Venom was only a little bit scared of the nosy reporter and the Chicago police. But he lived in terror of the IRS.
After switching off his computer and exiting his office, he walked to the front of the shop to see a cop waiting on the other side of the counter. Speak of the devil.
Venom knew the newcomer was a pig not because he sported a uniform or flashed a badge, but because he wore a rumpled, off-the-rack suit and had a terrible haircut, but despite this, carried himself with a certain arrogance.
Venom had assumed he might get a visit from the police after last night’s shenanigans. Bulldog had been wearing his cut—and broadcasting his affiliation with the Basilisks—when he was confronted by the blond in the alley. But being prepared didn’t make it any easier for Venom to stomach having the law inside one of his establishments. He recognized no authority above his own, but for a while, he would be forced to act like he did.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t get in a few digs. A man had to take his fun where he could find it.
“You smell that?” He was sniffing the air when Crutch strolled into the front of the shop through the door that led to the mechanics’ bays in the back. Wearing coveralls and biker boots, Crutch wiped grease from his hand onto a blue terry-cloth rag.
“Yeah.” Crutch nodded, instantly clueing in and playing along. “What is that?”
“Pork.” Venom sneered. “Makes me wanna fry up some bacon for lunch. How ’bout you?”
“You know I love cooked pig.”
“Ha-ha.” The cop reached into his jacket pocket to pull out his credentials. “Like I’ve never heard that one before.” He placed his badge on the countertop and adjusted his suit coat over the bulge of his shoulder holster.
Venom wondered if the doughnut eater realized both bikers standing in front of him had Glocks hidden in their boots. Probably not, he decided. Or else the cop wouldn’t be playing the big, bad cock of the walk.
“My name is Detective Curtis Carver, and I need to ask you boys a few questions about a murder that happened yesterday.”
Boys. Venom wanted to make the detective eat that word. Instead, he said, “And here I thought my day was gonna be boring.” Grabbing the stool behind the counter, he casually took a seat. Crutch came to stand at his shoulder, ever the loyal sidekick.
“But before we get to that,” the detective said, “let me be clear who I’m talking to. You are…” He looked at Venom, brow raised in bored interest as if he already knew the answer to his question but was determined to wait on the reply anyway.
“Name’s Venom.”
“Ah.” Carver nodded and pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket. He flipped it open and licked his finger, thumbing back a few pages. “John George Peabody the Third.” Venom’s jaw clenched at the hated name. “Which would make you the president of the Basilisks.”
Venom wasn’t surprised by the detective’s knowledge. The Basilisks had had enough run-ins with the CPD to warrant familiarity. Luckily, few of those run-ins had resulted in jail time.
“So then you are…” The detective let his eyes run over Crutch. “Let me guess. Denis Cook, a.k.a. Crutch.”
In answer, Crutch reached into the pocket of his overalls, pulled out a pack of Marlboros, and shook out a smoke. With a leisureliness that made Venom fight a smile, Crutch lit the tobacco, inhaled deeply, and blew a smoke ring toward Carver’s face.
The detective’s eye twitched as the smoke wafted over his head. “In the city of Chicago, it’s illegal to smoke inside buildings open to the public.”
“You goin’ to arrest me, Detective Carver?” Crutch asked with a lazy drawl.
Instead of answering, Carver reached into his back pocket and pulled out a photo of a smiling kid in a striped sweater. He set the picture on the counter beside his shiny badge. “You ever seen this man before?”
Venom recognized Marcel Monroe right away. Although the photo—obviously a school picture—showed a completely different young man than the one Bulldog had tailed and finally taken out. That Marcel had sported the baggy jeans, cocked ball cap, and black-and-purple colors that shouted his affiliation with the Apostles.
“Nope,” he said, his face carefully blank. “Can’t say that I have.” He turned to Crutch. “You?”
“Maybe.” Crutch shrugged. “Hard to tell. He looks like all the other kids ’round here. Why? He into motorcycles or something? He doesn’t look the sort.”
“No, he isn’t into motorcycles.” Carver frowned. “He’s into running drugs with the Black Apostles. You two have any knowledge of that?”
Venom laughed loud and long. Made sure it was a good belly-roller. Then, pretending to wipe a tear, he looked the detective straight in the eye and declared, “You’re funny. Surely, you know gangbangers and MCs don’t mix. I’m not saying it’s a race thing, but…it’s a race thing.”
Carver held his stare, the detective’s poor opinion of Venom’s prejudice evidenced by the curl of his upper lip. Venom didn’t blink. He couldn’t be arrested for being a bigot. They both knew that.
Finally, Carver reached into his pocket again. This time, the photo he placed on the countertop made Venom’s heart race. Behind the fly of his jeans, his dick flexed hungrily. He wanted to snatch that picture, shove it into his pocket, and keep it for later. Instead, he blinked and stared impassively at Carver. “Who’s the hottie, and where can I find her number?”
“Her name is Samantha Tate. She’s a reporter for the Chicago Tribune.”
