Page 91 of Marcus: Sins of the Father

Marcus—

It’s been five damn days, and I’ve gotten nothing on this asshole, except that he’s predictable. It seems State Assemblyman Mickey Patterson is a creature of habit. He leaves the house for a run at 5:30, is home forty-five minutes later for a shower, and then oatmeal and black coffee on the front porch. He arrives at the capital by 7:45, then lunch at Rosco’s at noon, where he always sits by the window and orders the salmon with potatoes instead of rice and a Diet Coke, leaves the office by five, dinner with the wife at seven, and retires to the basement where he watches sports and pours over papers until ten. Then off to bed to start it all over again.

Surveilling this guy is getting tedious, to say the least, but today is Friday, the start of the weekend, and his routine seems to have changed. It was a typical day until I saw him walking to his car at four p.m., starting the weekend early. Anything out of the norm with this guy piques my interest.

I pull out in my truck, following a few cars behind, expecting him to make the turn on the route he usually takes, so I’m surprised when he accelerates onto the freeway. Luckily, I topped off the tank before he left for his run this morning, because I have no clue how far he’s going.

I follow him for almost two hours. The closer we get to San Jose, the more suspicious I become.

He exits the freeway and makes his way through town, working his way toward the coast. He pulls into a gas station; I assume to fill up, but when he passes the pumps and parks at the curb off to the side, I know something is up.

I park across the lot and wait several minutes in my truck before deciding I don’t want to draw any unwanted attention. I head inside the convenience store and pretend to peruse the aisles with a clear view of his Mercedes. My gaze repeatedly flicks over the display, but he sits in his vehicle.

I wander down the candy aisle, pretending to look at my choices, when I hear the unmistakable roar of a pack of motorcycles.

Five bikes roll in and stop near the same curb where Patterson is parked. The distinctive Death Heads patch is visible on the backs of every one of them.

Fuck.

I scramble, searching for the bathroom. I’m a dead man walking if any of them recognize me. Though I haven’t worn my cut since I’ve been tailing the assemblyman, several of these guys have seen me close up, so I don’t want to risk it.

I practically sprint to the counter. “Where’s your bathroom?”

The employee on the other side eyes me suspiciously. “Bathroom’s outside.”

I start to turn.

“But,” he drawls, “you’re gonna need a key.”

“Okay, give me the key.” I’m sure he can hear the urgency in my voice, but it doesn’t make him move any faster.

“Only for customers.”

“What the fuck do I look like?” I hold my hands out in frustration.

“You didn’t pump any gas, and I ain’t seen you buy anything.” He tilts his head to the side.

“Jesus Christ. Give me a pack of smokes.”

“Need an ID.”

I reach for my back pocket and realize I left it sitting in my truck. I frantically search my pockets and spot several Death Heads approaching the store. Shit. Thankfully, I find a crumpled five-dollar bill and slap it on the counter. I grab a pack of Big-League Chew off a display. “Just give me this then and the bathroom key.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the men are almost at the door.

The employee slides across a rubber duck the size of a soccer ball wearing a pink cowboy hat and sunglasses. It’s attached to a small key ring with a single key.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I hiss, hearing the bell above the door jingle and boots scuffle inside.

I do the only thing I can think of and knock the duck to the floor. It gives me a chance to pull my ballcap low and shield my face as I bend to pick it up. I keep my face averted from the men who just walked to the counter.

“Three packs of Marlboro,” one calls out as I quickly head to the door.

Pushing it open, I come face to face with another one of the Death Heads.

“Watch it,” he snaps.

I stand frozen for half a second before I realize I don’t recognize this one, so he can’t recognize me.

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