Beckett settled on an empty black barstool and removed his fedora. The fact he was wearing that was another example of his insanity. Same with the three-piece tweed suit, suspenders, and cap-toe Oxfords.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Jesse joining him at the bar. “I had to step out and call Ella. She’s been texting nonstop with worry,” he explained, and Beckett swung his gaze Jesse’s way.
Jesse looked every part a 1920s gangster. If he weren’t so worried about the outcome of this trip, he’d probably laugh at how they were both dressed. “And what’d you say to her?”
“I lied. Not happy about that. But the truth would keep my pregnant wife up all night, and she doesn’t need the stress.”
“I’m sorry,” Beckett earnestly apologized. “The last thing I wanted to do was put you in this position.” But I knew A.J. wouldn’t help, and my other brothers aren’t equipped for this. “I—”
“I’m glad you didn’t come here alone,” Jesse cut him off. “Remember, I do this kind of stuff for a living. But I’m not excited about going behind Ella’s back because I promised I’d never keep secrets again.”
“Shit, I’m really damn sorry about that. And I’m also sorry for the way I—”
“Please, if I hear one more apology from you, I’ll kick your ass,” Jesse said with a smirk. “I told the same to A.J. when he wouldn’t shut up with the apologies too.”
“Yeah, but we all treated you like shit in January, and you didn’t deserve that. Sure, we weren’t aware of the um, baggage, you were carrying at the time, but that doesn’t excuse our behavior. You’re family now, and I—”
“I would’ve reacted the same as you did if I’d been in your shoes, and you know it.” Jesse let go of a deep breath. “So, can we please bury this once and for all?”
“Fine,” Beckett reluctantly agreed. “But I still owe you for breaking your promise and lying to Ella tonight. Ten times over.”
“Just buy the drinks for the next few weeks, and we’re even,” Jesse said as Beckett checked to ensure Jennifer was safe and confirmed she appeared happily dancing.
“Deal.” And I can start tonight. Beckett swiveled back on his seat and waved over the bartender “¿Que le gustaría, señor?” His gaze fell to the bartender’s hands before him. Three black dots were inked between his index finger and thumb on his left hand.
He’d learned from his time as a detective with the Narcotics Division in Los Angeles years ago that those dots were often inked on ex-cons, meaning mi vida loca, my crazy life. Usually tattooed while serving time.
The bartender being an ex-con wasn’t a surprise given their location and the fact Jennifer was right about her research. It was well-known the club had connections to the Sinaloa cartel, one of the most powerful drug trafficking organizations.
He’d had his fair share of run-ins with the Sinaloas because of their connection to MS-13 back in LA. And the memories left more than just a bitter taste in his mouth.
A broken nose. A fractured rib. Two gunshot wounds. And did the gaping metaphorical hole in his heart also count as a wound? Maybe that last one wasn’t physical, but the pain seemed to last the longest for him.
“Un tequila, por favor, y una cerveza para mi amigo.” Beckett slid the bartender a thousand pesos, equivalent to about fifty bucks, more than double the cost of the drinks.
The bartender tipped his head in respect and quickly pocketed the six hundred extra pesos for his tip. “Cómo no, señor.”
“Careful,” Jesse warned when the bartender went to retrieve tequila and a beer. “Show off too much money here, and we’ll have bigger problems.”
“Copy that,” Beckett returned in a low voice. He was out of his element there. It’d been thirteen years since he’d been in LA doing any type of undercover work.
Back in his small town, crime wasn’t an issue, which he was happy about, of course. It was one of the reasons he’d moved back home to raise his daughter there.
Jesse tugged at the lapels of his jacket. “You can put a man on the moon but me in this suit . . .” His voice trailed off when the bartender slid their drinks across the dark polished wood.
Beckett’s attention swerved to another one of the bartender’s tattoos. This one was of Santa Muerta on his neck. The queen of the underworld.
And maybe Jennifer was partly right in her gilded cage assessment. They were in a place gleaming with glitz and glamor. The art deco designs and geometric shapes screamed Jazz Age, but in reality . . . they weren’t free. They were in the belly of hell. If they weren’t careful tonight, they’d be swallowed right up. And they didn’t have sidearms. Not even a replica of an era piece like a tommy gun to shoot their way out of the place.
What if she’s gone? What if I’m too late? Beckett shifted the sleeve of his jacket and checked the time. Still early. Maybe her shift hadn’t started yet. If she even works here.
His guilt further suffocated him as he thought about the disappointed expressions his family would point his way if they knew where he was and why.
His mother would be the first to slap him all the way back to the actual 1920s for ever taking such a risk as leaving his daughter fatherless if shit went sideways.
I’m an idiot. A sleep-deprived idiot.
He shifted on his seat to put eyes on Jennifer once again. As he turned, his gaze collided with one of the servers walking by. She was wearing only a strand of pearls and heart-shaped tassels covering her nipples for her top. The woman paused to check if he was . . . well, interested in something beyond a drink. He shook his head, and she continued walking.
“If we’re going to make a move, we better do it fast. I clocked three rival cartel members on my check earlier. Probably the Juárez gang not happy about the Sinaloas taking more and more ground here,” Jesse informed him, keeping his mouth close to Beckett’s ear so he could talk without shouting over the poppy melody of the song “Sing Sing Sing” now being played by the band.
I have a daughter back home, and I’m here for . . . Beckett released a heavy breath, letting that thought go.
“I do have a question.” Jesse turned to the side. “Since you didn’t go to A.J. for help this time, how’d you find out she was here? Who supplied your intel?”
Beckett parted his lips, prepared to summon a response when he saw her.
The her he was there for.
Ivy.
She was hard to miss, and the sight of her gave him the chills. Not the kind Sydney had managed to provoke at that wedding, when he’d spied her tanned back in that dress that dipped dangerously low to her ass, making a man want to commit all types of sins.
No, these were the shit-is-about-to-go-down goose bumps that covered his skin beneath his heavy clothes.
Ivy’s dark hair was draped like a curtain over her shoulders, covering part of her gold flapper dress. She slowly descended the set of spiral stairs off to the side of the band, her eyes focused on the crowd. Was she searching for her next mark? Who was the vixen’s target?
Beckett pushed away from the bar and rose, leaving his tequila untouched. “She’s here.” He’d clamped down on his teeth, nearly chewing on the words as he’d spit them out. “And she sees me,” he announced as his eyes locked with hers, and she froze on the third step from the bottom.