Page 467 of Devil’s Disciples

Crip got off his bike, took a precursory look at the home, and took off his helmet. “Don’t look like the drug dealers in Oceanside, that’s for sure.”

I opened my saddlebag, got out the backpack, and slipped my right arm through one of the straps. “Ready?”

“As ready as I’m going to get.” He drew a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”

The modest home was an outdated white single-story ranch shoehorned between two two-story contemporary glass mansions. With the backpack swinging from my shoulder, I sauntered toward the double wooden doors.

The faint sound of music came from the back side of the home. I glanced at the door and then at Crip. “Cop knock, or ring the doorbell?”

“Cop knock might get us both shot.” He nodded toward the button. “Doorbell.”

I rang the doorbell. After what seemed like an eternity, I rang it again. Beyond the ding-dong sound of the bell, there was no noise or movement coming from inside the home.

“I’m guessing they’re out back,” Crip said.

“What do you want to do?”

“Suppose we should go back there.”

With slight reluctance, we walked toward the music. Upon clearing the back corner of the home, a large two-level concrete deck, infinity pool, and outdoor kitchen came into view.

My jaw dropped.

The rear of the home certainly didn’t match the front.

On the upper tier of the deck, a man was leaning over a large stainless-steel stove. With his back to us, he either didn’t realize we’d arrived, or he didn’t care. Two other men were seated at an island bar fifteen feet from where we stood, facing the ocean—and us.

Upon seeing us, one of the men stood.

As calm as could be, he looked us over. “Jew two look lost, or scared,” he said flatly. “Or maybe a leetle of both.”

His skin was dark-bronze in color. His head was shaved clean and he wore a neatly-trimmed goatee. Dressed in pressed Chinos and a stark-white wife beater, he had a clean, presentable appearance.

His hands—and only his hands—were covered in tattoos. From the photos Watson had shared with us, it was clear that he was Manos.

The man at his side was wearing a pair of light blue linen slacks and a tan linen shirt. His dark brown hair was cut short, almost in a buzz-cut. An untrimmed caterpillar-esque mustache covered his top lip entirely. The look on his face made it clear that he was irritated with our presence.

Nervous as fuck, but hoping I wasn’t showing it, I lowered my backpack, unzipped it, and removed the kilo of cocaine.

Manos’ eyes darted to the cellophane-wrapped package. Upon recognizing what it was, they quickly widened.

“You look surprised or nervous.” I tossed the package to him. “Or maybe a little of both.”

He caught it and laughed. “Jer fahnny, amigo.”

I tilted my head toward Crip. “He tells me that all the time. If being an outlaw biker doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll try my luck in Vegas, as a comedian.”

Manos looked the package over, showed it to his mustachioed friend, and then threw it back in an underhanded lob, no differently than if he were tossing me a can of beer. “Sorry, my friend. I’m not inna-rested.”

I dropped it into the backpack, zipped it, and slipped my arm through the strap. “That’s good, because I’m not here to sell it.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Why are jew here?”

“I’m in an awkward position.” Beginning at his huaraches, I dragged my gaze up his athletic frame as if I were sizing him up. When our eyes met, I cleared my throat. “Normally I wouldn’t come to a place like this unannounced, but my options are limited. I need to negotiate a deal.”

He opened his arms and waved his tattooed hands toward the horizon. “A place like theese? What chu mean, a place like theese?”

“The only place where a man feels comfortable enough to eat and shit in peace,” I said. “His home.”