Page 95 of Marcus: Sins of the Father

“What is this about?” Patterson hisses, glancing around at the other patrons whose attention we have definitely drawn.

“Oh, you know why we’re here, Mickey,” Cole drawls. “Did you think you could fuck around with the Dead, and we wouldn’t come knocking?”

“Is this about my new bill?”

Cole gives a dry chuckle, but it’s clear he doesn’t find any of this amusing. “We’re here because you’re a dirty scumbag associating with the Death Heads MC and causing us all kinds of problems.”

“And why are your problems mine?” Patterson snaps, clearly unaware of the information we hold.

Cole’s eyes drift to mine, and Patterson’s follow. “Your little Friday night drive to San Jose to discuss your new business arrangement is why, dumbass. Seems you’re the driving force behind my current problems. Seems you’ve been pushing the sheriff’s department and the DA to keep us busy while your new friends, the Death Heads, move in.”

His nostrils flare, but otherwise, he does not indicate the trouble he’s in. “I can take drives and talk to whomever I want. That doesn’t mean anything.” He acts like he doesn't have a care in the world, but none of us miss the tremor as he picks up his spoon again.

Cole leans forward and folds his hands on the table, staring him dead in the eye. He doesn’t break eye contact as he addresses me. “Marcus, what was it exactly you caught on tape?”

I take the hint. He wants Patterson to believe everything I heard is on film, and he wants me to make sure Patterson knows exactly what I heard.

“Well,” I drawl, “Mr. Corrupt over here, met by the trash cans with some scum. Those trash cans really smelled bad, didn’t they, Mickey?” I hint at his words from the other night. “Seems Mr. Corrupt had a little fun at the Death Head’s cat house, and now he’s helping them move illegal pussy through our state.”

“I… I did no such thing.” He stumbles, clearly on edge now.

“You want us to play the recording, Mickey? Maybe turn the volume up real loud so everyone in the place can hear you?” Cole grins, knowing he’s got this douchebag by the balls.

“Look, as far as moving women, that’s the Death Heads. I was just supposed to keep you out of their way.” Patterson splays his hands. “They have a tape of me with one of their girls at a brothel. I had no idea they owned the place. Don't you see? I had to do what they said or they would have destroyed me. I’m sure you can understand that.”

“Well, now it’s us you have to worry about, because it’s us who can destroy you.” Cole leans forward and turns his words back on him. “I’m sure you can understand that.”

Patterson’s jaw clenches, and his eyes narrow. “It’s your word against mine.”

“I wouldn’t be so worried about the Death Heads tape, because now we have our own tape of you.” Cole lies to him without batting an eye. “And we heard about your planned raid on our club.” Cole tilts his head to the side, daring Patterson to contradict him.

“I had to keep you out of the way. That was the deal.” Patterson’s face is red now, and he tugs at his collar.

“So, you planned to have the cops…” Cole leaves the sentence hanging for Patterson to fill in the details.

“The cops were only going to plant enough evidence to tie you guys up for a bit. I swear.”

Crash scoffs. “Yeah, right. You were going to plant false evidence and then throw the book at us.”

“No, no. It was just going to be some minor drug charges. I swear it’s the truth. I don’t want trouble.” He takes out a handkerchief and mops his brow.

Cole leans closer, crowding into Patterson’s space. “Should have thought of that before you fucked with us.”

“Look, what do you need? What do I need to do to make this all go away?”

He’s really sweating now, like the pathetic excuse for a man he is, and it’s as if he’s pleading for his life, and if I’m being honest, he probably is.

Cole takes the bottle of wine off the table, studying the label. “I’m not really into wine, but a 2008 Chardonnay sounds pretty good.”

“That’s a four-hundred-dollar bottle,” Patterson stutters.

Cole tips it up, taking a long slug. “Not bad.”

“What do you want?” Patterson grounds out.

Cole leans in, his voice low. “I need to know the date, time, and location of their pickup.”

“That’s a death sentence,” Patterson hisses in return.

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