The second piece of the puzzle clicked into place in a dive bar an hour east of Richards.

I was sitting in a booth when the two guys walked in. They surveyed the shadows of the bar, letting their eyes adjust, until they finally spotted me and ambled on over.

They’d never seen me before in their life, but it wasn’t exactly genius-level deduction on their part. The place was empty except for me and the bartender.

The shorter one resembled a weasel, with beady eyes and scruffy facial hair that looked more like pubes than a beard. The taller guy was acne-scarred with a receding hairline. They were both tatted up and wearing dirty jeans and rock ‘n roll t-shirts.

They’d come with middling recommendations from Gene, a pal of mine in LA.

Not too smart, but they can follow directions. And just dumb enough to do whatever the fuck you want without asking too many questions.

Exactly what I needed.

And they’re Mexican? I’d asked.

Well, strictly speaking, they’re from Bakersfield.

Fuck you, you politically correct cocksucker.

Gene laughed. I guess. One of ‘em’s Puerto Rican or some shit, I think.

Close enough. You, uh… ‘attached’ to these guys?

Nope. You lookin’ for disposable meat, Lou?

You’ll understand if I don’t answer that question. Anybody important going to be missing ‘em if they don’t come home?

Nope.

Alright, then.

I’d promised my buddy two grand for the info, and here we all were.

“You John?” the Weasel asked.

I’d told my buddy to give them a fake name… just in case.

“Yup,” I said. “Gene sent you, right?”

“Yeah,” the Weasel said as he scooted into the booth across from me, followed by Baldy. “Name’s Emilio. This here’s Jesus.”

He pronounced it Hay-SOOS.

Jesus was sitting here with me in a dive bar. Fuckin’ outstanding.

Weasel kept prattling on nervously. “Hey, uh… big fans here. You guys are fuckin’ badass.”

By ‘you guys’ he meant the club. The Midnight Riders were fairly legendary in this part of Southern California, especially to a certain class of scumbag.

I gave him the faintest hint of a smile. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, big honor to be workin’ with the Riders.”

I wouldn’t call this WORKING with the Riders, but… whatever.

“Glad to hear it,” I said.

Weasel scratched his pubey chin scruff. “So, uh… Gene said this was five g’s apiece.”

I nodded. “Yeah – but after you deliver.”

Emilio got a pissy look on his face. “I dunno, man. I think there ought to be an advance. A grand, at least.”

“No offense, but I don’t want you two going off on an early celebration binge and not showing up to do the fuckin’ job.”

“That ain’t gonna happen. I’m a fuckin’ professional,” Emilio said, stabbing his thumb in his chest.

Right.

I’ll bet Jesus here’s even more of a professional, when he’s not jacking off to Disney cartoons.

I leaned forward. “Well, I’m a businessman, and I say no advance.”

“What the fuck kind of a guarantee does that give us?” Emilio asked angrily. “Maybe we do it and you don’t pay. What then? We can’t exactly go to the cops and say, ‘Hey, this dude hired us to do some illegal shit, and we did it, but then he fuckin’ ripped us off.’”

“I’m a Midnight Rider,” I said coldly. “You think I’m not good for it? You think I won’t keep my word?”

The color drained from his face. “No – no, I just – ”

“When I say I’ll pay you when the job is done, I’ll pay you. But until then, no… fucking… advance.”

Emilio sighed in disgust, but gave in. “What’s the job?”

“I need you to pretend to rob a strip club.”

His eyes narrowed as he tried to figure it out. “Uhhh… pretend to rob a strip club?”

His buddy just stared at me with vacant eyes. Weasel might be dumb, but apparently Jesus was stupid as a motherfucker.

“Yes,” I said.

“Why ‘pretend’?”

“Because it’s cover. What I actually need is for you to take care of somebody for me. Did Gene mention that?”

Weasel licked his lips nervously. “Yeah… yeah, he did.”

“Good. Who’s gonna do it?”

Weasel glanced at Jesus H. Christ, then said, “I am, I am.”

“That something you can do?”

“Yeah – yeah, no problem.”

“That something you done before?”

“Oh yeah, oh yeah,” Weasel said, in an over-the-top reassuring voice that told me the worst he’d ever done was maybe rob a liquor store.

“This is important,” I stressed. “Can you do it or not? I need to know now.”

Weasel was sweating slightly. “Like I said: no problem.”

“Alright. Here’s the guy you’re going to be taking care of. Memorize that face.” I held up my phone and showed them a picture. “Got that?”

Weasel squinted his eyes at the photo. “Yeah. What’d this guy do?”

“He raped a ten-year-old girl.”

Total bullshit, but Weasel bought it hook, line, and sinker.

“Holy shit,” Weasel murmured. Jesus grunted disapprovingly, as any good messiah would. The energy at the table shifted, and I could tell they were way more onboard than a few seconds ago.

“Yeah,” I said. “So you can see why he’s got to go down.”

“Fuck yeah. Motherfuckin’ degenerate,” Weasel said. “But… why don’t you guys take care of him? I mean – that’s what you do, right?”

