Diversion 1 - Diversion (19 page)

“Uncle Walter” came to Bo and Luckys Thanksgiving dinner the next day. He wasnt smiling. “Ive gotten information on our friend from Georgia.”

Bo and Lucky both stopped eating to focus on their boss. “Seems several cases of the lot number Bo gave me for shelf stock were reported to the DEA as destroyed by Elledges facility. I have copies of the destruction forms they issued. Rx Dispose is supplying the Ryerson Clinic with drugs that shouldnt exist.
“And before you ask, yes, most of the products came from Regency Pharma. Were keeping an eye on your insurance claim, to see whats been charged. Some pretty odd bills have come out of Ryersons, particularly from public aid recipients, adding Medicaid fraud to the list of possible charges. When you go back to work on Monday, Bo, Id like you to check on a few claims, if possible. Lucky, weve sufficient surveillance at the clinic now. I want you to shadow Ryerson. If either Burnett or Elledge contacts her, I want to know.”
“Can I get some more coffee?” Lucky asked, knowing a perfect host like Bo wouldnt hesitate to fill an empty cup. When Bos back turned, Lucky dropped his voice and gave Walter his best venomous glare. “Dont we have enough evidence yet to warrant a raid? Why keep him there?” The more he discovered of Ryerson— and Elledges—operation, the more dangerous he found it, as if murder by greed wasnt bad enough. And he still worried how much the former manager of the Raleigh facility saw the night before.
Whatever Walter might have said died unspoken when Bo returned. “Heres your coffee. Whats wrong, Walter? Dont like the Tofurkey?”
Walter gazed at his plate, as though seeing it for the first time. “Sorry, I have a lot on my mind this evening.”
When Lucky escorted Walter to the door after dinner, he demanded, “Get Bo out. Now!”

Hours later, Lucky lay awake, worrying. Wriggling a sleeping Bo into his arms and staring at the ceiling, he admitted to his latest colossal fuck up. Despite trying damned hard not to, hed let someone into his heart. He recalled the last time hed even come close, and the ultimate price hed paid.

He didnt recollect exactly when it started, Victors tendency to exclude him.
“Youll be busy this afternoon; Ill catch you up later.”
How young and trusting hed been…

Hed gone on about his errands, depending on his partner to handle the business end of things: placing orders, arranging clandestine payments. Lucky served as glorified delivery boy and bed warmer, though he suspected the local forensics lab might have a field day with the sheets on Victors bed. Casual dalliances didnt bother Lucky—much. While he cared for Victor, he understood that his lovers wealth and power drew more opportunists than a flame amid moths. They both made money, and Victor always returned to Lucky sooner or later. No harm, no foul. It wasnt like Lucky turned down many offers himself, yet when he was in town, Victor treated him as one and only. As heartless bastards went, he and Victor were pretty evenly matched.

Not overly computer savvy in his younger years, he never tried to access any accounts, trusting Victor when it came to record keeping. However, he wasnt trusting enough to ignore what flashed before his nose. Hed returned home early from a Florida run and Victor hadnt been home. The sprawling mansion, normally in a state of museum-like order, appeared neglected, and certain of Victors treasures were missing: a painting of his mother, several sculptures.

A search of Victors study, a normally forbidden place, turned up two tickets to Rio, one-way flights leaving in two days, one in an unknown name, the other in Victors. Lucky didnt even have a passport. Unsurprisingly, the combination on the safe in their bedroom had been changed. Somewhere in the past few weeks, Luckys status seemed to have fallen from “partner” to “employee.” If Victor planned to run, something had gone wrong, something the bastard hadnt shared. And who the hell was he planning to take with him? Lucky pocketed the tickets.

He reluctantly handed over the damning evidence when cops showed up with a warrant for his arrest. Lucky went quietly, as Victor had always instructed, calling his lawyer at the station. He fully expected to be out in a few hours. Unfortunately, as his lawyer was also Victors, the asshole declined to take his case. Hed gotten stuck with someone recommended by a friend of a friend. At his arraignment, through a haze of gut-wrenching withdrawals, he listened to the charges, not understanding half of them.

It was only when leaving the courthouse that he fully understood how deep in shit hed fallen. Reporters lined the stone steps, shouting things about “extortion,” “cartels,” and even “murderer.”

