“Let’s go,” Lucas said. He and Bob broke away from the bouncer, leaving him standing by the door, and walked around the building toward the back. There, they found Weeks talking with Axel Morris. Morris was standing at the back door, crutches under his arms, a black medical boot on his left foot.
When they came up, Lucas asked, “He holding?”
Weeks held up a baggie of weed. “Yeah. Gave it up without a fight.”
Morris looked like an Army officer in a British war film, skinny, big-nosed, slant-eyed. Women would like him, Lucas thought. Morris frowned at them: “Who are these people?” he asked Weeks.
Weeks said, “Federal marshals.”
“What?”
The bouncer came around the corner. “What the fuck is going on here?”
“Federal marshals,” Bob said. “You should go back in the club.”
“How do I know you’re marshals?”
“Because we said so,” Lucas said. “Go back in the club.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then we’ll arrest you as an accessory to narcotics distribution and put you in prison,” Bob said. “And listen, I’m trying to be nice about this.”
The bouncer puffed up and opened his mouth, and Bob added, “And if you take us on, I’ll break your arms and legs and kick your balls off and then arrest you for assault on federal officers and accessory to narcotics dealing. And put you in prison.”
Weeks winced and said, “Jesus, take it easy, man. Kick his balls off?”
“I have no tolerance for being attacked and I thought he might be inclined that way,” Bob said, staring down the bouncer.
The bouncer looked him over and something in Bob’s eyes warned him off. He unpuffed and said, “I’m getting the manager,” and he pulled open the door behind Morris and disappeared into the club.
Morris asked Weeks,“What the hell are the feds doing here? It’s only fifteen grams.”
“We don’t have the Miami law,” Lucas said. “Marijuana is a Schedule 1 drug...”
“That’s bullshit, man,” Morris said. He looked to Weeks for support, and Weeks smiled.
“A Schedule 1 drug, same as cocaine and heroin,” Lucas continued. “The president decided we needed to take you off the street and you know what? I checked your sheet and you qualify for the federal three-strikes law.”
Bob pulled handcuffs out of his pants pocket. “So, let’s get the cuffs on. Listen, don’t worry about federal prison, Axel. Can I call you Axel? Turn around here, Axel. They’ve got really good medical care in the federal prison system, especially for you older guys.”
“I’m not older...” Morris said, as he turned to the cuffs. “I’m not even forty.”
“You will be older, with a three-strike conviction,” Bob said. “In fact...” He turned to Lucas. “With a three-strikes, will he ever get out?”
“Don’t believe he will,” Lucas said. To Weeks: “We’ll stay in touch, Walker. We’ll need you to testify about the weed.”
“Absolutely. Happy to do it,” Weeks said. “Glad to scrape this piece of shit off my shoe.”
Lucas said toMorris, “Like Bob was saying, being in prison is not really much different than, you know, hanging out all day in any crappy building. Like a high school. Or this club, for instance. Of course, there’s no pussy inside... unless you’re the pussy.”
Bob had Morris hooked up, his hands shackled behind his back, and Morris exhaled in exasperation and asked, “Okay, what do you want?”
“I don’t think we’re dealing, are we?” Lucas asked Bob.
“I’d be reluctant to deal,” Bob said. “Axel is sorta a big wheel. Get it? Axel, wheel?”
Morris said, “I’ve heard that joke a thousand times. And you guysaredealing. You wouldn’t even talk to me if you weren’t.”
