Cole: Chrome Horsemen MC (20 page)

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

There were two things that bothered Cole about this seemingly straightforward attempt to ambush the exchange. The first was that he recalled that car being parked near his house as they rode out earlier and the second was that he recognized one of the men. His mind flashed up the memory of seeing the driver once with Antonio.

If they had the tracker already in Brian's saddlebag, why park so close to the house with four men in a small Honda that could be easily spotted? With four men in that car, in his neighborhood, they would be noticed and make people nervous. They could have been on another block or even three blocks away where they would never be spotted. Wasn't it more likely that they slipped the tracker into Brian's saddlebag after he arrived and came into the house? And if so, who were they really after?

Knowing that the driver was likely one of Gabriel's men suggested that Gabriel was still after retribution for Antonio and Davis -- or for taking Nicole in the first place. But Gabriel declared the war over, yesterday, and paid a million dollars in damages fees for doing exactly the same thing. Cole didn't ask if the man was insane enough to call a cease-fire and then continue to attack. The answer was
of course he is
.

At the gas station, Cole requested that Brian hold back on reporting the failed and faulty ambush.

"All right, I'll do that, but can you tell me why?"

Cole gave him his gut feelings on the matter. "This could throw everything back into war mode. As it is right now, Gabriel is nothing to the club. Nothing. In other words, open game."

Brian processed, "You're going to kill Gabriel."

Cole nodded, "And I want him to feel safe enough to come out of that fortress of Lou's men to start making his regular rounds again."

"Where you can reach him," Brian concluded.

"Yes," Cole nodded. "This is personal, Brian. You don't have to do this and I won't be angry if you report the ambush and what I've just said. Nothing will change between us. But I want him, Brian and I don't want to wait a month to get at him."

"I already said I was going to do as you asked and nothing has changed my mind yet. If your suspicions are true, and they make more sense than the
fumbled drug deal raid
theory, Gabriel is going to keep trying.

"Besides, the
drug deal raid
theory is wholly based on the idea that someone knew I was making a run this morning when I only learned about it last night close to midnight. Jim and Bear, to me, are beyond reproach. On top of that, it suggests that those men knew what run I was making, but not to who. The customer is a regular drop. How could they know so much and miss connecting and obvious information? No, I don't buy the drug raid idea either. They were after one or both of us. It was a hit squad, not a drug raid."

"I want at least three days to let the dust settle and watch Gabriel before a war is begun again. If I end him, no war will be required," Cole noted.

"Want some help?" Brian asked, "He just came after me, as well. The man is a psychopath and needs to be put down."

"Won't turn you down, that's for sure," Cole told him, "but right now, I have a date with serious wallowing and I intend to wallow and try to make sense of what happened yesterday, because it still doesn't fit. It just doesn't. I mean, if she really wants to just leave like that, sure, fine. But god fucking damn it, she didn't want to do that when I left her. And then less than two hours later, she just flips? She never felt like someone who acted without some planning and prep work. It just doesn't work. But she left on her own and went back there willingly." Cole closed up his gas tank and hung the hose a little roughly.

"I'm missing something. Likely, something obvious," he mumbled.

"Let's make this drop and get a beer," Brian suggested.

"Let's do that," Cole agreed.

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

Max Rozzi was coming close to being fifty years old. It was amazing to him how little he could actually remember about his thirties. Now his forties were gone. When his jet touched down, he felt good being back in Chicago. The visit with his daughter in San Diego was good for both of them – far better than he expected and only possible because of a unique woman.

Thinking of Nicole, he decided to drop in on her. It was a boundary issue, yes, but he wouldn't stay. Just drop by, give her a diamond necklace, and then leave. His regular day with her was only two days from now anyway.

He liked the idea so much, he told his assistant to arrange the purchase, his pickup, and the trip to her apartment. His assistant, Cathy, was a stunning redhead who was very willing to take care of his physical needs, but definitely lacked whatever it was Nicole offered. Nicole gave him an amazing gift when they first began. She gave him the ability to grieve his wife. He couldn't do it before Nicole.

Max's wife died at eleven in the morning from cancer. Max was on a plane to New York at three that afternoon. He was in Seattle the day of her funeral, Detroit for the following Thanksgiving, back in New York during the Christmas days, and so on -- leaving his sixteen-year-old daughter alone. Basically, his daughter lost both of them that day, mother and father.

