VII.
Day Seven, Wednesday
One Dead
Bump kept looking in the rearview mirror. The drive from Chicago to the northeast corner of Minnesota would be spent primarily in Wisconsin, a largely unbroken farm-tilled landscape that could either put a man into a thoughtless stupor or send his mind wandering to nonsensical locales. Bump fell into the latter. He was wondering if maybe the Sinaloa Cartel was behind this whole Jacob White mess. By his calculation, White was an elite member of the Sinaloa Cartel. The guy had wanted to be kidnapped in Tijuana, and once inside the CJNG’s operation, he went about systematically destroying it. Four dead and millions in cash and hundreds of kilos of drugs seized. An underground smuggling network dismantled. It was a real piece of work.
This theory made sense. Sinaloa was dying and desperate. The CJNG was taking over. White’s recent success would only delay the inevitable, but it would give the Sinaloa Cartel another day to pretend it was still in control of the plaza.
Bump felt he knew the Sinaloans enough to come up with such a theory, because at one point, he had worked for them. He and the street gang to which he belonged, the Almighty Vice Lords, had been their point crew in Chicago for years. And for a long time, it’d been a good relationship. Sinaloa had been the king of the cartels, and the AVL distributed their product, enforced their rules, and made bank. But Sinaloa’s shipments had started to slow, more seizures and arrests were made, and money got tight. There were rumors of internal disputes and a breakup. The AVL wasn’t going to be part of that, so they shifted their allegiance to the CJNG and never looked back. Until now.
Bump scanned the road behind him.
If he was right, the Sinaloans were using White to draw him out of Chicago so they could kill him. Sinaloa wanted to strong-arm the AVL into coming back to them.
Even though he couldn’t see anything in the rearview mirror, he just had a feeling they were back there, following him, waiting for a dead zone between towns where they could force him off the road and put a bullet in his head.
Do it. Do it, he goaded. Do it now. This stretch of interstate had a nice weedy thicket of trees alongside it that he could run to. He’d simply pull over and dash away. And if Tiff, his flat-footed girlfriend, lagged at all, he’d abandon her. The Sinaloans weren’t really after her anyway. She’d be in no danger, probably. It was his head they wanted. His and two others’ within the AVL: Christopher Stephenson and Dennis Baines. The three of them had orchestrated the break. They also had power, respect, and bodies, and killing any one of them would send quite the message.
But wanting it and doing it were two different things. The Sinaloans hadn’t been able to kill him before when they were just off their peak, so now, with their being shadows of their former selves, it was even more unlikely. They’d lost their leader to US extradition; rival cartels, including the CJNG, were hitting them left and right; and politicians were turning their backs in droves. They had nothing, and Bump had seen it coming, which was precisely why he and his crew had done what they’d done. That didn’t mean Sinaloa wasn’t still dangerous, though—or crafty. They were damn crafty. If his Jacob White theory was correct, then good for them. They were going down swinging. Too bad for them he’d end this White business within the next day or two.
The phone resting in the center console vibrated, and Bump said, “Speak of the devil,” after accepting the call.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Avispón growled.
“You talking about the fire?”
“I’m talking about the fire.”
“Man, you really think that’s me?”
“You’ve started fires before, you little pyro. And they found your Talons there too.”
“I burned those houses after everyone was dead.”
“And the Talons?”
“Someone else has some. I don’t know.” Bump eyed a mangled deer carcass on the shoulder of the road, a chilling sight. Dead people, even those with the backs of their heads blown out and their brains dripping down the curb, didn’t bother him, but these roadside corpses made him shiver. He’d seen four since crossing the state line. What was it about Wisconsin and Minnesota that these gaunt, horselike creatures were so rampant? Bump held his breath as they passed the shredded carcass.
“Then pat yourself on the back,” Avispón said, “because you’ve inspired some other shit weasel to act just like you.”
Shit weasel? Bump thought. That’s a new one. The cartel boss had a tendency to change expletives as often as he changed mistresses. Apparently “fuckwit” and the fashion photographer had been replaced.
Avispón continued. “Remember what I told you. If this isn’t you, then you kill White and then you kill the shit weasel who keeps fucking up with your Talons.”
