“The floral spray,” Rae said. “It’s the Fred’s Mortuary scent.”
They moved ina bigger TV along with two used laptops and a printer, stereo speakers and a turntable, two pawn-quality electric guitars, a Korg electric piano with three inoperable keys, a bronze statue of a little boy peeing with a small gauge brass pipe bent and dangling from the bottom of the statue—“The kid’s supposed to pee vodka,” Lucas said. There was a lot of other crap, including a tool chest, bottles of high-end liquor, a load of men’s size 46-short suits with a bunch of Hermès neckties, and four Porsche wheels, all with a newly stolen vibe.
Rae picked up an unopened bottle of Don Julio Real tequila and said, “Oooh. Somebody’s got good taste.”
The next day,Virgil and Rae made their first visit to Brill’s, where they spotted Cattaneo. Cattaneo didn’t go to Brill’s the next day, but he did on the third day, when they talked.
Cattaneo didn’t call that night, but they hadn’t expected him to: he’d be doing research.
At nine o’clock, in the light of a flickering neon sign, Virgil andRae walked down the street to the Ouroboros Bar and Grill, went inside, and looked around. Virgil said, “The guy in the black T-shirt.”
Rae: “I think so.”
They sat at the bar, Virgil got a Budweiser and Rae went with a Tequila Sunset and they made eye contact with the guy in the black T-shirt a few times, and then Virgil slid off his barstool and wandered over to the guy and asked, “How ya doin’?”
“Doin’ fine. Nice-lookin’ lady you got there.”
“She’s good. Listen, we just come down from Iowa...”
“Where in Iowa?”
Pause. “Fort Dodge?”
“I come from Waterloo, originally,” the guy said.
“Yeah? I’ve gone through there, on my way from Vinton out to Sturgis.”
“Sturgis. I wanna go. Bad. I been to Daytona about a hundred times. What’s your ride?”
“At the time, an old Harley softtail...”
They talked bikes for a couple of minutes, then Virgil sat down and said, “I’ve been looking for somebody who can hook me up.”
“With what?”
“A little weed. I don’t want to break any laws or anything. You looked like a rider, I thought you might know somebody.”
Rae came over and sat down and asked, “You the guy?”
“I don’t sell anything except auto parts...”
“Really? We got four wheels we might want to get rid of, off a Porsche.”
They talked some more and the guy asked how much weed they wanted and they talked about an ounce. The man, whose name was Roy, told them to sit still for a few minutes. He went outthe back door and came back six or seven minutes later with another man, who said his name was Richard. Richard, who looked more like a shoe salesman than even the narcs did, slid a baggie across the table to them.
“Two hundred.”
“Whoa.”
Richard smiled: “It’s top-grade Chemdawg. My sources say this particular batch...” He tapped the baggie. “... has a THC level of thirty-one percent. It’s like a cross between Thai and Nepalese and it will float your ass to Oz.”
“Well, shit, gotta have it,” Virgil said.
He looked at Rae, who opened her clutch, took out a roll of twenties and counted out ten of them. Richard took the cash and said, “Nice doing business with you.”
“You got an empty baggie on you?”
“Yeah?”
