“You got a lot of fuckin’ balls, ese. I’ll give you that,” Hector said with a nasty smile.

We were in a diner in Lancaster, California, an hour north of LA. Hector and Rodrigo sat on one side of the booth, me on the other. I’d wanted a public place with a lot of witnesses because that was the only way I could be sure they wouldn’t try to kill me.

Well… reasonably sure. I was still at red alert the entire time. Especially with Rodrigo mad-dogging me across the table, looking like he was two seconds away from trying to slit my throat. But that was nothing unusual. Rodrigo had wanted me dead ever since I bashed his face in years ago.

But Hector… Hector was acting strange. He was his normal self – charming with a side of asshole – but he sure as hell wasn’t angry. From the moment I sat down, he acted relaxed, like he was in a good mood.

Which I didn’t understand at all.

“I needed to know some things, and… given the current situation… I figured it was best to go straight to the top,” I said, as diplomatically as I could.

Hector leaned back, his arms spread out across his side of the booth. “Speakin’ of the top, sounds like somebody fell straight to the fuckin’ bottom.”

Rodrigo grinned for the first time. Made me want to punch his face in again.

“You heard, huh,” I said.

“Everybody from here to Seattle heard it, cabrón. Jack Pollari got bitch-slapped by Lou Shaw.”

“Bitch-slapped!” Rodrigo shouted, then snorted with laughter.

Hector chuckled along. “And all over a fuckin’ puta.”

‘Puta’ was Spanish for whore.

He was talking about Fiona.

Actually, now I kind of wanted them to try to kill me. It’d be a good opportunity to bash both their faces in.

Instead, I got a hold of myself and said grimly, “We need to talk about what happened at the Seven Veils.”

“Why? Is that where you took it up the ass from Lou?” Hector asked.

“Up the ass!” Rodrigo hooted.

A lady seated nearby with two little kids gave Rodrigo an angry look, then immediately averted her eyes in terror when he yelled at her, “What the fuck you lookin’ at, bitch?”

All the customers around us stared at the ground, afraid to move in case they drew the raving psycho’s attention. The waitresses glanced in panic at the manager, who remained frozen behind the cash register. He wasn’t going to do a goddamn thing, that was obvious.

But I wasn’t going to stand for it. I didn’t care if I did have to kill him right here. Might as well finish the job I’d started years before.

“Shut the fuck up,” I snarled. “NOW.”

Rodrigo’s eyes bugged out of his skull. “What the fuck you say to me, puto?”

‘Puto’ was Spanish for faggot.

I was about ready to kill this motherfucker.

I kept my eyes on Rodrigo, but spoke to Hector. “You want to call off your dog before I have to beat some manners into him?”

Rodrigo tensed, about to lunge across the table at me –

Hector said something quietly in Spanish. Rodrigo froze, then settled back slightly in his seat  – though his savage expression didn’t change at all.

Hector smiled at me mockingly. “Look at you, actin’ like you still in charge, when you ain’t in charge of shit.”

I scowled. “Can we get down to business and quit fucking around?”

“I been waitin’ five minutes for you to do just that, pendejo. All you said on the phone was you wanted to talk. Well here I am, so fuckin’ talk already.”

“You know, you seem a little too happy, considering what happened,” I said.

Hector laughed. “‘Too happy’? Ain’t no fuckin’ thing as too happy, ese. I been waitin’ to see your high-horse ridin’, bitch-ass get slapped down for years.”

I squinted at him, not believing what I was hearing. Hector was many things – murderous, sociopathic, scum of the earth – but the one thing he wasn’t was dumb. And yet he kept going on and on like this was some stupid biker version of ‘Who’s On First.’

“I’m not talking about me and Lou, I’m talking about the robbery,” I said.

Hector frowned. “What robbery?”

“The one where two of your guys walked into the Seven Veils, shot one of ours, then got their heads blown off.”

Everything changed in an instant. Hector leaned in, deadly serious. Rodrigo scowled, too, though he didn’t seem as upset as his boss.

“When the fuck was this?” Hector asked, his voice cold and dangerous.

“Three weeks ago.”

“Three weeks?” Hector asked in disbelief.

“Yes.”

Hector shook his head. “Impossible.”

“I was there. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Then why the fuck I ain’t heard about it?” Hector snapped.

This was very fucking strange.

“The shooter’s name was Emilio Gonzalez,” I said.

Hector spoke to Rodrigo in Spanish again. Rodrigo didn’t say anything, just shook his head ‘no.’

“We don’t got no fuckin’ Emilio Gonzalez in our crew, ese,” Hector said.

“That’s impossible.”

“Impossible or not, it’s like I said: I don’t know who the fuck Emilio Gonzalez is, but he ain’t no Santa Muerte.”

“They were wearing your club’s leathers.”

“You’re sure?”

I glared at him like Give me a fucking break. “I saw them.”

“Then that’s a different issue, and I’m gonna have the head of any motherfucker who gave ‘em those jackets,” Hector said. “But I can tell you this for a fact: whoever those two chingados were, they weren’t Santa Muertes.”

I sat there, absolutely dumbfounded. Everything I knew seemed called into question.

“Well… I guess I wasted your time,” I said as I slid out of the booth.

“Not necessarily. You find out who gave ‘em those leathers, you let me know,” Hector said. “I’d consider it a personal favor.”

I nodded, then walked out, careful to keep my eyes on them until I was out the door.