Slate (Rebel Wayfarers MC) (43 page)

He was pretty sure he knew why Tony was in his clubhouse now; this cluster got bigger and sloppier with every passing minute. “You know he’s in a deep fucking hole of trouble, right?” he asked Benita. She nodded. He pulled his phone out of his front pocket, hitting a speed dial number. “Deke, need you at Marie’s, brother.” He listened for a minute, and then disconnected.

Yelling up the hallway for Tequila, he waited until the big man stood beside him. “Need you to put Benita and the band members in the other box, man. We’ve got some housekeeping to take care of, and I don’t want them to wander into places they don’t need to be.” He inclined his head to Benita. “It’s not the most comfortable accommodations, sorry.”

Tequila put his hands out, herding her backwards into the hallway. “Second door on the left,” his voice rumbled in his chest. Slate heard the muted thunder of a bike’s pipes and waited for Deke to walk in.

“Band’s van needs to go into the garage. Gotta clean it of some H. There’s probably more than a little, so you might want to go ahead and see about storage. I don’t know; I’ll leave that to you. When you’re done, let me know how much we’re sitting on. Keep this need-to-know among the brothers; I don’t want unneeded shit started.” He cut a glance over at Deke.

“I got you, Prez,” was all Deke said before turning to walk back outside. One of the prospects came through the room, headed back to where Tequila was standing in the hallway. Another prospect followed, bringing two of the band members with him.

20 -
            
Benny

Walking into the secure room they called ‘the box’, he took a good look at Fort Wayne’s biggest drug dealer, Tony Manzino. He remembered the fear the transport guys had for this man, and the bloody evidence left for blocks around the clubhouse before the Rebels started keeping a perimeter. He wasn’t a big man, and he looked soft, like it had been a long time since he’d had to do his own tidying up.

Standing in front of the door, Slate folded his arms across his chest, waiting on the other man to become tired of the silence. Slate stood unmoving for several minutes, knowing it would eventually wear on the patience of Manzino.

“Your brother is a problem for me,” the smaller man finally said in a level tone of voice. Slate lifted one eyebrow, looking at him. “He’s managed to piss off a lot of people in a short period of time,” Manzino continued, “Mexican drug cartel, Mexican motor club, and me.”

Slate snorted. “Drug cartel is a new one. What did he do there?”

“You think this is fucking funny, man? You are warped,” Manzino murmured. “He ruined some product in a warehouse. If it was only a few stacks, I think they’d be okay, but it wasn’t. It was a lot of product, and they want to recoup their losses.” Shaking his head, Manzino looked up at Slate.

This day just kept getting better and better. Slate ran his hand through his hair, looking down at Manzino. “Why is he a problem for you?” he asked.

The drug dealer barked a harsh laugh. “I think he’s one of those men who draw attention and danger, and eventually anger from those around them. Having him here, in Fort Wayne, brings unwanted attention and visitors. People I’d rather not see here in my town.”

“So why are you here, in my house? Why would you deliver yourself into my hands like this, knowing we’ve been looking to put you to ground if needed?” Slate didn’t pull any punches, letting this ass-wipe have a minute to think.

“Because I can help keep your brother alive, and we can do some business at the same time,” Manzino said. “I can move the product he has on hand, which buys you some time. I make a profit, and your brother pays his debt to the bikers. That only leaves the cartel, but we can work together to keep his head off their fence. I see this as a win-nearly-win, which is a fuck-of-a-lot better than what you walked in here with.” He shrugged.

“We,” Slate wagged his finger back and forth between them, “don’t do business. You kill families, neighborhoods, businesses, and people with your ‘product’, and we,” he wagged his finger again, “aren’t the same. We,” the finger wagged one last time, “don’t do business.”

“If I distribute away from Fort Wayne, does that make this a more palatable decision?” Manzino asked. “Is it only the hometown aspect that bugs you, or is it the drugs themselves?”

“Distributing away from Fort Wayne? How far can you go, motherfucker? Columbia? Brazil? That might be far enough,” Slate sneered.