“I know. That’s what I’m doing.” Someone was out there making Bump look bad, so of course he would put a stop to it. Reputations didn’t maintain themselves. “You shouldn’t’ve put that bounty out there. Just call me; I would’ve handled it.”
“What do you think I did?”
“I would’ve appreciated more than just a single call. I was at the hospital.” He’d been checking on his mom after her accident.
“What’re you complaining about? I would’ve never offered you half a million if you’d answered your phone. Now the bounty’s out there. Go claim it.”
“Half a million isn’t worth this trouble.” That wasn’t entirely true, but he had a point to make. “I would’ve appreciated another phone call.”
“You see White’s all over social media?”
“I haven’t looked.” Bump was sure Avispón hadn’t been looking either—he wasn’t on social media—but his wife, daughter, and mistress could’ve certainly shown him something of White’s. That fashion photographer had quite the Instagram account; she was followed by thousands and followed thousands herself. She would’ve seen White’s posts, then asked Avispón about it. Which is why he’s moved on from “fuckwit” to “shit weasel,” Bump thought. Avispón had no time for someone who asked such embarrassing questions.
“When will this be handled?” the cartel boss pressed.
“On my way to Duluth right now.”
Tiff gave a hushed cheer beside him.
“Who’s that?” Avispón asked, hearing the woman’s delight.
“My girl,” Bump said, and left it at that, still annoyed she’d come along. He’d wanted to leave her behind, but she’d seen some photos of an “amazing” lighthouse in Duluth and wouldn’t take no for an answer. She’d actually threatened to blow his balls off otherwise. They’d been sitting on the couch watching the Bears game when the topic came up, and when he kept refusing, she’d grabbed the pistol on the coffee table and shoved the barrel into his crotch. That crazy bitch. She hadn’t been joking either. She would’ve pulled the trigger if he’d said no once more. So now she was riding shotgun, and he had his balls still in his pants.
Tiff leaned close to say hello, but Bump raised his hand and shook his head. She shrugged, not needing to win that battle, and sat back in her seat.
“If you don’t take care of this,” Avispón warned, “I’m sending ROD.”
Bump had heard that warning a few times over the last year in relation to a couple of other hits. “ROD” stood for “Rubén,” “Oscar,” and “David.” He had no idea what their last names were, and it didn’t matter. The three of them were Avispón’s attempt at putting together a death squad that was efficient on both sides of the border. His ultimate goal was to send them after some Castor guy. Evidently they were pretty good within Mexico, responsible for nearly two dozen disappearances in the last twelve months, but outside of the country, they were still a work in progress. Very raw, by the sounds of it. Bump acknowledged Avispón’s threat with a snort.
“Want me to send them now?” Avispón asked quickly.
Bump chuckled. “I don’t care. If I can’t do anything, they won’t be able to either.”
“You’re laughing,” Avispón warned, “but I got this girl working with them now. She’s the real deal. From China. A Triad ninja. She killed a forty-man outfit in Tianjin in a single night once.”
“I’m sure she did. Does she wear all yellow and carry a sword?” Bump asked, thinking of the Tarantino movie. “Actually, I killed all the Latin Kings in Chicago last night. And at least a hundred Black Disciples. I used a toothpick, so—”
Avispón hung up.
Bump regretted that last comment. He already was pushing his luck with the man; he didn’t need to antagonize him, but sometimes his ego wouldn’t shut up.
On the road ahead, a car was braking; Bump lifted his foot from the gas. Another deer carcass, torn to hell, was spread like chunky jam from the center line to the shoulder. He swerved to avoid the larger bits.
Tiff glanced up from her phone to catch the reason for the sudden jerking of the car. “Gross.”
The deer’s head was resting upright near the shoulder, its eyes open, watching them pass. Bump shivered. Any animal bigger than a dog that ran loose in the wild wasn’t right. But it was encouraging to know this horrid mess meant there was one less deer in the world.
The next time they stopped for gas, Bump made Tiff get out and pump, then he sent her inside to buy some scratch-offs for his mom while he watched the nearby fields.
~
Jacob settled into his preferred table at the Coffee Princess across from the espresso machine. From there he could watch the barista go about grinding, tamping, and pulling shots while he conjured up clever phrases and verbs for his book. He got a good ten minutes of writing in before the interruptions started.
