Miguel took several slow steps toward the fence. “I don’t know shit, Malcolm.”
“You don’t even know what I want to talk about,” James said smoothly.
“Whatever it is, I don’t know.”
“I’ll guess we’ll see if that’s true.” James grabbed the gate and rattled it, making the padlock clang against the metal. “Now open the gate, because there’s no way in hell I’m walking around front to play this game again.”
Miguel walked over, holding the set of keys in his hand. Obviously, he’d been prepared to leave in a hurry. He reached for the padlock and inserted a key, his hands shaking slightly, then took off the padlock. He gave James an expectant look.
“You gonna invite us in?” James asked, nodding to the latch holding the gate closed.
“For fuck’s sake,” Miguel grumbled, then lifted the latch and pulled the gate open.
He cringed as James strode through, as though he expected to be physically assaulted, but James just said, “Lead the way.”
Miguel shot me a look, obviously curious about my involvement. I suspected James had worked solo since his release from prison, and Miguel had made it clear it was out of the ordinary for a woman to be accompanying him.
After Miguel closed the gate—not locking the padlock—he stomped toward the back door, leaving us to follow. Inside, three cars were in all three bays, in various states of bodywork. James had shoved his gun back into its holster, but his persona still reeked of intimidation. Two of the workers sent us nervous glances, but the third kept his face buried under the hood of the car he was working on. I suspected it was purposeful.
Miguel opened another door, and we followed him down a short hall into a small office.
An industrial metal desk was pushed against the wall to the left, with an office chair shoved underneath. A cheap metal bookshelf lined the back wall, perpendicular to the desk, full of what looked to be schematic manuals for cars and trucks. A metal chair with a cracked vinyl seat sat next to the end of the desk.
“Have a seat, Mig.” James motioned to the desk chair. He nodded for me to take the other one.
I sat, but Miguel was more hesitant to move.
“This is just a chat,” James said in an amicable tone. “It can be as friendly or unfriendly as you like.”
It was already off to a rocky start, but no doubt it could get a hell of a lot worse.
Miguel pulled out the desk chair, his hands shaking even more, and took a seat, casting a glance at me. “I heard you wore all black.”
I narrowed my eyes in confusion. Did he know who I was? And while my clothing choice ran on the dull side, I’d worn a lot of gray and navy.
“We’re not here to discuss her wardrobe choices,” James barked.
Miguel started to say something, then stopped, his whole body shaking now.
“Mig, why’re you so nervous to see me?” James asked, leaning his shoulder against the wall in a relaxed pose.
“The last time I saw you?—”
“The last time I saw you, we parted on friendly terms,” he said. “So try again.”
Miguel swallowed. “Word on the street is you’re a dead man walkin’. I don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.” He hesitated. “Or let people think we’re workin’ together.”
James’s eyebrows lifted in a barely perceptible movement, as though he was only slightly interested in this information. “You don’t say. Who made the threat?”
Miguel inhaled sharply. “Dunno.”
James tilted his head. “I call bullshit. Try again.” His tone was deceptively friendly, making his order more ominous. “I mean, if you don’t want anyone to think we’re workin’ together, you’d definitely know who you’re hopin’ to keep the information from.”
Miguel shook his head, looking like he was about to be sick, but kept silent.
James’s eyes stayed trained on the man in the chair. “Try again.” His voice took on an authoritative tone.
“I don’t know!” Miguel shouted, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
