Didn’t Bill know it. But it was time for him to hit back. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a plan.”
“No offense, but I gotta worry.” Tommy’s breath fogged the cold air. “If they slit your throat, Uncle Bill, I’m going to bleed out with you.”
The kid’s concern was warranted, and Bill had an obligation to protect his sister’s only son. “You spoke to Devlin?”
Tommy nodded, rubbing his hands together. “D got him. Alive. The boys just passed through Tucson. They’ll reach the city in twenty-one hours, but D is flying back tomorrow. He got delayed in San Diego. When he gets back, he wants to meet face-to-face.”
“You told him we’ll do it at Avido’s?” The casino wasn’t an option and Bill’s days of meeting in back alleys and cars were done. He was reduced to having conversations in meat lockers, for Pete’s sake.
“Yeah. I told him,” Tommy said. “He wants to arrange half the payment before his boys set foot in New Orleans with Edgar. The rest on delivery.”
Bill blew into his cupped hands, starting to shiver. “Fine. Whatever he wants. As long as I get Edgar alive. And what about the evidence? Digital? Hard copies? Anything?”
Tommy shrugged. “D said he’s working on it.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“He said he’d explain in person.”
Bill was too damn cold to blow a fuse.
Nabbing Edgar was a major win. Bill would toss the other bosses a juicy Plinski bone to gnaw on, but he needed that evidence—in black and white, so to speak—to get out of this alive.
* * *
SOMETIMES ASSISTANT SPECIAL AGENT in Charge Ava Garcia strolled through the casino on one of her breaks or after duty, to play a hand of poker or have a meal.
She liked to change her shoes first. A woman walked differently depending on her footwear. Three-inch heels didn’t scream federal agent but purred all-woman.
It helped her blend in, appear nonthreatening.
Garcia spent more time at the Windfall than she did at her apartment in the hopes she’d see something, overhear a nugget she could use to nail Big Bill Walsh to the wall.
Today she’d got that kernel, making all her free hours spent here worthwhile.
The other bosses in the syndicate were coming to New Orleans. That was huge.
Bill would have to meet with them, and he planned to offer them something they wanted more than his head on a pike.
She’d have to get extra agents and change out the vehicles Bill’s people were familiar with. Anticipate how Big Bill would try to give them the slip.
No matter what, the FBI would also be in attendance.
Garcia watched Bill and his nephew leave the restaurant. They were rubbing their arms, looking chilled to the bone.
What were you two talking about in a meat locker?
Garcia left the casino, headed to her car in the parking garage and called her boss, Special Agent in Charge Bryan McCaffrey. “Sir, Garcia here. I’m going to need four more agents and to swap out vehicles as soon as possible.”
* * *
AIDEN FOLLOWED THE directions Charlie gave him as she finished eating her burger.
Twenty minutes later, he turned off the highway and pulled into the cracked parking lot of the Oasis. Red Xs blazed with the promise of scantily clad adult entertainment.
“Why on earth are we at a strip club and how is it going to solve any of our problems?” Aiden usually trusted Charlie without question, but he looked at her like she was crazy.
“If I tell you, you won’t like it.”
“You’re not going in there to strip, are you?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted it, hearing how absurd it sounded. They didn’t need money, but they were here for some unfathomable reason.
“Of course not. How is stripping going to help us?”
He threw his hands in the air and shrugged.
“Sit tight,” she said, patting his leg. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Thirty minutes, tops.”
Before he could protest about how this was a bad idea, whatever she was up to, Charlie was out of the truck and sauntering inside the Oasis.
Aiden left the vehicle running. No telling what Charlie was doing in there. Best for him to stay prepared for anything.
There were twelve cars in the lot on a Friday at three o’clock in the afternoon. Might be a payday for some.
A shame to blow it here. Then again, the women inside had to make a living, too.
Aiden stared at the red pulsing Xs. An unspecified anxiety twisted through him. His thoughts raced.
Why couldn’t he go inside with her? It was a gentlemen’s club, after all. Why wouldn’t he like her plan? Did it involve some dude rubbing his hands all over her?
“This is stupid,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll just go in there and see for myself.”
No sooner had he cut the engine and taken out the key than Charlie came out, looking pleased as a cat that’d swallowed a canary.
She jumped in as he started the truck.
“Drive,” she said.
He threw the truck in gear and turned onto the highway. “Talk. Now.”
“Ta-da,” she said, pulling two driver’s licenses and a credit card out of her back pocket and holding them up next to each other. “You are now Rudy Benally and I’m Priscilla Johnson.”
Aiden took one. Arizona State driver’s license. The guy was forty, eight years older than Aiden, Native American, short black hair. Height five-ten, off by only two inches. Weight 180, lighter by twenty. But they didn’t look enough alike to even appear related.
“Sorry I couldn’t do better with yours. There were only two Native American guys inside to choose from.”
Taking a glance at the other, he noticed a resemblance between Charlie and Priscilla. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Twenty-seven. Four years younger than Charlie. But time hadn’t been kind and the woman in the photo looked older. Same height and weight. Priscilla was pretty while Charlie was gorgeous.
The credit card was in Priscilla’s name.
“With your baseball cap,” Charlie said, “this will work.”
He gritted his teeth, not liking it, but he didn’t have a better plan. “Did you pick-pocket all of that? As soon as the credit card is reported stolen, we’re hosed.”
“Ms. Johnson works there. She’s a shrewd, resourceful businesswoman who was open to making a deal. I paid her to loan me her license and credit card. There’s a thousand-dollar limit on the credit, so I gave her fifteen hundred, with the promise that I’d mail both back to her. For an extra two hundred, she was kind enough to help me separate Mr. Benally, a touchy-feely jerk and bad tipper, from his license. If it makes you happy, we can mail that back, too, since we have his address.”