First the adoption agency needed him to resubmit schedules 1-B and 1-G, which he’d done twice already. Then, Tina (“I told you to get out of Minneapolis, didn’t I?”) wanted to know if he’d received her latest social media report, which he had but couldn’t decipher. And most recently Simon had reached out after having reviewed Jacob’s new chapter. He liked what he saw, but once again he suggested Jacob consider using a ghostwriter, as time was of the essence. “At least for the basic bits,” Simon emailed. Jacob misread that as “basic bitch,” and it wasn’t until he’d replied that he noticed what Simon had actually typed. “Sorry. Ignore that last email,” Jacob quickly sent off.
By the time Missy called, asking where he was, a full hour had passed and he’d made little progress.
“You’re here? At the hotel?” Jacob said as he gathered his notes.
“In the lobby. I thought you were going to be waiting,” Missy answered.
“I am. I was,” he corrected himself. “Be there in two minutes.”
As promised, after a two-minute sprint, he was at the inn, out of breath and sweating.
“I like this place,” Missy said, giving him a kiss and wiping his brow. The lobby had a Roaring Twenties vibe with a grand fireplace and etched columns of thick oak that dropped from a copper-tiled ceiling. “I bet they go all out during the holidays.”
“If we’re stuck here long enough, we’ll find out.”
Missy wrinkled her nose.
Jacob gave Quincy a hardy pat on the head. “He’s not wearing his eye patch?”
“I took it off. He looks like a freak. And he hates it.”
“But his eye’s ready to pop out.”
“It wasn’t so bad earlier. It’ll go down. He’s just stressed right now.”
“So you brought the patch?”
“It’s in my bag. Put it on him if you want. See if he lets you.”
“Maybe later. Look at this.” Jacob pulled out his phone and showed Missy a photo of a terrier wearing a bejeweled eye patch.
“Not in a million years,” she said, smirking. “But he wouldn’t look that out of place here. I saw a really weird dog earlier. It was all purple. Like the lady had dyed the poor thing for a Vikings game.”
“I saw it too. It was for Prince Fest. Hairless, right?”
Missy nodded. “Yeah, kinda nasty.”
Jacob gave a sneer, but not about the dog. He pointed at a Burger King bag on the couch behind Missy. “You didn’t, did you?”
“I did.”
“Bleh. Why?”
“They’re good for you,” Missy said.
“It’s trending again on Twitter, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“It is. I can see it in your eyes. Hashtag Impossible Burger.”
“So what? You bought cocaine so you could post about it.”
“I bought it to get a dealer arrested, not to post about it.”
“But you posted it. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Jacob had no intention of answering that. He grabbed Missy’s suitcase with an exaggerated flourish and headed to the elevator. Quincy, his leash tied to the suitcase, had no choice but to come along.
Missy snatched the paper bag from the couch and went after them. “And you weren’t thinking about posting anything when you were driving to Tijuana to meet the cartel?”
“No comment,” Jacob chirped as he stared up at the brass roman numerals displayed over the elevator doors.
“That’s what I thought.” Missy gently poked him in the ribs. “Quit being a little bitch about a soy burger.”
“Fine,” Jacob said, “but if it kills me, I don’t want you posting about my death.”
“What’re you talking about? I’d milk your death for all it’s worth.”
“Hmm. Can I at least ask that you don’t put my body in any compromising or suggestive positions post–burger death?”
“I’m not promising anything. Whatever’ll get the most likes.”
“Wow, Quincy. I die, and it’s a free-for-all.”
“Damn right.” Missy laughed. “To the victor go the spoils.”
According to the numerals, the elevator had only descended two floors. “Want to just take the stairs?” Jacob asked.
“I’m fine waiting.” Missy held up the fast-food bag. “You in a hurry to get to these?”
Jacob remained where he was. “I sent a couple forms to the adoption agency this morning. Wasn’t sure what address to put down.”
“The address they’ve already got,” Missy answered quickly. “It’s not like the mailbox burned. We can still get mail.”
“That’s what I ended up doing. Maybe we should get it forwarded, though.”
The elevator made it to the lobby and slowly opened its doors. The three of them stepped in. Missy scanned the ceiling as the elevator started up with a rumble. Jacob, having grown accustomed to the ancient mechanism’s grumblings, stared straight ahead, thinking about PO boxes.