He never grieved. It was there, the hole was there, and it was, without a doubt, the most pain he had ever experienced. But he simply couldn't grieve. There was never time and always something that had to be done: a call to make, a trip to make, an email to compose. Something. Always.

He heard about the call girls in Chicago of course, and was recommended to them several times and, one night, he made an appointment. Some actual relaxation would be good. Something more than a quickie with the assistant. A full night with a skilled woman.

When he arrived, she was beautiful, yes, but there was something else about her that drew him in. The eyes, maybe, or the come-hither grin she had. He asked if she would mind if he finished a few things up and she told him to relax, finish his day. She would get him a drink. Scotch? Sure.

Three hours later, he was showered and more relaxed than he could ever remember being. He was free of weights he couldn't recall carrying -- and they hadn't even had sex yet. Then he turned to her as they sat against the headboard together and she pulled back her hair, just like Joyce used to do. It was just the same.

He lost it. The sobs were tectonic. His whole world shattered. Nicole wasn't scared or amused or insulted or embarrassed. She just held him and let him bawl it out, which he did until sunrise.

"Max?" she asked.

He was expecting her to say something like it was time for him to leave, "Yes."

"I have today and tomorrow off, Max. Why don't you stay with me? I think you've been holding this too long, Max, and one night isn't going to clear it. So stay."

"I have a meeting --"

"You have a daughter you love and a wife you lost, Max. Reschedule or cancel. Nothing in that meeting is unique. Nothing you haven't seen before a hundred times. Nothing you are going to miss out on. Stay."

He stayed. Three nights and two days, he stayed with Nicole. She literally brought him back to life. Afterward, when he looked at the deals and decisions he had made since the day his wife died, he couldn't believe that he was the one who made them. Rank armatures made better investments! He could have made more money simply staying at home in bed. Who knew how far he would have spiraled down before something kicked in like self-preservation, but he was already way past the point he felt comfortable with.

For the next few years, he remained a client of Nicole's. She continued to put a little more of his shattered heart back together every night he was with her. She often laid her head on his chest, listening as if she were trying to tune his heartbeat, to adjust the pulse and rhythms, and, hell, maybe she was, because he always felt more complete in the morning.

"Have you thought about after?" he asked her once. Asking her to marry him or come with him was strictly bad form. He knew the rules, but asking about after, that was just pushing the envelope.

"I don't think call girls retire, Max," she smiled. "Eventually I won't be pretty like I am now and then it will just be over."

"Do you enjoy it?" he asked, knowing that he was really toeing the line now.

She studied him for a moment and said, "I'm not proud of what I am and not really proud of what I do, Max, but I am very proud of how I do it. Does that make sense to you?"

He nodded, "A great deal of sense. Yes. And, if I can say this would sounding like a pervert, what you do, you do extremely well."

"From you, Max, that means a lot to me. It really does."

"All right, if I have that kind of respect for you, then let me pay my debt," he offered.

"Debt?" she smiled. "You don't owe me anything."

"Yes, yes I do, and we'll just look at the money value, all right? We won't talk about broken hearts and empty souls or empty lives. Just plain, black and red, hard fact accounting. Will you accept that?"

She studied him again, "And, if I acknowledge this … debt and say, 'yep, you owe me', then how do you intend to repay?"

"I believe that service for service would be acceptable to both of us. You brought me out of a tailspin that I was in since my wife died. The financial losses began that day, in fact, in New York. You did this with skills I can't describe, but I recognize. So I will teach you my skills. I'll show you how to retire and have a good life after."

She sat up and faced him, "You mean like the stock market and that kind of thing? Max, I never finished high school. I'm just a run away from El Cajon, the arm-pit of California."

"No," he told her, "That's what you were. So, do we have a deal?"

She bit her lip and pulled back her hair, just the way Joyce used to, but this time, he only enjoyed the memory. No tears, no pain. "No bullshit, no esoteric crap, right? You show me that this deal lost so much money before me and this deal made so much money because of me, and that's it… just facts."

"Agreed?"

"Yes, all right, agreed."

Max had smiled and thought,
Gotcha
. After all, in order for her to read the spreadsheets, she had to learn how to use them and accounting, and investment principles, and negotiations, and all of the rest.

She did too. She dove into it with a tenaciousness he never expected. He had tutors come to her apartment during the day and he spoke with her on Skype. A year later, she opened her own portfolio and began investing in stocks.

