Harry and Austin. I know most of the 311 Boys by name. We hang out. Party. They keep me around because I’m useful to them. I’m easy to talk to and most people like to talk. So I hear a lot of gossip about deals going down by other gangs, mobsters, bikers. I keep track of events and conventions too. They’re ripe for selling sex and drugs. Good for rolling assholes.
Renfrew’s waiting for me in the main room, sitting at a table with a briefcase on top of it. Next to the case is a charcoal suit and a pair of shiny black dress shoes. Renfrew’s smoking weed and drinking beer. He’s a classy guy when he wants to be, but down here in dive-town, he works hard to blend. I let him think he does but his razor haircut and straight white teeth give him away. Give all the 311 Boys away.
“You got here fast,” Renfrew says as he waves towards a chair.
I stay standing. “I can’t hang out. I’m on a deadline. Gotta get the money back to Kozlov before he turns my kid into Gumby.”
He looks at me with dead eyes. “Guess so. Money and Toper’s fix are in the case. Toper’s the priority, so you better get moving.”
That’s Renfrew’s way of saying Selkie can fucking live with a broken arm if I miss Kozlov’s deadline. “Thanks for this.” I strip in front of him and put on the suit. As I button up the shirt, I say, “Terms?”
“We’ll talk about that when you come back for your clothes.”
That’s never good. Taking money from him without talking the terms of the deal is suicidal, but I’m between a rock and a hard place. And no time for a sit-down with Renfrew anyway. “Right,” I say. “I better get going.”
As I’m headed out the door, Renfrew calls after me, “Find out from Toper the name of the fuck that picked him up. I want to help the asshole sort out his priorities.”
As I leave, I have this sinking feeling. Call it intuition or whatever, but I ‘d bet good money that Selkie had a hand in Toper’s arrest.
Speaking of which, it’s easy getting to Toper. I might have a reputation in some circles, but I’m not really a criminal despite my association with them and I’ve never been arrested. The cops don’t know me.
Toper looks like shit. He’s sniffing, scratching and bug-eyed. “Get me out of here, man,” he croaks.
“Can’t,” I say. “You’re here for the weekend but Renfrew sent you a cake.”
The nice thing about attorney-client privilege is that the cops can’t listen in or watch you. They might search Toper when our meeting’s over, but that’s irrelevant. I wait until he’s shot himself up then put the drug paraphernalia back in my briefcase.
The shit hits Toper’s brain fast and he calms down. “Thanks.” He takes a breath. “How’m I gonna get through the weekend?”
“I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“You’re a good guy, Jonny Fry.”
I smile. I’m not immune to flattery. “I gotta go, kid. Take care of yourself.”
“You take care of me, we’ll be bffs.”
“Right.” I’m almost at the door when I remember Renfrew’s ask. “Hey. Who picked you up?”
His slack face gets animated. “Fuckin’ bitch did, that’s who.”