When it seemed apparent that the elevator wasn’t going to fail and plunge them to their deaths, Missy said, “I gave Jenny the mailbox key. She can check it.”
“The fire was in the newspaper here. The lady who owns the café down the street said she read about it.”
“It wasn’t that big.”
“I’m still a little surprised all this has happened.”
“You pissed off the cartel. What’d you think would happen?”
Jacob shrugged. “Nothing?”
Missy snorted. When the elevator stopped with a sharp screech on the fourth floor, she said, “My God. What’s wrong with this thing?”
“Just old,” Jacob said, stepping out. “Right here. 403.” He fished out the keycard. Before unlocking the door, he paused and asked in all seriousness, “Should I really write this book?”
Missy looked at him. “Yes. The story needs to be told. Besides, it’s your account of what happened. You’re not ripping on them like Tina always does; you’re just stating the facts.”
“They kidnap and kill journalists for ‘stating the facts.’”
“Journalists in Mexico, not here. Anything happen to the reporter in San Diego who ran the story? Or the reporter in Minneapolis?”
“No.” The elevator let out another screech as it went back to the lobby.
“We’ll be okay. Just need to be careful. Did you figure out how to get a gun permit?”
“I can get a gun permit anytime; it’s the conceal-and-carry that’s harder. I have to take a class. But I’m actually having second thoughts about the gun. I was reading through the adoption papers again, and they specifically ask if the household has any firearms. That won’t look good.”
“Will it look better if you’re dead?” Missy asked.
Jacob was quiet.
Missy nodded at the room door. “Open it. I’ve got to pee.” When he did, she raced in. “It’s beautiful,” she exclaimed in reference to the view of the lake, not the room, which he’d left a total mess.
Jacob set her luggage near the bed and collected a bunch of notes scattered across the covers. Quincy tried jumping up, but he was still tied to the luggage and was yanked back, returning to the carpet with a meaty thump.
Missy emerged from the bathroom. “What was that bang?”
“Quincy.”
“Aww.” She untied the pug while eyeing the collection of empty beer bottles next to the TV on the dresser.
“Cheaper than drinking down at the bar,” Jacob offered.
“Looks like you had a party.”
“Only half a dozen there.”
“Leave me any, you lush?”
“Fresh out.”
Missy grabbed the Burger King bag she’d dropped on the floor. “Let’s eat on the balcony.” She swiped a couple of empty bottles as she passed. “No reason we can’t pretend we’re having beers for Instagram.”
Jacob stacked his notes on the nightstand. “Come on, Quincy. Let’s go try not to choke.”
~
Eleanor Linders, Ellie to her friends, was a seventy-year-old widow, although the label of “widow” didn’t strike her as appropriate any more. Such a word was for those recently placed in the position—someone deserving of gentle hugs and heartfelt sympathy. Ellie’s husband, Michael, had died decades ago, broadsided on Highway 53 by a snowplow during the Halloween Blizzard. Visibility hadn’t been more than a few feet that day, but Michael had gone through the intersection like it was high noon on the Fourth of July. Whammo! Salt and glass everywhere. By the time the emergency vehicles arrived, four inches of fluffy snow covered the mess. It almost appeared serene. The car, crumpled and twisted, could’ve been mistaken for a sleeping moose, tendrils of steam occasionally puffing from the engine block like great sighs of contentment.
That had been in 1991, a lifetime ago, and Ellie found it strange she still got called a “widow.” Granted, whenever most people uttered the noun these days, it was usually prefaced with the adjective “crazy,” so maybe it didn’t have much to do with Michael’s departure anymore.
Either way, it didn’t matter to her. If anyone were so bold as to discard their “Minnesota nice” and tell her straight up that she was a crazy widow, she’d likely admit it. She knew she was eccentric. If some people wanted to call that crazy, fine. She was who she was.
The casual observer might’ve said Michael’s death had made her that way, but that wasn’t entirely correct. Ellie always had her quirks. It was only after Michael had met the business end of a fully-loaded, ten-ton snowplow did she let loose. She painted her house the color of a fresh tangerine; she grew her hair out until it could wrap around her neck like a scarf (during the winter months); and she took up gardening, which wasn’t terribly abnormal since most Duluthians had small gardens of tomatoes and carrots in their backyards, but Ellie gardened in the company of a 1903 phonograph from which she blasted Prince albums. The dogs down the block particularly liked “Adore,” always howling along when Prince hit the high notes. Ellie had come to be the happiest she’d ever been even with all the cockeyed stares and whispers.