"So, $5,483,609.00 is what I owe you, right?" he asked, fourteen months later.

She looked over the figures and nodded her head, "Got it. Wow, that's kind of cool how you did that, though. It's still more or less and estimate, though, right?"

"Well, when you get right down to it, these kinds of things always are, but I would accept that from my accountant as being as accurate as possible," he told her.

She studied the spreadsheet some more and then told him, "Well, you are definitely paying it back. I got in on that start-up we talked about and just sold it today for a nice profit, putting that back into my stable growth stocks. Those are still doing fine. So I now have more than one hundred thousand dollars. I did a spreadsheet on that, with the things you showed me here, and it looks like I'll be well past five million in about eight years, give or take, which is still long before I will be forced to retire… I hope. I guess my ass will be the factor there," she smiled. "And no, you will not do a spreadsheet on the estimated growth factors of my ass. No."

She amazed him that day when she showed him the sheet she prepared. It was doubtful that his own broker could have done better. She could discuss nearly any topic in finance or investing after that. She had sound insights and a healthy skepticism. 

His limo pulled up to her apartment and he took his gift box up to her door and knocked. After a few minutes a nice looking blonde, but not Nicole, answered the door, "Hey, what's up?"

"I'm looking for Nicole," he said, knowing instantly that she didn't live there any longer. The model ships were gone and so were the oils.

"Sorry, she's not here anymore. My place now. She's at Gabriel's house, poor thing. She's house pussy now."

Ice dripped down his spine. He didn't need to ask what
house pussy
might be to know that it was something that Nicole should never be. Ever. "Well, thanks," he told her.

"I can help you, though, since she's out of it now, if you would like. My name is Rachel," she offered.

"I'll keep that in mind, Rachel. Thanks again."

Back in his limo, he caught the eye of his assistant. "I need the address of a pimp named Gabriel. I want the next full week cleared of everything. Nothing matters except this project, termed Nicole. Understand?"

His assistant didn't blink, just started typing on her laptop with razor-sharp nails that made scalpels seem dull, carving through his schedule and informing people that their deal had to wait, "Anything else, Max?"

He didn't like to think about it, but he wasn't a virgin, "Yes, I want the best rehab available in Chicago and the names of at least two psychologists specializing in PTSD and addiction."

"Right. I have the address."

"Give it to Bill and let's get going." Max drummed his fingers through the whole drive.

Such a derogatory term,
house pussy
, felt like it meant
all-comers
. Any visitor, any guard, driver, housekeeper.
House pussy
. There was no way that Nicole would suffer that kind of humiliation without a fight, a fight she apparently lost. It was fairly well known – at least he knew it, through movies, novels, and plays – that drugs were often used to keep women in line.

Maybe she tried to leave.

His last look at her portfolio -- she gave him the passwords so he could check up and give her advice periodically -- showed her close to one million.
Her first one million
. Taking up his own laptop, he checked her portfolio now. She was just over that million, but the she took out a huge sum and had it waiting for a bank transfer. Opening up the details for the withdraw from her stocks, he found a note, "Gabriel, buy out."

"Buy out?" he asked himself.

Gabriel was the pimp. The only thing that made sense, with that amount of money, was that she was trying to buy herself out. Nodding, he looked at the date and noted the transfer was created yesterday, at close to eleven, but the funds were never sent. "She made the offer, then he accepted. She got the transfer ready, then he backstabbed her." He murmured, letting his mind drift over the loose and incomplete information, a skill he honed for over thirty years making several billion in the process. "He doesn't want her to go, but she won't stay. So he jacks her up and makes her house pussy. A punishment for trying to leave."

He looked up to his assistant, "Ask Bill to go a little faster. I'm not liking the figures I'm getting here. Time could be an issue. In fact, I'm sure it is."

"Sure, Max," she nodded and spoke to the driver. After she gave instructions and the limo noticeably increased speed, he asked, "What is the drug of choice for pimps to use on their girls?"

"Heroin," she said without hesitation. "Breaks down the will to fight, allows multiple rape training."

"Multiple rape training?" Max pressed.

"The mind can only take so much, Max, and after a while, being raped simply becomes acceptable. She breaks and, from that point, is willing. On heroin, she will realize what is happening, suffer the emotional and psychological damage, and respond to the effects, but she will be unable to fight back because of the drug’s effects."