As he marched away, my cell phone rang in my pocket. My old phone—the one from my old life. It was a sign of how strange my world was that I was still keeping both phones. “Yeah?” I said when I answered.
“Pure Gold,” Gray said on the other end. “One hour. And let me tell you, Wilder. You really want to come to this meeting. You really fucking do.”
The last thing I wanted to do was go to Pure Gold. I’d had Olivia Maplethorpe, with her dark curls and un-fucking-believable body, in my bed, doing anything I wanted, for an entire night, and I was going to have her again. What the hell did I need a strip club for?
But I went. Gray was small time, but I had practically smelled the fear in his voice. There was something going down, and I was going to have to face it head on. The way I faced everything.
The club was deserted—it was early—and not even a bartender was on. A bouncer let me in, nodding as if he was expecting me, and I made my way to the VIP room.
There were three people in there. One of them was Gray Jensen in his fucking sweatsuit. One of them was Amy, the stripper, wearing nothing but a black string bikini and heels. I hadn’t seen her for two years, and she looked different—worried, scared, her eyes flashing a message at me.
The third person was a man I’d never seen before. He wore jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a gray jacket. His hair was longish and carefully styled, his face thin as a blade, his smile wolfish. I took one look and knew, by instinct, exactly who I was looking at.
“Craig Bastien,” I said.
The wolfish smile widened. “Devon Wilder,” he said over the pulse of the cheesy music. “Welcome to our meeting. Sit down.”
I’d have to shower in bleach after touching one of the sofas, but at the moment I had no choice. I sat down, quietly hoping some guy’s crusty come wasn’t sticking to my jeans.
“Just a precaution,” Craig Bastien said, waving at the room around us. “An idea of our friend Gray’s. Aside from the sexy scenery, meeting in a place like this means no one can be recording the conversation.”
It was true, the pulse of the mindless electronica would probably mess up any attempt to record what we were saying with a wire. “I always thought Gray met in here because he like the girls,” I said.
Gray squeezed his hands together and said nothing. He was living up to his name right now, his face practically gray with fear. Amy looked similar beneath her makeup. Craig Bastien patted his knee, and she obediently sat on it. He ran his hands over her hips.
“Listen,” he said, looking at me and ignoring Amy, even while he pawed her. Even though she was a stripper and a pro, the sight turned my stomach for some reason. Probably because of the sick look on her face. “Gray isn’t in charge anymore. I am. I’ve taken over his operation and added it to my own.” I had a feeling Gray had had no say in this little business move. “And I’ve heard some things about you, Wilder. You’ve had some interesting times since you got out.”
“You mean, since I finished doing the time you set me up for?” I said.
“Water under the bridge,” Craig said, his hands still rubbing up and down Amy. “I don’t make mistakes like that anymore. You did a good job that night, and I retrieved most of my product. That was quick thinking, dumping the TV’s. You saved me from losing face with a lot of people who were waiting for product.”
“Great,” I said. “You’re welcome. We done?”
Bastien laughed. “Not even close, my friend.”
He knows, I thought.
It would get out sooner or later, how much money I’d come into. I’d figured as much. But Bastien knew. Right now. The question was, how much did he know?
“Talk,” I said to him. “I’m busy.”
“Yes, you are,” Bastien said. “Managing all your money from that big house in Diablo. You got lucky, huh?”
I shrugged.
“I know all about it,” Bastien said. “How you had a dear old granddad who kicked it while you were in. How you got the whole thing. How you don’t need any of us anymore. How you told your good friend Gray you were done.” He nodded. “Well, that’s interesting. Because I disagree. I don’t think you’re done at all.”
“I’m not driving for you, Bastien,” I said.
“I’m not talking about driving,” he shot back. Gray was still utterly silent, as was Amy. Bastien only looked at me. “You’ve graduated into the big leagues with all that money, Wilder. And I owe you one for that time you did. So I’m giving you the opportunity to move into the big leagues with me.”
“I don’t want to be in any league with you.”
“Hear me out first.” He lifted a hand from groping Amy and held up a finger. “I have a deal happening soon. The biggest deal San Francisco has seen since the heyday of the eighties. The biggest deal I’ve ever done. This deal, Wilder, is going to change the landscape here. And you can be a part of it. You think you’re rich now? You can be rich past anything you’ve ever imagined.”
I watched him carefully. I’d dealt with snakes like Craig Bastien nearly all my life, and I knew how to read them. One, he was definitely not talking about a few TV’s crammed with Oxy—that part wasn’t blowing smoke. Two, he knew about the house and maybe some of the money. He didn’t know he was actually talking to a billionaire, a man who could buy and sell him—with all of his drug money—ten times over.
Because, like everyone else, he couldn’t compute Devon Wilder, ex-con, with a billion bucks. And right now, I didn’t want him to. Score one for me.
My best bet, right now, was to play along. “Go on,” I said.
“Aha.” Bastien grinned at me. “Everyone always caves at the money. While you were inside, I’ve been growing my business. Expanding, you know? It’s taken time, and a lot of skill on my part, but I’ve finally put this deal together. The biggest single shipment of heroin our harbor has ever seen. And it arrives in four days. This is going to put every single one of my competitors out of business and establish me in this city. In this state. It’s going to make me.”
“Sounds like you don’t need me,” I said.
“You’re wrong,” he replied. “I do. You’re the grandson of Graham Wilder, the former movie mogul. A respectable guy. You’re his heir. You live in Diablo. With you as an investor, the whole operation looks legit.”
I laughed. “You’re in dreamland,” I said. “I’m a con who just finished a stretch.”
“That doesn’t matter. You’re gentry now. The only thing I’ve been missing in this operation is a cover that makes it look good to the cops. And that’s you.”
Was he fucking nuts? I didn’t look good to the cops.
Except, when they’d come to my house, they’d been polite and respectful. And then they’d left.
My money did that.
It was thin. I didn’t have any kind of relationship with the cops. But I thought about my neighborhood—Kenneth with his stupid dog, the IT guy, the producer, the old-school Playboy centerfold. You could hide a drug deal in Diablo, easy. On an everyday basis, unless they were called, the cops left those people alone.