She’d raised two daughters. In 1991, Beth and Samantha had been ten and twelve, respectively. Samantha was now a veterinarian and lived in Atlanta with her husband and son. Beth was an accountant; she and her husband owned a house just outside the city with their two children (actually just the one now) and a golden Lab. Despite Ellie’s encouragement, neither daughter had developed much in terms of their own eccentricities.
If anything, they just gave Ellie more: Beth showed her French fries and a Wendy’s Frosty were a delicious combination; Samantha got her hooked on fedoras; both thought replacing the lawn with prairie grass and wildflowers would be wonderful; and most impactful of all, her girls introduced her to the magnificence of Prince. Ellie loved that androgynous musical genius. She and Prince were spiritual twins. She even renamed her dog, a miniature Xolo that had grown accustomed to responding to “Chandler” for eight years, to “Billy Jack” after the fifteenth track, “Billy Jack Bitch,” on Prince’s 1995 album, The Gold Experience. Ellie and her girls had even driven down to Minneapolis five times to see Prince perform.
When Prince died on April 20, 2016, from an accidental overdose of fentanyl, Ellie sat herself down in her garden and listened to his albums the entire afternoon. It’d been a Wednesday, a sunny but chilly day in Duluth, and by the time she went inside, her face was numb from the cold lake air and the crying. She and Beth had driven to Paisley Park, Prince’s estate in Chanhassen, the following weekend to pay their respects. (Samantha was living in Atlanta by then, so she couldn’t attend.) When they returned, Ellie cut her hair—buzzed it right off—in mourning. And she never let it grow out again.
Until now. She was going to let it grow again. This time it’d be to honor her granddaughter who’d just passed. Sarah, Beth’s daughter, had been nineteen. She was getting her bachelor’s at Lake Superior College. A vivacious, happy girl. Then she didn’t wake up one morning. Ellie was still in a daze.
At present, Ellie stood expressionless, staring at Billy Jack as he sniffed for a spot to take a pee. She and the dog had been wandering the shoreline for a couple of hours. Ellie was oblivious to the looks Billy Jack was getting. As a Xolo, he tended to attract a fair amount of curious glances anyway, but today he caught everyone’s attention, and Billy Jack snarled at them all.
Ellie knew he wasn’t happy. She’d dyed him a deep purple for Prince Fest, but the dye wasn’t coming off now. Apparently hair dye on a hairless dog was a risky proposition. His skin had soaked it up like an egg on Easter. It’d given him a magnificent glow for the festival, but it’d proven difficult to remove afterwards. It was possible it would’ve faded some with a few more baths, but when the news about Sarah came, Ellie didn’t care so much about the dye.
Ellie had seen her granddaughter at Prince Fest. Sarah had even stopped by the following morning to drop off Ellie’s meds (along with some sweets from the bakery where she worked). She hadn’t so much as a cough.
Sarah was healthy and smiling.
A chubby child in oversized basketball shorts pointed at Billy Jack.
“Is it okay if Erik pets your dog?” the boy’s mother asked, a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Ellie was slow to register the request. Sarah was just nineteen. How does that happen?
The boy wiggled from his mother and tottered toward the dog.
Billy Jack flipped out, yapping and snapping, hopping and bopping.
The boy’s jaw dropped. His eyes widened. Turning on his heels, he hightailed it out of there, pumping his legs as fast as he could.
“He won’t hurt you,” Ellie mumbled, still mostly lost in thought.
The boy shot past his mother and launched himself up onto a nearby tire swing, scurrying to the top as it swayed and spun.
Billy Jack wouldn’t have been able to get anywhere near the boy if Ellie had gripped the leash half as much as the boy was clutching the swing, but her reflexes were slow that day, and the leash slipped right through her fingers. Billy Jack, the hairless purple monster, jumped and snapped under the tire at the petrified boy.
“He won’t hurt you,” Ellie repeated. It came out sounding more like a sigh than anything reassuring.
