Twenty-Seven
Whitney, Tango had learned, was twenty-years-old, owned a secondhand iPhone, and worked at a customer service call center. She had two nieces, a sister-in-law who made a mean baked ziti, and a heroin-addicted older brother who was the reason she was currently locked in a cell.
She shook her head. “I don’t blame Jason,” she said of her brother. “He isn’t someone who started using recreationally for the fun of it. He was in serious pain and the doctors wouldn’t give him the meds anymore because, well” – she shrugged – “he was addicted to those, too. So he turned to H, and…” She trailed off, playing with the buttons of her blazer.
She glanced over at Tango through the bars and offered him the sort of shy smile people felt compelled to give when they were trapped in awkward situations with strangers. “You probably think I sound like an idiot.”
He smiled back, because her face was sweet, and because he appreciated the way she was covering her terror with Southern composure. “No,” he assured. “I think you sound like a good sister.”
“But a stupid one.” She took a deep breath and the fear stood out in her eyes; it was too big to hide completely. “They said they let Jason go. That he’s supposed to get the rest of the money together and come back for me.” She caught her lip between her teeth and bit down hard.
“I’m sure he will.” Tango didn’t know what else to say.
“You’re very nice, but you’re a bad liar.”
“Well, yeah, pretty much.”
They shared a miserable grin.
Whitney took another big breath and said, “So, what do you do for a living? I’m guessing you’re some kind of super cool rockstar what with” – she gestured to her own hair and ears – “all of the style.”
“Prepare to be disappointed. I’m a motorcycle mechanic.”
“Who said that wasn’t super cool?” Her smile became truer. “Do you have your own bike?”
“A Harley Dyna Superglide.”
She sat up straighter against the wall, eyes sparkling. “Ooh, you’re a Lean Dog, aren’t you?”
Was there any harm in admitting that to her? Probably not, he decided. “Um…yeah. I am.”
“No way!” She laughed in delight. “When I was a little girl, my dad used to put me up on his shoulders so I could see you guys go down the street.”
When you were a little girl? Tango thought. Aren’t you still? He said, “Well, I wasn’t around then, I’m sure. I was” – stripping and turning tricks – “in school.”
“So I’ve probably seen you on the road recently,” she said, undeterred. She didn’t really look starry-eyed and adoring, but delighted. This was a nice diversion for her, he realized, so he would indulge.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Did you see us on Halloween? We had a whole big ride through the city, old ladies and everything.”
Her nose scrunched up and it was cute. “Do you guys really call your wives ‘old ladies’? I thought that was only on TV.”
“Nope. We really do it.”
She laughed, and then it died suddenly. “Oh no. Yours must be worried sick about you. God, here I am feeling sorry for myself, and you’ve got a wife waiting on you–”
He held up his left hand to cut her off, showing her the bare, tattooed backs of his fingers, the lack of a ring. “I’m not married,” he said. “Nobody’s waiting on me.” It was the truth, and he was currently being held in a private prison God knew where, but for some reason, the words pained him.
Whitney drew her legs up, looped her arms around them and rested her chin on one knee. “I bet that’s not true,” she said quietly. “Even if you don’t have an old lady, I bet someone’s waiting on you. The rest of the Dogs?” she guessed.
It was a small kindness, and the only one she could offer in their bare, adjoining cells, but it made the corners of his mouth twitch. “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”
The door opened above them, and he heard the sharp way she stopped breathing, felt his own lungs seize. In his mind he imagined a cold concrete stairwell; he’d been unconscious when they’d brought him in, but he could construct the stairs, the door, the heavy boots of the men in his imagination.
Three men appeared in front of their cells. Two faceless, muscled thugs. And a medium-sized man with a face of generalities: regular nose, unremarkable brown eyes, thin mouth set evenly above a normal-looking chin. He was a sketch artist’s nightmare, this man, with nothing notable at all to his appearance, not even his soft brown hair. As he stared through the bars, Tango felt a hard shudder move down his back. The longer he looked at the man, the more his bland countenance became unnerving. He was so nondescript as to be perfect; he was nothing and no one by careful design. An unmarked PI car of a human being. Like he wore a camouflage mask over what must be a normal face beneath.
“You,” the man said, and the thugs slid Tango’s door back. “It’s time to make a phone call.”
“Oh God,” Whitney said, voice a tight whisper.
As he got to his feet, Tango threw her a broad fake smile. “Don’t worry, kiddo. There’s nothing I haven’t already lived through.”
