Page 80 of Reno

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t what!?”

“I don’t have—”

“I fucking heard you, Tiddle-whatever-the-fuck-your-name-is. When are you going to have them?”

I shrugged. “Couple of hours?”

He shook his head and looked away. After a long, exaggerated sigh, he met my gaze. He held it for a moment, and then looked at Alacrán. He studied him for an instant, and then looked at me. “Who the fuck is this? A fucking cop?”

Good job, Brother.

“He’s a business associate,” I said. “His name’s Bradley Cooper.”

“Well, take Bradley, go get my guns, and don’t come back until you have them.”

I hoped like hell he knew what to do. I gave him a nod. “I’ll see you in two hours.”

He glanced at his watch. “If you’re five minutes late, I wouldn’t want to be you, Mister Tiddle-fuck.”

If you’re five minutes late saving Carma, I wouldn’t want to be me, either.

29

Carma

It was twenty minutes after ten, and I had yet to hear from Reno. I feared something had happened. Something bad. While I sipped a cup of coffee loaded with Irish Cream, my mother came into the kitchen.

“What’s wrong, Carma?”

I looked up. “Just waiting on a someone, mother.”

She walked to the coffee pot, paused, and then looked at the clock. “It’s late to be going out.”

“Not for an adult on Saturday night, mother.”

She faced me and put her hands on her hips. “It’s not the boy from your work, is it?”

I gave her a look. “Mother…”

“Carmelita, I don’t want you to—”

“Mother, he’s a good man,” I insisted. “You have to trust me.”

“You’re putting us all at risk. You need to understand—” She cocked her head to the side. “What’s that noise?”

It was the same sound from the poker run. The sound of dozens upon dozens of motorcycles approaching. The hair on my neck stiffened as the sound grew closer and closer.

Filled with excitement, I leaped from my seat.

She glared. “Stay. Here.”

The sound grew louder and louder, until it was so intense the dishes were shaking in the cabinets. I hurried to the opening that led into the living room and peered toward the front door.

My mother’s face was plastered against the door, and her eye was at the peephole.

My father was standing in the living room, facing her with his hands on his hips. “What’s going on?”

“There’s motorcycles everywhere.” My mother gasped. “There’s two men coming to the porch. A long-haired giant and a man with a bushy white beard.” She turned toward my father with fire in her eyes. “Get the gun.”