DIESEL
I grab my phone off the table and glance at it. “Where is the motherfucker?”
“He’ll be here.” Smoke flicks his lighter.
“You sure he meant tonight at nine?”
“No, dumbass, he wants to set up a meet at nine in the morning.” Blood leans into the table. “What the fuck do you think?”
“I think it’s a stupid time. What self-respecting outlaw schedules a meet at nine on a Friday night? Nine is a bullshit time. Too early for any action, but too late for a sit-down.”
“You’re just pissy ‘cause you’re afraid it’s gonna interfere with your party.” Blood smirks.
“Eduardo’s twenty minutes late already,” Smoke grumbles. “He’s got ten minutes, then I’m calling it off, and he can set up another meet.”
Smoke values his time and punctuality. Eduardo being late wasn’t gonna win any points with our prez.
“We don’t even know if we’re gonna like his deal,” Blood adds.
“If and when Eduardo gets here, we talk shit over, and if we like what he has to say, we make the deal—if not, he’s out the door.”
“How come Benito didn’t come himself?”
“Who the fuck knows? Supposedly, Eduardo works with Benito, but I’m not putting up with this late shit, no matter how lucrative the deal.”
“Owning a piece of a casino would be sweet.” Blood, our VP, is always looking for a way to increase profits. “Always loved going to Vegas.”
“Only if the percentage is right and in our favor, ‘cause there’s no fuckin’ way I’m dipping our fingers into something that don’t pay off.”
Smoke looks at the bottom line first. He took a shit hole like The Tropics, fixed it up and made it a huge moneymaker, along with the cage fighting. He’d learned the hard way in San Diego how much not paying attention to details can cost. He’d almost lost his chapter of the Royal Bastards, but somehow managed to put it all together in Tijuana and actually make a profit—a huge profit, which made Jameson, our chapter president in the States, very happy.
“This fucker’s got five more minutes.” Smoke throws me a look. “Can’t have our Enforcer waiting too long for his birthday party.”
“Hey, not every day a guy turns thirty.” I flick my hand at Smoke and Blood. “And I plan on partying my ass off, ‘cause someday I’m gonna be old like you fuckers.”
Smoke narrows his eyes. “Who you calling old?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I pull a pack of smokes out of my cut. “And who the fuck does business on a Friday night?”
“Quit bitchin’,” Smoke said.
“Don’t these bastards know Fridays are for kicking back, drinking, and getting your dick wet?”
“Geez,” Blood rolls his eyes, “you sound like a kid.”
“Worse,” I add with a smirk.
“If we get the right numbers, this casino deal could work. With the profits from the cage fighting and the product we sell at the fights, we need another place to hide our money.” Blood laughs. “Too much fuckin’ money, not a bad problem to have.”
“And the beauty part is, the cartel pays off the cops, and we have an open door to make our money legit,” Smoke says. “Trade the dirty money in for chips, then redeem the chips for clean cash. Win-win.”
“I sure never expected when we landed in Tijuana two years ago that we’d have duffel bags full of scratch, but as they say,” Smoke plugs a cig between his lips and lights up, “hard work pays off.”
Bolt joins us at the table, and Smoke asks, “Any sign of Eduardo?”
“Not yet, Boss.” Bolt shrugs. “I guess punctuality ain’t important to the cartel.”
Smoke glances at his phone again. “Fuck him; time’s up,” he says to Bolt, who runs security at the strip club. “Lock up thedoors. Time to get this party started.” Smoke nods at me. “Wouldn’t want you to miss a minute.”