I smiled tightly. “There’s some politics involved. I can’t go into it, but let’s just say he has friends in high places. Which is why I’m going to need you two to wear ski masks and these when you do it.”

I used my foot to slide the canvas bag I’d gotten from Rodrigo under the table.

Weasel picked it up, glanced inside, and immediately went white. “Oh, fuck…”

Jesus scrunched up his face. “Whut?” he grunted, the first word I’d heard him mutter. When he saw what was in the bag, Jesus jerked away like somebody’d just offered him a blowjob from a rattlesnake.

Weasel shook his head. “Dude, I don’t know about this…”

“I can’t have anybody know that this hit came from within the Riders. You understand.”

“Yeah, but… the fuckin’ Santa Muertes?” he whimpered.

Okay, so he wasn’t that stupid.

“It’s all been squared away,” I said. “I actually got that from the Santa Muertes. Not that you’re ever going to repeat that piece of information again, ever, ‘cause you’re not.”

“Why the fuck are the Santa Muertes giving you their leathers, man?” Weasel asked. He was definitely spooked.

“Because the ten-year-old was the cousin of one of their members.”

I could see the rusty gears turning inside his brain as Weasel tried to puzzle it out. “But… then why aren’t the Santa Muertes popping this guy?”

I was losing patience. “I told you: politics. It’ll start a war if they do, and it’ll start an internal war if we do it. I’m trying to split the balance and keep the peace.”

“But… why don’t we just wear regular jackets, then?”

I leaned forward slightly. “Gene didn’t tell me you asked so many questions.”

“Gene didn’t tell me I was gonna hafta impersonate a fuckin’ Santa Muerte, either.”

“If you don’t want the gig – ”

Weasel put his hands out like Now hold on a minute. “I ain’t sayin’ we don’t… I’m just sayin’, y’know?”

There was one last card to play. And the dimwit had let me know from the get-go that it was my trump card.

“I told Gene not to tell you guys upfront because I wanted to see if you could deliver… but this was supposed to be an audition of sorts. I told him I needed a couple of stone-cold killers to take out a fuckin’ child molester because I couldn’t risk starting World War Three between the Riders and the Santa Muertes, and he told me you two could do it.”

As predicted, Weasel’s eyes lit up. Jesus’s eyes did, too, but there was a semi-delayed reaction, like it took him an extra second or two to process the information.

“You ever seen The Godfather, kid?” I asked.

“Yeah, yeah, of course.”

“When you want to become a made man with the mob, you hafta make your bones. You have to do some gnarly shit so they trust you. Well, kid – this is where you make your bones. This is where you prove you’re trustworthy. That is, if you want in. If you don’t – ”

“No, no, it’s cool,” Weasel reassured me. “We’re in, we’re in.”

FINALLY. This had been more effort than trying to fuck a nun.

“Good,” I said, and pulled out my phone. “What’s your cell number? I’m gonna need to call you once the guy’s in the joint.”

Weasel rattled off a number, and I plugged it into my phone and hit SEND. Five seconds later, AC/DC’s “Highway To Hell” started playing from Weasel’s back pocket.

Perfect.

“Uh, we gonna have any trouble from the Riders?” Weasel asked.

“Nope. I’ll handle it.”

“And nothin’ from the Santa Muertes?”

“Nope. They’d probably make you honorary members afterwards, except you can never, ever tell anybody about it, understand?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, sure. What about the cops?”

“You’ve heard about the Midnight Riders and how we roll in Richards, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you know there won’t be any blowback from the police. Just make sure you get out before they show up though, huh? Otherwise it might be a little awkward telling them to let you go.”

Weasel laughed, which I took for a good sign. He was getting comfortable with the idea. “Okay, so where’s the joint we’re doin’ this?”

“The Seven Veils. It’s on Curson, just off of Highway 19. I want you to be in the neighborhood by midnight, ‘cause once I call you, this shit’s gotta go down fast, alright?”

“Sure, sure. Seven Veils… hey, the owner’s not going to shoot me in the back with a shotgun or some shit, is he?”

Who knows?

Maybe I’ll shoot you in the face.

“He shouldn’t, seein’ as it’s my fuckin’ place,” I said with a grim smile.

Weasel stared at me, then burst into laughter. Jesus didn’t quite get the joke, but he laughed all the same, just because his buddy was.

“Alright then… fake robbin’ some fake titties,” Weasel said. “But, uh… could we get a grand up front?”

No, motherfucker, you can’t. I don’t want you splitting on me without doing your goddamn job.

“I’ll tell you what… you pull this off without a hitch… not only will I get you in the Riders, I’ll make it twelve grand instead of ten.”

Weasel’s eyes bugged out. “Okay – wow – that’s great, that’s great!”

I smiled, and let Weasel bathe in the golden glow of my generosity.

What the hell. I coulda promised him a million bucks; I wouldn’t be paying either one of them a fuckin’ dollar, anyway.