“Won’t hurt him?” the boy’s mother cried, hurrying to her child’s aid. “Shoo. Get, get, get!”
Billy Jack continued to go about with his act, ignoring the woman, until Ellie strolled over. Then he darted from Ellie’s outstretched arms.
“Come on, you little fart.” She reached for the leash, and Billy Jack raced a little farther, the leash dragging through the grass.
The boy threw himself into his mother’s arms, crying.
As Ellie crept over to where Billy Jack sat, the woman went about chastising her. Ellie’s hip was flaring up. She and Billy Jack were going home after this. “Come here,” she said, reaching down.
Billy Jack sprang to his feet and sprinted down the walking path, vanishing around a bend. Ellie stood up and flapped her hand at the dog. She didn’t have the energy. Billy Jack had run off like this in the past. Someone would find him and bring him home. He had all the necessary ID tags.
She took to the path herself but went in the opposite direction, her hip creating a slight hiccup with every other step.
“I’m going to report you,” the mother called out.
Ellie didn’t look at the woman. She only flapped her hand again and continued on her way. She needed to get home and take her meds. That was another thing she had to think about: her meds. Sarah had brought her enough for a week, but without that sweet girl, Ellie wasn’t sure what she was going to do. Her doctor had stopped prescribing the painkillers months ago—Minnesota doctors were notoriously stingy with opioids, but Sarah had kept the OxyContin coming. She’d said the painkillers came from a Canadian pharmacy that didn’t require a prescription. Unfortunately Ellie couldn’t remember the name of the pharmacy, and the bags the pills came in had no labels (due to customs, according to Sarah). She’d have to search the Internet and see what popped up.
By the time Ellie reached her car, her hip was really giving her a fit. She had half a mind to take a double dose of the Oxy when she got home. She knew she wouldn’t, though. Not until she could find that Canadian pharmacy. In fact, her fear of running out was so great that not only did she not take a double, she didn’t even take a full. She cut the pill in half, then split the rest as well. She’d be in pain taking only half a dose, but it would buy her some time to search. Sarah had a knack for that online sleuthing, not her.
~
Bump had come to know the Sureños during a six-month stay at the Southern Desert Correctional Center in Las Vegas. The prison had been built during Frank Sinatra’s Golden Nugget days, but during Bump’s time there, the Chairman had long departed and Celine Dion was the town’s headliner.
It was actually outside of Caesars Palace, where Celine was performing, that Bump got arrested. He’d gone to Vegas to find the man who’d ratted out his brother, Devon—or that was what he told himself, because if the man hadn’t been at fault, then Bump’s own careless mouth had gotten Devon sent to prison—but after a week of carefully searching the blazing desert town, Bump had lost his patience and sanity, and by random, unfortunate chance, he’d passed a couple of drunk frat bros; heard something racist about his tattoos; and went off on the men. While Bump waited for the police under the statue of Venus, he washed the blood from his knuckles in the fountain’s water.
He got six months for that.
Southern Desert’s inmate population self-segregated, and as a member of the Almighty Vice Lords, Bump fell in line with the Bloods. Unfortunately for him, the Bloods were feuding hard with the Crips that spring, and fights were breaking out at all hours of the day with little or no warning, and that meant the Bloods really had no time to watch over him. When he heard the Aryan Brotherhood wanted his head—one of the frat bros apparently had an uncle high up in the gang—Bump had to go elsewhere to keep his throat from being cut for the second time in his life.
And that was when the Sureños came in. With five gangs running Southern Desert (the Bloods, Crips, Aryans, Mexican Mafia, and Sureños), his options were limited, and since the Mexican Mafia was loosely aligned with the Aryans, Bump really only had the Sureños to go to. As luck would have it, however, the Sureños had a particularly vicious beef with the Aryans that stretched back several years, so in the longstanding spirit that an enemy of your enemy is your friend, they took Bump in.
He could’ve (and probably should’ve) just kept his head down after that, but he was young and stupid and pissed at the Aryans for even thinking about coming after him. He also wanted to show the Sureños his appreciation for their protection, so one day Bump crossed the yard, grabbed an Aryan by the back of the neck where a crude “88” was tattooed, and smashed the man’s face into the basketball pole he’d been leaning against. His face split from eyebrow to chin. Bump let go, and the man crumpled to the concrete as three other Aryans rushed in. Bump covered himself, protecting his face above all else, until the correctional officers could quell the outburst.