It seemed more of Victors business dealings excluded Lucky than included him, and when things fell apart hed planned to escape, leaving Lucky to take the fall. Or so the feds made it seem, flashing the plane tickets beneath his nose and taunting him with some guy named Jeffrey Andrews, the name on the second ticket. Someone Victor had never mentioned.

Days went by as he lay in his cell, unable to sleep without Victors meds, rolling what hed learned over in his head. He stole drugs, Victor sold them, concealing them in plain sight at his sole legitimate distribution center, and Lucky delivered them. Now, it seemed, hed be held responsible for what people did with the drugs theyd bought. Three deaths, three possible murder charges. How in the hell had those happened? Even worse:
Am I responsible for those people dying?
In a panic and thinking, “What would Victor do in my shoes?” when the district attorney offered a deal, Lucky took it.

Yet, his heart skipped a beat when an aged and frumpy man appeared in court, somewhat the worse for the wear. Victors high- dollar suit hung off him; gone was the handsome man who commanded attention by simply entering a room. “Playing on the jurys sympathies, no doubt,” Luckys lawyer said.

Lucky didnt hold back, telling everything the DA asked about the man whod taken him under wing, making a poor country hick with carjacking skills into someone feared, revered, and with money in his pocket. His testimony helped bring in the “guilty” verdict.

Victor hanged himself the night of his sentencing…
Bo stirred in his sleep, and Lucky cradled him closer, steeling his resolve to walk away when his time was up, convinced bad karma would see the man dead—like Victor.

Lucky slapped his turn signal on and veered across two lanes of traffic, windshield wipers
tick-tocking
back and forth. Keeping Ryersons distant Mercedes clearly in sight, he reached down to snag his chirping phone out of the passenger seat. “Yeah?”

“Lucky, its Bo. Got a minute?” In the background, the
slllllssssssh
of wet tires on pavement announced a car driving by. Lucky pictured Bo leaning against the side of the clinic, huddled under the rear awning to avoid the rain.

Bos voice sounded shaky, uncertain. Luckys hackles rose. “Whats up? Is there a problem?”
“Yes. No.” A sigh wafted from the receiver. “Im having a bad day, and I was hoping…”
A thousand scathing remarks circled Luckys brain, jockeying for position out of his mouth. He tightened his lips in a hard line, determined not to speak without thinking things through. Bo didnt need smartassed remarks right now. Lucky settled for, “You know if you slip up you wont be able to hide it from me.”
A defeated sounding “Yes,” answered him.
“Ill kick your ass.”
“Without a doubt.” In hushed tones, Bo asked, “Would you tell Walter?”
The tentative question gave Lucky pause. Would he tell Walter, and condemn Bo to whatever consequences the man avoided by signing on in the first place? Searching his soul long and hard, he decided the answer was no. A man had to draw the line somewhere, and if Walter were half the boss Lucky thought him to be, hed figure it out on his own. The frequent drug testing guaranteed any indiscretions wouldnt stay secret for long. Channeling his inner asshole, hoping to piss Bo off enough to trigger the fight instincts simmering beneath the despair, Lucky barked, “There wont be nothing to tell, cause you aint gonna wimp out on me! Now get your ass back in that damned pharmacy and do what were paying you to do.”
Silence, save for passing cars. After several moments, Bo responded, “Thank you, Lucky.”
“Dont mention it.” Lucky dropped his pretense at anger. “What do you want for supper?”
“You.” The call disconnected
For the first time in recent memory, Lucky didnt mind not getting in the last word. Throwing his attention back into his work, he turned off the main drag, circling around a side road to avoid his quarrys notice. Yet, each time his mind wandered even a little from the task at hand, he heard again that one word that held so much promise: “You.”

Sorry I havent written, but Ive been busy lately. I hope to get up your way soon, maybe after Christmas. Give the boys my love.

Lucky glanced over his shoulder at a sharp “Um -hmmm…” to find Bo standing in the doorway, dressed in tiny shorts, a T-shirt, and running shoes. “Get dressed; youre coming with me.”

Without bothering to ask where, Luck y replied, “No, Im not.” “Yes, you are.”
“No, Im not.” Lucky hit “send” on his email before Bo got

“You drink too much coffee and eat t oo much junk food, even if you do work out. For a guy pushing forty, thats a bad way to live.”

