Page 72 of Domino
“At least we’ll only be staring down one enemy. That’s something.”
He frowns but nods. “It is something. And I’ll take it.”
Out on the horizon, I see dark clouds building in the distance, leaving me to wonder when the storm is going to break.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Domino
Getting into the switch car and back to Blue Rock went smoothly. For once in seemingly forever, everything went according to plan. Just as we drew it up. We should be celebrating, but when we get back to the clubhouse, we find the mood is somber. More than that, it’s bleak. There are a dozen guys sitting inside, silently drinking their beers, none of them saying a word. The atmosphere is heavy. Thick.
“Jesus,” I say. “Who the fuck died?”
“We’re not sure yet,” Monk says.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask.
“Sheriff Singer’s in there with Leadership. It didn’t look good.”
Cosmo cuts me a glance, then breaks away and heads into the Leadership room, sliding the door closed behind him. I look around the room and everybody is looking grim. Angry. Derek walks over and hands me a beer.
“You look like you could use one,” he says.
“Everybody around here looks like they can use something stronger.”
“You ain’t lyin’.”
“Where were you and Cosmo?”
“Had to handle some business.”
I figure right about now, Tarantula and Bala are handling business as well, taking over the leadership of their MC. I’d be surprised if their MC wasn’t thinned out for a while. No doubt, Ortega’s loyalists aren’t going to take kindly to their prez being murdered and will be out looking for blood.
But so long as Tarantula and Bala hold up their end of our bargain, the Warriors won’t even be looking this way. Assuming their coup goes off as planned, anyway. If it doesn’t… I push the thought away, not wanting to think about that right now. Seems like we’ve got bigger fish on our plate to fry at the moment. Those two guys are resourceful and they’re strong. No doubt they’ll be able to slide into the leadership role of their MC. I knock on the table beside me just to be sure.
“How long they been in there?” I ask.
“About forty-five minutes.”
I suppose it’s possible that Singer got word about the shootout and the murder of Ortega and the cartel men, but it doesn’t strike me as likely. For one, it happened well outside the town limits. It’s an unincorporated piece of real estate, meaning there are no cops out there. And even if there were, there’s no reason to think they’d connect it back to us at all. We got in and out clean. There’s no way we left so much as a fingerprint on the scene out there.
Before I can go through everything that happened out there looking for flaws a second time, the door to the Leadership room opens. Singer strides out and stands in the middle of the room, taking us all in. His face is red, and his nostrils are flaring, which is never a good sign. The rest of Leadership follows him out and stands at the front of the room, apparently giving him the floor for the moment.
“I warned you all about bringing this war into my town,” Singer starts. “Well, shit just got real, boys.”
He slams the file in his hand down on the table. One of the guys picks up the file and opens it, looks at what’s inside, his expression darkening with rage. He hands it to the next guy, and it’s not long before the file makes its way around the room. Nobody in Leadership is speaking. They’re obviously all waiting until we’ve seen what Singer brought along for show and tell.
I take the file when it’s handed to me and flip it open. Sitting on top is a color photo of a large man in a Pharaohs kutte. Or at least, part of a large man. In the photo I’m looking at, the corpse is missing its head and hands.
“Jesus Christ. It’s Costco,” I mutter.
Costco’s real name is James Hilton. He’s called Costco because he’s damn near four hundred pounds, and the joke about him being a bulk item started long ago. He was a good guy who was quick to laugh and told the most obscenely inappropriate jokes. He could get an entire room laughing in a matter of moments. I liked Costco a lot, and I’m taking his death pretty fucking hard right now.
I pass the file to Derek and listen to him groan when he sees the picture and turn my attention back to Singer. He’s positively apoplectic as he stands there staring at us. Only when the file’s made its way around the room and we’ve all seen it, and it lands back on the table in front of him, does he speak.
“Look, I know I played my part in all of this. But this shit has got to end. You see now what’s coming. I won’t let my town be turned into a goddamn battlefield, and I sure as hell don’t want any more ten-year-old girls finding headless corpses all over town.”
“And how do you suggest we end this, Sheriff?” I ask. “If you remember correctly, we didn’t start this.”