For that, Bump spent the rest of his time at Southern Desert—four months—in confinement. Twenty-three hours a day in his cell and one hour a day in a ten-by-ten cage under the sun. Prisoners could turn suicidal in such conditions, but Bump managed. The Sureños kept the Aryans from trying anything, so Bump just relaxed, watching Court TV every day on the TV set outside his cell. While growing up, his mom had watched talk shows twenty-four hours a day, so there was a bit of familiarity to it. In fact, Court TV even gave him a few ideas for how to track down the narc who’d sent his brother to prison.
He never did get that guy, though. Even with all that time thinking and scheming, he got nothing. Bump was released; he went back to the Strip; and the man was gone, the trail as cold as the city was hot.
It still ate at him, which was why he kept things simple now. Too much thinking and plotting left a man just standing around holding his dick. And it didn’t really take much to kill someone. No matter how much Tiff wanted to romanticize and embellish what he did, it was usually just the pull of a trigger and a slow walk back the way you’d come.
As if Tiff could somehow sense he was thinking about murder, she asked, “When’re you going to do it?”
They’d arrived in Duluth and were sitting in the car, parked on Lake Avenue by the lift bridge. “Don’t know,” Bump said. Even if he did, he wouldn’t have shared it with her. She had no business knowing.
“Can we eat together later?”
“Probably.”
She grabbed his phone. “Turn on your GPS so I can see where you’ll be.”
“Shit, woman.” Bump snatched his phone from her hands. “I’ll text you when I’m ready.”
Tiff pursed her lips and glared at him. “You’d better.”
Bump reached over and opened her door. “Get out. I have to go.”
Tiff grabbed her things, slammed the door, and disappeared into the nearest store.
“Fucking hell.”
As Bump drove away, he passed a dumpster with some graffiti on its side. A coffee cup. Emmelia’s mark. It was a play on the martini glass the AVL used in Chicago. Her Duluth offshoot had been using the symbol since about the time she’d opened her café. If he kept his eyes open, he’d see more such tags throughout the city. He’d always suggested she use two interlocking D’s instead, but the cup was okay too.
Bump’s route took him by the inn where Jacob supposedly was staying. The building was all dark stone and tiny arched windows. A hoard of creeping vines covered the southwest side. Billowing high over the street was an American flag. The place looked as if it had once been a prison, something like the old Joliet Correctional Center in Illinois but in miniature.
Bump didn’t linger. No need to. He just kept rolling down the street, heading to the Coffee Princess.
He found Emmelia in the back half of the building, struggling to dump a bucket of unroasted coffee into the hopper above the machine.
“Thought you had people who did this,” he said when she finally got it.
“Out sick.” Emmelia set the empty bucket on some burlap sacks behind her, then checked the temperature gauge on the roaster before pulling the release door and sending the coffee falling into the drum. She slammed the door back with a clang, looked at him, and smiled.
She looked better than ever. It was unfortunate the way things had turned out for them. They’d been good together. Then she’d gone and killed that woman. She’d heard the Disciples were planning to come after him, but instead of killing the guy who wanted to kill him, she’d gone after his mother. Bump admired her initiative, but killing someone’s mother? Holy shit. She’d then tried to say he’d made her do it, but that was ridiculous. Coincidentally, that was around the time he’d also started getting sick of her—she was good-looking, but she just wasn’t as pretty as he was; their numbers didn’t match—so it was for the best she did what she did and gave him the excuse to ship her off.
“So what happened in Minneapolis?” she asked.
“Exactly. What happened?”
“You talk to Avispón?”
“No.”
Emmelia gave him a look of indignation. “Don’t give me that. I can see it in your eyes.” She pointed a chaff-covered finger. “You talked. What’s he saying?”
“I’m sure you can guess.”
“You should let me help you.”
Bump glanced around. “You make any money off this place?” Through the glass he counted six patrons: two students studying on stools at the front window, an old couple in the corner, and a man and his daughter waiting for their drinks at the counter.
“It pays for itself. Wouldn’t matter anyway,” she said, referring to the fact that it was just a front for the drug distribution operation.
Bump continued to eye the people in the café. “Was White in this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Everything look normal?”
