The identity I’d most recently secured as my own worked.
It belonged to a ghost. Greyson Ingalls was my best friend as we grew up, my teammate and even my college roommate. And then he became more, my cohort, my confidant, and my consigliere. He was killed in service to me. I watched him take his last breath and vowed retaliation.
Such as with other promises I’d made, I failed.
I didn’t avenge Greyson.
I resurrected him.
His identity was my easiest and most viable option. Greyson’s death had gone unmarked. There was no obituary seen by the world. No funeral or memorial for those who mourned. There wasn’t even a body to recover, and yet I’d known this man for over twenty years of his life.
His identification had been taken with his body, yet I had more. I had access to his other papers: birth certificate and passport. Getting a new ID wasn’t difficult. With some paperwork and a new photo, I officially became Greyson Ingalls.
I liked to imagine that my securing Greyson’s identity was as if one last friend reached out from the grave to help me. God knew I didn’t deserve it. I failed him. Yet his passing was now my lifeline.
As I wandered about the country, I felt out the climate in the world beyond New Orleans. My travels took me through some of the deepest and darkest parts of the underworld. I don’t mean the world beyond this realm, although I had been taught the finer art of speaking to spirits. It was never my thing.
It turned out that I wasn’t their thing either
I preferred action.
I craved control.
I desired power.
Two of those were lost the day my bad choices became worse.
Action was all I had left, and I was using it as a means to retrieve the others.
Stubbing my cigarette out in the filling ashtray, I blew the smoke from my lungs and watched the men and women around me.
“Greyson,” Josie whispered, her red-painted lips near my ear as her vanilla-scented perfume replaced the stale, lingering cigarette smoke.
I didn’t turn.
I knew the woman by my side, not in the biblical way. I knew she was nearly twice my age and yet still attractive—in a used-up kind of way. With a tongue that cussed like a sailor and a look that could send daggers, Josie could take a man to his knees or boost his career with connections to the right people.
Josie had taken a shine to me and me to her.
The world was filled with rumors and lore. Those qualities weren’t limited geographically. My travels taught me that they were everywhere, even here in Southern California.
When it came to Josie Romero, the rumors surrounding her life were legendary.
One late night after the pub had cleared out, the two of us sat with a bottle of Maker’s Mark. I confessed my sins and in the process learned that the rumors I’d heard about Josie were based in truth. In her day, Josie was capable of anything. That night I saw beyond the waitress. I saw Josie for her fortitude, capability, and endurance in the face of adversity. In many ways, Josie reminded me of the woman who bore me. That wasn’t a bad thing. It endeared her to me.
If I could equate Josie’s techniques to anyone else’s, it would be the Russians’ Red Sparrows. While today’s spying was a digital and technological feat of information gathering and cyber attacks, back in the mid-twentieth century, the gold standard was that of personal relationships formed by operatives. The Red Sparrows were an elite set of Russian spies schooled in the use of their assets—their bodies.
Josie followed that model. She had the goods to attract men and women in that way. When she eliminated a foe, they went out with a smile or at least they wore one seconds before they realized what was about to happen.
And then, according to Josie, a ten-year prison sentence petrified her already-hardened heart.
When Josie was released from prison, she made it back to the Marina neighborhood of San Diego and to this bar. The door opened when she appeared, welcoming her back to the world that knew her.
Today she spent most days and evenings waiting tables and pouring drinks. The mere fact that Josie was convicted of manslaughter by means of accidental poisoning gave an added sense of danger—a tingling through one’s circulation whenever she handed you a drink.
When I asked, she volunteered that the poisoning wasn’t accidental. The only thing that was accidental was getting caught.
“Tiller wants to see you,” she whispered.
I threw back the remaining bourbon. “Where?”
The attraction of the Marina area in San Diego, California, was the obvious. The coastline was littered with marinas housing everything from large boats to superyachts. The latter were fucking floating mansions. Not only did they float, they moved. When the heat was turned up, the yachts, those of any size, sailed north to the Pacific Northwest or south to the waters of Mexico.
That ability was an advantage that didn’t exist within the mansions of New Orleans, New York, or Desolation.
While the other locations had shipyards and marinas, they were not equal in magnitude to that of Southern California’s.
SoCal was a fucking goldmine of the wealthy. Not all of those with money were connected to the syndicate or illegal dealings. There were movie stars and athletes, among others, who possessed more money than God. Their presence and wealth provided a cloak of invisibility to those people whose income stream was less legal.
Amongst the magnitude of superyachts, an extra one or more didn’t stand out.
“On his boat,” Josie said. “He has a car waiting outside for you.”
I scoffed, thinking about comparing the sense of danger from one of Josie’s drinks to that of an invitation from Maxwell Tiller. A call from Maxwell Tiller should chill the soul and send ice through the veins of a sane man.
As the kingpin of San Diego, power and danger emanated from his being. Taking a car he sent to a destination that could easily move miles out to sea wasn’t merely perilous. It was the fucking yellow brick road leading to the wizard of death himself.
I pulled a fifty-dollar bill from my money clip and handed it over my shoulder. “For you.”
“Your tab is twenty-five, Greyson.”
Turning, I offered Josie my best smile. “The company is priceless. Keep it. I’m expecting a big payday.”
“I hope you’re right.”
After a deep breath of fading vanilla and smoke, I buttoned my suit coat and nodded her direction.
“Be careful,” she said as she pushed the fifty into the depth between her large breasts.
The crisp night air replaced the stale as I stepped down the concrete stoop and a large black Navigator rolled to a stop in front of me. One of Tiller’s men, an intimidating black man named X, opened the front passenger door and stepped onto the alleyway. “Mr. Ingalls.”
I nodded.
I wasn’t certain if X had a name or if he was similar to me, choosing to rename himself. In his case, it was with the use of a letter instead of the identity of a dead friend. With X’s suit coat unbuttoned, his holster and firearm were visible.
X extended his palm. “No weapons or cell phones near Mr. Tiller.”
I knew the rules.
My phone was the first thing I placed in his palm. The sidearm from my holster was second, and last was the blade I slid from the band on my ankle. There may be some who would chance the blade in the presence of Tiller, but I wasn’t one of them.