“God, you are a hard-ass son of a bitch. I’m handing you a win here, man.” Manzino shook his head, slowly unfolding from the chair.

“What did he do to get on
your
bad side?” Slate asked, reaching out a hand and shoving Manzino back down into the chair hard.

“Bah, he’s not really. I was just yankin’ your chain.” Manzino’s lips curved into a humorless smile.

Looking down at Manzino, Slate’s mind was searching for a better solution than the one being offered, but he couldn’t seem to find another way for Benny to
maybe
come out of this alive. He reached out for a chair, turning it to face Manzino and sat down, folding his arms across the back of it. “What’s the value on the product?” Slate asked.

“Easy quarter-mill, probably more, unless your brother did something stupid,” came the response.

Slate sat there for a minute, running scenarios through his head. He stood, shoving the chair back against the wall. Turning to the door, he pulled the phone from his front pocket and dialed. “Estavez,” he said as he walked away, hearing Manzino’s shout of disbelief behind him. Kicking the door closed on the box, he continued speaking, “I have answers, but we have to come to an understanding before we can move forward.”

“Andrew, is there honor for us both in your answers and understanding?” Estavez questioned. “Because if there is, then we will grasp it like drowning men.”

“Yeah, I think there is. My brother bought high-dollar drugs with the money from the people in Denver. Those people are remnants of your brother’s business, the cartel. I have the product, and someone who can sell it, but using this asshole gives me a bad taste in my mouth. If we could move the distribution away from where I live, I’d be better with it.” Slate paused to take in a silent, deep breath.

He continued speaking into the phone, “So here’s what I think; you can finish up the clean-up you evidently missed out west by luring them with the product. You get personal satisfaction in knowing you’ve terminated another fragment of the business that took your daughter. I can either give you the product, and you accept the risk versus reward of converting it to cash, or we can have my guy handle distribution, and pass you back the payoff for the borrow. One way, you keep all the money; the other, you get back exactly what you are owed. Either way, the cartel is short a few heads by tomorrow morning.”

“And the understanding, Andrew? Where does that come in?” His voice was low.

“You never fucking do business with my family again, Estavez. No matter the ask from my baby brother. He would become invisible to you, and his debt would be repaid, not forgiven, so you lose no honor.”

Slate held his breath for a second, waiting, then gasped it out shakily when he heard, “This is a good answer, Andrew. I accept the risk, and can take possession within the hour,” from Estavez.

“I’ll call you back within thirty minutes; set up the meet,” Slate told him. “I’ll be in touch.” Disconnecting the call, he walked into the area where the van had been pulled, and saw the stacks of wrapped packages covering the floor near one wall. “Deke,” he called, looking around.

“Yo,” came the response from within the van’s cargo space, “I’m getting the last bits and pieces. There was a fuck-ton of shit, Prez. Doesn’t look like it’s been tampered with; the lab seals are all still on the wrapping. What the hell are we doing with all this in the building?”

“I have Machos gonna pick it up in a bit, but I wanted to make sure how much there was before I gave them the final call.” Slate rolled his shoulders as Deke’s face appeared around the back of the van.

“Machos?” he questioned with a puzzled look on his face.

“Yeah, that’s who my brother ‘borrowed’ the money from to buy the drugs. They want the drugs and will take responsibility for turning it back into cash, and they won’t do it in Fort Wayne. It also gives their president the opportunity to manage a business problem out west, which is…satisfying to him.” Slate shook his head. “I lost a valuable fucking marker on the Machos, but get to keep my brother on the sunny side of the divide.” He ran his hand through his hair.

Working together, they counted and stacked the packages into empty beer boxes, creating a tidy stack of nondescript, brown rectangles along the wall. Deke went back into the van with his tools, and verified they’d removed everything.

Slate pulled out the phone, redialing the last number. “Anytime, Estavez, I’m ready. Marie’s on Main,” he told him, and he hung up the phone. “Hang a minute, Deke; let’s get this transfer and meet done with. Then, we can decide what to do with Manzino.” He ran his hand back through his hair.

