“Thank you.” I grabbed my bag, hauling it upstairs and into the guest room.
“Night, Bree,” Luca called as he passed the room.
“Night, LuLu. Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
I heard his door close and then I went about trying to find sleep.
* * *
Stoney
“Ithought you saidwe were going to the track?” I asked as we pulled up to Norman’s Chop House. Sundance parked and killed the engine.
“We are,” he said, unzipping the black duffel back in the back seat and removing a ten-thousand-dollar stack of bills. “Grab the bag,” he said, and I did as I was told, exiting the car and shouldering the duffel.
We’d picked up the bag and its contents from the most secret of all the club’s locations. Since our stock-in-trade was weed, and weed still wasn’t federally legal, we couldn’t keep all our money in a federal bank. Most of our liquid assets were kept at a secure location we called the ATM.
Norman’s Chop House was damn near a historical landmark in Monument. It was the place where everyone’s grandparents got engaged, served a decent steak, and was a total dump. Norman’s was far from hip and located in one of the less desirable neighborhoods in Monument, so I was surprised to see how full the parking lot was.
“It’s Thursday, so Bulykin should be here,” Sundance said as we made our way to the entrance.
“What the fuck is this?” I asked.
“Follow me and keep your mouth shut. Don’t say or do shit unless I give the word. Got it?” he demanded.
“Roger,” I replied as we reached the front door. Stepping inside, I was surprised to see how few patrons were in the dining room. Given how packed the lot was, I expected to see the same inside.
“Table for two?” the hostess, an attractive young blonde woman, asked us in a heavy Russian accent.
“We’re friends of Steve,” Sundance said, and the hostess smiled, nodded, and led us to a doorway on the opposite side of the dining room. She opened the door to reveal a staircase leading down to what appeared to be the basement. Sundance led the way, and once we reached the bottom of the staircase, the hostess closed the door behind us, leaving us alone.
“What the hell is this? Who’s Steve?” I asked.
“Didn’t I tell you to keep your mouth shut?” Sundance snapped. “These guys are touchy and don’t trust anyone.”
Just then, the door at the bottom of the staircase opened to reveal a giant man wearing what looked like an expensive suit. In the background was a cacophony of cheers, stomps, and a strange whirring sound.
“What the fuck you want?” he asked in gruff, broken English.
“We’re friends of Steve,” Sundance said, just as he did before.
“So, the fucking what?” he replied.
Sundance pulled the orange strap of a stack of hundred-dollar bills from his cut pocket.
“So, we came to race,” Sundance replied, peeling off three bills from the stack and handing them to the giant, who paused briefly before taking the money and stepping aside.
Once inside, I could see the source of all the racket. Fifty or so excited men lined the walls of the basement, most of them waving wads of cash and shouting excitedly. In the center was a miniature race car track. I say miniature only compared to an actual track. This thing took up almost the entire basement. It had to be over fifty feet long, eight lanes wide, and was full of twists and turns.
No sooner had we entered then a voice announced, “Final bets. Place your final bets, now,” whipping the crowd into an even bigger frenzy.
I studied the room and noticed the walls were plastered with racing and movie posters and one man was the subject of all of them. Steve McQueen.
Sundance leaned in. “Slot car racing.”
“What the fuck?”
