“One thing at a time, Franco. My work with her has been all about Chase.”
“When will it bemytime? I’ve gotten nowhere since she moved here,” Franco complained. “The one time I tried to kiss her, she appeared,” his face puckered, “repulsed. She never lets me stay at the Foote house past nine. More and more often these days, she makes excuses not to even have dinner with me. She never agrees to an overnight somewhere for a photo shoot. Says it would be improper. We should have put more rules into her contracts.”
“My contract is plenty strict, and so is yours,” Mateo said, squaring off with him. “You have no one but yourself to blame for pushing and pushing her until you pushed her to the point of escaping us for five days. You should have—”
“Don’t!” Franco stuck his index finger in Mateo’s face. “Don’t say I should have let you work your hypnosis on her months ago.”
“You should have. Do you think I’d have women Jade’s age without hypnosis? But no, you’reDavid,and you could winVenusall on your own.”
“Before you criticize my looks, brother, remember we’re twins.” Franco downed his bourbon. “By the way, you need to start dyeing your goatee or shave it because it’s turning gray and you’re looking old. And please touch up your damn roots.”
“You need to stop mixing bourbon and cocaine because it’s impairing the gray matter on the inside of your head. Psychosis is replacing reality.”
Franco smacked his crystal tumbler onto a glass table. “I’m going up to see her.”
“I’m going with you.”
Franco shrugged and climbed the stairs. Margo was invaluable because she was in love with Mateo. Ignoring his office trysts with unsuspecting clients, she would do anything to please his brother. For love or money, Franco didn’t know nor care. Reaching the top of the stairs, Franco smoothed the lapels of his silk robe. With a cursory knock, he entered the lavish bedroom he had prepared for Jade months ago.
“Where am I?” Jade asked, sitting up in bed as Margo sat nearby in a chair.
Franco smiled at the golden goddess whose beauty outshone Venus and Aphrodite combined. As for elegance and sex appeal, Grace Kelly and Marilyn Monroe were runners-up.
“Safe, thank God. That’s where you are,” Margo assured her with a smile.
* * *
“Southside Suzy’s,”Cash said on Tejon Street. “Haven’t been here for a while.”
“Me neither,” Chase replied.
They couldn’t walk into a public place with revolvers stuck in their belts. So, in a holster on Chase’s right hip was a Kimber Raptor .45 ACP. This Kimber .45 1911 model shot nine rounds and was considered one of the most effective pistols known in the world. The initials stood for Automatic Colt Pistol. Cash was packing a Kimber Warrior .45 ACP.
Chase pulled his Dodge Ram into a parking space not far from a row of Harley Davidson motorcycles. On the other side of his truck were Mercedes and Porsches, Toyotas and Audis, Fords and Ferraris, along with just about every other kind of vehicle, even an electric one. Suzy’s drew a large and diverse clientele. People you might find here included attorneys, accountants, shop owners from downtown businesses, professors, teachers, and students from the universities, community colleges, and other schools, along with doctors, nurses, and various healthcare workers who dropped in from both major hospitals and countless clinics.
“I hope Suzy and Richard are here,” Cash said, getting out of the truck.
“If not, Vince can get word to them, but that’ll take time we don’t have to waste.”
Richard was Suzy’s significant other and the president of the Sons of Steel Motorcycle Club—one of the five most dangerous motorcycle gangs in the United States. The Sons of Steel had been founded north of Denver, Colorado, but their national headquarters had later moved to Colorado Springs. With their membership fewer than five hundred, what the club lacked in numbers, the Sons of Steel reputedly made up for in firepower and ruthlessness.
As Chase walked around the front of his truck, a biker pulled in next to them at the end of the row of motorcycles. The colors, or club identification, on the back of his black vest readSons of Steel,and on the front was a1%erpatch. The1%erpatch supposedly referred to a comment made by the American Motorcyclist Association indicating 99 percent of motorcyclists were law-abiding citizens. The1%ers—not so much.
“The Triple C boys,” the biker said and fell into step on the other side of Chase.
Chase and Cash had grown up riding with the Colorado Springs chapter of this motorcycle club. Cash also owned the required bike, which was a Harley, similar to Chase’s.
“Hey, Wolf,” Chase said to the burly biker.
“Good to see you,” Wolf replied stoically through two rows of silver teeth.
“Same here,” Cash said.
Wolf stopped near the entrance, and Chase led the way into Southside Suzy’s, where the lights were dim enough that it took a moment for one’s eyes to adjust. The aromas of burgers, steaks, ribs, and beer assailed them while the sounds of voices and laughter at the bar, tables, and booths blended with the racking of pool balls and cue sticks making contact.
“Suzy will be running the show from the bar if she’s here,” Chase said of the forty-five-year-old woman who managed the place with help-as-needed from her father. Shortly before the accident in front of the ranch, Vincent South had bought this building, named the establishment after his daughter, and built it into the success it was today. Humbly, Vince would always say it was the Triple C Ranch beef and not his business sense. It was both. Though semiretired now, he was not only a member of the Sons of Steel but still made appearances behind the bar. This evening was such an occasion. “Hey, Vince.” Chase raised a hand in hello.
“Look who it is! My Triple C Ranchers! Welcome!” Vince, quite jovial with those he liked and a mean bastard to those he didn’t, waved them to the bar. Portly and balding with a full beard, he always wore a white apron, much like a butcher. Hence, the reason for his motorcycle nickname, Butcher, or so he claimed. “What’ll you have, gentlemen? Your usual?”