Deke looked at him out of the corner of one eye, repeating in a questioning tone, “What to do with Manzino?”

“Yeah, motherfucker showed up, just walked in, so Tequila put him in the box. We’ve had a chat, but he’s still breathing. I want to know what you think we should do with him. Then we’ll talk to Hoss, lay it out, and get everyone on the same fucking page.”

About twenty minutes later, Slate heard a noise from outside. “They’re here,” he said flatly, and then three sharp knocks came from the cargo door, rattling it in the frame. Deke strode over and swung the regular door outward, stepping back and away from the opening. Estavez was the first man through the door, and he walked confidently towards Slate, holding out a hand in greeting. Slate allowed a hard smile to bend the corners of his lips upward, taking the hand and pulling him into a one-armed embrace. Thumping each other on the back, the men moved apart, sizing up the changes in appearance since they’d seen the other last. “Estavez, it’s good to see you looking well,” Slate spoke first.

“And good to see you too, Andrew Jones...Slate,” he responded with an open smile. “You’re doing well for yourself, President.”

“Mason’s a slave driver; wasn’t no way he was gonna let me slough responsibility for something indefinitely. Might as well be a strong, vital chapter like Fort Wayne,” Slate said proudly, putting his hands on his hips. “I’m more than happy with the club here; we’ve got a good set of brothers,” he pointed at Deke, “like Deke here, my Sergeant at Arms.”

Stepping back again, he moved towards the back wall, where the boxes were stacked. “Product is here, brother. Do you want to pull your van in to transfer?” he asked, flipping open the flaps on one of the boxes so Estavez could see the packages inside.

The Machos’ President leaned over, not touching the box, and looked at the contents. He rocked back on his heels a little, running his gaze over the entire stack. “Are all the boxes full?” he asked finally.

“Yeah, they’re full, and the packaging is undisturbed. They’ve not been opened or unsealed,” Slate answered, flipping open the flaps on another two boxes to show Estavez.

“There’s a good deal more here than I expected,” Estavez murmured to Slate. “This is worth at least a half-million dollars, Slate. Are you still certain about the deal?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely, brother. You pack this shit up, take it far from my hometown, and deal with your brother’s business problems...I’m good with the deal as long as the portion regarding the continued health of my baby brother is still in play.” Slate nodded.

“I think that is no longer a problem, and I’m happy to have the opportunity to finalize aspects of my own brother’s business...but I will not take advantage of you in this way. I will contact you regarding the remainder of the money, once we have everything taken care of. I will accept no other deal,” Estavez said sternly and Slate laughed.

“Deke, move the van; let’s get this shit shifted,” Slate called across the room.

***

Brushing the hair back from Benny’s forehead, Slate leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “I need you to listen to me, Benny. You with me?” he asked quietly.

Benny’s eyes drifted closed, and then opened again, focusing slowly on Slate’s face. “Yeah, Andy, I’m with you.”

“Benny, shrimp...you fucked up, as in a
colossal
fuck up. You crossed some fucking assholes, and your band and manager were about to pay the price. If they hadn’t paid, then you were never getting out of here. You got me? You understand?” he asked Benny for confirmation.

“What do you mean they were going to pay the price?” Benny’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Benita was trying to negotiate on your behalf, which only brought her to their attention, and she was scared, which meant no good decisions were being made. You were nearly at the point where you weren’t going to walk out of this room, Benny, but I fixed it.” Slate shook his head.

Still confused, Benny tilted his head to one side, letting his hair fall across his forehead carelessly. “Andy, what did you do?” There was a tone of fear in his brother’s voice.

“I have some pull in certain circles. I let it be known you’re my blood brother, and that damage to you was unwise. The loan is covered, Benny. The ‘product’ is managed, you have a cleared marker,” he bared his teeth grimly, “and then I killed your loan opportunities for the future, to ensure you continue to stay healthy and can’t ever fuck yourself in the ass like this again.”