Lucky recoiled at the insult. “I am not pushing forty! Yet.” “Oh, excuse me,” Bo replied in mock apology, digging the knife in deeper. “You sure fooled me. And a better diet and a little cardio wouldnt hurt ya. Your prison workout may be good for toning, but it doesnt give you stamina. When was the last time you rated a fivemile run?”
While Lucky couldnt really argue the point, he would still give it the oldcollege try. “Remember lesson number one? Have you forgotten how easily I knocked you on your ass? I can do it again without breaking a sweat, youngun!”
Lucky could have counted every tooth in Bos head when he grinned. “Youll have to catch it first.” He turned, shimmying his backside beneath a layer of thin cotton. “You catch it, you can have it.”

Lucky scowled from beneath sweat-slicked brows, winded and lacking the breath for a proper growl. “Im not an invalid.” He tried and failed to summon enough energy to smack the selfrighteousness off Bos face.

“Oh here, lemme get the door for you.” Bo hopped the three front steps in one bound, unlocked the door, and held it open. The stupid grin never dimmed.

Lucky dragged himself into the house and down the hall, straight to the shower. He sagged against the cool tile wall, letting the showerhead pound between his weary shoulder blades. The curtain fluttered and Bo stepped into the shower, grin vanished and mischief playing in his eyes.

“You didnt catch me and win my ass,” he said, in tones strangely devoid of gloating, “but I think you deserve a consolation prize for trying.” He sank to his knees and Lucky gained a whole new appreciation for five-mile runs.

What a fucking shitty job I have.
Lucky sat parked across from Le Chateau Jardin, a day spa Beverly Ryerson visited on Fridays, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and willing time to skip on by.

He had her rout ine down. Shed spend a half day at work, leave to get a facial, pedi, and manicure, a half hour massage, have her hair styled, and go home afterward, ending Luckys shift and becoming Arts problem. If only shed get on with it.

Bored out of his mind, he visually toured the businesses around the spa. A Harley shop sat right across the street, floor-to-ceiling windows providing a clear view of Le Chateau. He abandoned the car to check out the latest bikes, straddling a Road King to test the balance.
One day, when Im free, Im gonna get me one of these.

Stopping by an eye-catching trike, he noticed a bright orange “Sale” sign near the back of the room. He wandered over, fumbling through piles of gloves, helmet stickers, and other assorted small items in baskets before making his way to racks holding jackets and T-shirts.

The rich scent of leather brought Bo to mind, and his claim to own a pair of chaps. Too bad he hadnt brought them along. Well, maybe he needed a spare set.

One by one Lucky slid hangers over: T-shirt, T-shirt, jacket, vest, T-shirt, T-shirt, a what-the-hell-is-it, and finally, his fingers brushed black leather. A single pair of chaps hung from a bowed-in wire hanger. A tiny scrape, marked by red tape, marred the knee of one leg, most likely the reason theyd been reduced from a “not in a million years” price to “Ill think about it.”

He paid with his debit card, wondering how soon Walter would question him about the purchase, and slunk back to the car, bag in hand, before Beverly Ryerson reappeared. The aroma of leather wafting from the backseat, as well as images of what he hoped would soon form memories, left him rock hard and ready to go home.

“What ya got without meat?” Lucky eyed the menu, but it didnt make much sense to him.
What the hell is tabouleh
?
Isnt there a shot for that?

“Sir, this is a vegetarian restaurant. None of our menu items contain meat, and we use only non-GMO soy. To some of our more discerning customers, thats a strong selling point.” Strange how a man an inch or two shorter still managed to look down his nose at Lucky.

Lucky scratched his head, trying to figure out what language the strutting little peacock spoke. If he wasnt hoping for advice hed love taking the arrogant snob down a notch or two. “Now why the hell does food need an insurance plan?”

The maître ds snooty little chuckle grated on Luckys nerves, and he balled his hands into fists, mentally chanting,
Get the food first, get the food first.

“Not HMO, sir, GMO. Genetically modified organism. That means „tinkering with Mother Nature. Many of our patrons staunchly oppose altered foodstuffs.”

Despite his uppity ways, Lucky found it hard to totally dislike one of thefew men hed run across lately who he could literally see eye to eye. “I only want to get dinner, not save the world.”