~*~
“Hello, Mr. Teague. My name is Bill,” said a modulated voice on the other end of the line.
“Hello, Bill,” Ghost said, biting down hard on the anger that wanted to bleed into his own voice. He had to play this game; he had to be the president. There was no room here for error – and emotion was never anything but an error. “Can I talk to your boss?”
“No. I’ll be handling this conversation.”
How polite it all was.
Ghost stood in the chapel, the doors shut, flanked by his officers and Mercy. Aidan would have wanted to be here for this, even if all he could do was listen helplessly with the rest of them. But he wasn't back yet, and when this call came through, you didn’t let it go to voicemail.
“Alright.” Ghost put his cellphone on speaker mode and held it in front of him. Michael, Walsh, Ratchet and Mercy crowded close to listen. “You’ve got my attention. Let’s talk.”
Sounds of footsteps on a hard floor, muffled through the phone connection. A shuffling. A rustling. Then Bill again: “I have Kevin Estes with me.”
“I know that,” Ghost said tightly. “Kev, you there?” he asked, just to make sure.
“Yeah, boss. I’m alright.” Tango’s voice was surprisingly steady, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
Mercy folded his arms, massive biceps clenching and releasing with undirected violence.
Ghost felt the same. “You guys want all the rest of your coke back, right?” he said into the phone. “Tell me when and where and we’ll make the swap. Let’s not fuck around here.”
A pause. “Yes, he wants the coke,” Bill said. “But that’s not enough anymore.”
“What?” all of them said at once.
Bill’s voice had a smile to it. “You’re going to pay punitive damages, too, Mr. Teague. To the tune of five-hundred-thousand dollars. Or I will disassemble your boy Kevin piece by piece.”
~*~
Kev was gone for a long time. Whitney stared down at her knees, tracing the buckles of her boots with her fingertips, wanting to do something mindless that grounded her. She was here, she was unharmed…but she was here.
She wondered if Jason was getting the money.
She wondered if he’d abandoned her.
She wondered what they were doing to Kev up there…
She closed her eyes tight and tried not to envision anything. He was sweet, and calm, and he’d been kind to her when he didn’t have to be. At first glimpse, she’d seen the tattoos peeking from beneath his clothes and covering the backs of his fingers; the earrings glittering all down his ears; the hair. But then quickly she’d seen the face beneath it all, the kind blue eyes. He wasn’t scary; he was almost pretty. And for the past however many hours he’d been the only thing keeping her sane.
It seemed like an eternity before she heard the door open. The footsteps that moved toward her were uneven. Someone walking smartly…towing along someone who was having trouble standing.
Oh no.
Kev’s cell door squealed open and he was shoved inside. The door closed with a slam. Kev landed on his hands and knees on the cold concrete, and stayed that way, spine curled, the vertebrae standing out beneath his t-shirt.
His t-shirt that was peppered with blood at the shoulders.
Whitney waited until she heard the upper door close and then she moved, going to the bars that separated their cells, curling her fingers around them. “Kev.”
He breathed rapidly, shallowly, his gasps echoing off the floor beneath him.
“Kev, are you okay?” Her heart began to pound, keeping rhythm with his respiration.
Slowly, he sat back, and she gasped. The blood was coming from his ear, the entire outer edge a mess of red. His earrings were gone; they’d been ripped out, leaving jagged puckers in the skin. He looked like he’d been chewed on by something.
“God,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
He gave her a smile that was more of a grimace, his eyes glazed over with pain. “It’s always the stuff that doesn’t leave a mark that hurts the worst,” he said, voice faraway. “Remember that.”
Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away, forced her voice steady. “How can I help?”
“You can’t.”
“I can,” she insisted. “Come here.”
He stared at her.
“Please.” She slipped her narrow forearm through the bars and held out her hand. “Come here.”
He shuffled over on his knees and then let the bars take his weight. When she reached for his hand with hers, he let her take it, let her squeeze it. He had long-fingered, elegant hands, pale except for the intricate dominoes tattooed on the backs of his fingers.
“I can do this,” she said quietly. “And it’s not much, but it’s something.” At least, she hoped it was. Most likely, outlaw bikers didn’t give a damn about having their hands held.
But Kev didn’t move away, and he rested his head against the bars, close enough for her to smell his fear-sweat, and the fruity gel he’d used to style his hair.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, because she didn’t know what else to do.
He squeezed her fingers. “Thank you.”