“Like any other day.”
“Shit,” Bump groaned. A cop had walked into the café, but more concerning, the uniformed man was holding the door for Tiff.
Stepping in as if she’d expected the gesture, her giant purse hanging from her bent elbow, her sunglasses perched on her upturned nose, and a new sunhat atop her head, she judged the café.
Bump shifted to the back of the roastery, using the burlap sacks as cover.
“You’ve got some ego.” Emmelia pulled a sample of coffee from the roaster and checked its color. “The cops here wouldn’t even know your name…unless you do something stupid like shoot Jacob as he’s walking down the street.”
Bump remained in hiding. “What’s new with White?”
“Same as before.”
“And he’s still down at that inn?”
“He likes the place.”
Bump busied himself by inspecting the markings on the burlap sacks: Colombia, Burundi, Ethiopia.
“The cop left,” Emmelia finally told him.
He waited another minute before stepping out from behind the stacks. Tiff’s heavily made-upped face was at the viewing window, sunglasses off, peering in at the roastery.
“Jesus, how long does it take your people to make a goddamn drink?” Bump hissed.
Emmelia laughed. “Oh. Thought you were hiding from the cop. Who’s this? Your chica?” Emmelia waved for Tiff to come back.
“No, don’t,” Bump hollered.
Emmelia dumped the batch of coffee into the cooling tray and went to meet Tiff. “Hi. Aubrey?”
Bump groaned. Aubrey was the girl he’d cheated on Emmelia with, and she knew damn well this wasn’t her.
Tiff jerked her head back like she’d been slapped. “Tiff,” she corrected, then turned to Bump, her eyes alight with accusation. “Who’s Aubrey, B?”
“You don’t remember?” How could she not remember? He’d cheated on Aubrey with Tiff. And also Tiff had stabbed her. Granted, Aubrey had stabbed Tiff first, but an ice scraper was no knife, and Tiff, after taking the scratch, had delivered a bloodier bit of retribution.
Bump eyed Tiff’s bag as he tried to remember if the harpy blade was in there. He hoped she’d only brought the defective pistol he’d given her. He still wasn’t certain Tiff actually had it in her to shoot someone other than him, but he wasn’t risking it.
Emmelia helped clarify the situation. “Aubrey was the girl after me. I’m Emmelia.”
Tiff breathed through clenched teeth. “Oh. Visiting an old, old girlfriend, B?”
“Fiancée,” Emmelia corrected her.
A vein bulged across Tiff’s forehead just below the brim of the sunhat.
“It’s business,” Bump said. “I told you I was coming here for business.”
“Left out the part about it being with your ex, B.”
“What’s it matter?”
Tiff shoved a hand into her bag.
She’s going for the harpy!
But she only pulled out a punch card and flicked it at Bump. “You take that, then. I know I’m not fucking coming back here.” She turned and stormed off.
Bump and Emmelia watched Tiff grab her drink from the counter as she passed and kick open the front door. Two teenagers holding hands paused in surprise. Tiff said something to them, pointed into the café several times, waved a hand in the air, said something else, then threw her drink at the front window. The students studying on the stools jumped as the cup thumped an inch from their faces. Through the milky brown mess, Tiff could be seen stomping away. The hand-holding teenagers went into the café anyway.
Emmelia smiled. “She’s lovely.”
“You asked for it,” Bump muttered. “Just so you know, she stabbed Aubrey.”
“Did what I should’ve done.” Emmelia went back to the cooling tray and picked out some underdeveloped pale beans.
“What car does White drive?”
Emmelia crunched down a fully roasted bean, checking its quality. “Not sure. He walks over from Fitger’s.”
“You know what room he’s in?”
Emmelia shook her head. “You’ll have to figure that out yourself.”
“Call me when he’s here next.”
“You’re not fucking shooting him here.”
“We’ll see.”
“You shoot him anywhere that’s public and you’re not getting out of the city.”
“Uh-huh.” Bump pulled a thick envelope from his back pocket. “Your finder’s fee.”
“Avispón pay you already?”
“No. Just want us settled so I can get out of here when I’m done.”
“You’re confident.” She took the bundle of money.
“I’m good.”
Emmelia smirked. “Not lately.”
“Just call me when he’s here next,” Bump said before leaving.
