“Four pallets in one truck to the Mirage, two in another to Lucky Jacks, one in the third to the north lot for a truck,” Salvatore said. “And that.” He jerked his chin at the black bike. “That goes to a storage unit drop site west of here. We have a key. We have a guy who will watch it until pick up.”
“Then your guy can move it,” Spade said.
“Our guy doesn’t want a soft hand to move it,” Salvatore said. “He wants you.”
“We’re not furniture movers,” I said.
“You are what the family pays you to be,” Salvatore snapped, smile fading.
8-Ball breathed out slow. “Work is work,” he said. “We’ll help roll it, then we’re gone. Nobody saddles it. Nobody starts it. Nobody takes anything that doesn’t belong to us.” He gave Miami a look that was not unkind and not a suggestion.
Miami grinned and held up both palms like a sinner promising to behave. He still looked like a man planning to sin.
We got the pallets loaded onto the trucks fast. Turnpike and Priest carried the weight. Badger wrapped straps like a pro. Jackal kept count and kept quiet. Mirage signed what he needed to sign and kept the ink from staining his soul.
The bike came last. We eased the crate apart. The black shape leaned into the light. It was slicker up close. Tank shaved bare. Frame tubing thicker where it shouldn’t be thicker. The welds were too pretty. The pretty kind of wrong that means someone was hidinga scar.
“Roadkill,” I said.
He was already circling. He tapped the frame with a wrench and listened. Tapped again. His head cocked. He tapped a third time. “Too dull,” he said. “Too full.”
“Full of what?” Spade asked, bored and eager.
“Not air,” Roadkill said with a glance.
Snake Eyes looked at Blackjack, then at me, then at Salvatore. “We taking this on faith?”
“You’re taking it on invoice,” Salvatore replied. “If you want to pull parts in the middle of my pier, call your lawyer first.”
Blackjack stared at the bike. He was a man who trusted his gut the way sailors trust the moon. But as shady as this seemed, we had no reason not to trust it. It wasn’t like we hadn’t moved worse things or more dangerous things before. At least this time we got to see what was inside the crate. “Load it,” he said.
Miami exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.
We rolled the bike toward our cage. Wheels whispered over wet wood. A flock of gulls wheeled and screamed. The bay slapped pilings. On the far end of the pier a man lit a cigarette. I watched the ash and the way his shoulders held tension like a story he didn’t want to tell.
“Jersey,” Blackjack said without taking his eyes off the load. “Take the Baltic run. Then stick to theback roads.”
“Me and who?”
“8-Ball. Miami. Spade. Snake Eyes tailing. Priest. Turnpike in the cage.”
“Copy.”
Miami bumped my shoulder with his. “You hear that? Date night.”
“Don’t flirt with me in front of the family,” I said.
“I’m faithful,” he said, grin widening.
“To Quinn,” I replied.
“To speed,” he said.
We strapped the bike. Roadkill double-checked. Triple-checked. He didn’t like things that didn’t talk back to him honestly. “She’ll ride,” he said at last, distrust lingering like a stain.
Salvatore handed 8-Ball a key on a brass ring. Cheap motel metal. “Unit 317,” he said. “You’ll meet a man named Carlo.”
“Carlo who?” 8-Ball asked.
