The center of the room was dominated by a bar. The left had mirrors running along it with a few high-tops. The right was the same, but the tables were smaller and low, plus half the mirrors were cracked. A glitching, half-dead jukebox played classic rock in the back corner, and men sat belly-up at the bar, probably there since the early morning. I thought of them as fixtures, like light switches—a part of the scenery, but invisible.

The guy I was looking for lingered at the far end of the room. He had a pitcher of beer on the table in front of him, a half-empty glass next to that, and a laptop open. He was young, dark hair, flat-brimmed Eagles hat, gray hoodie, black jeans. When I approached his table, he looked up, ready to tell me to fuck off—but caught himself and grinned.

“What up, Ren?”

“Hey, Joey.” I sat down across from him. He pulled his laptop lid half closed but I knew he couldn’t bring himself to disconnect entirely.

Joey Malone was a local guy, another fixture, but an interesting one. He used to sell drugs back in the day, and he made a lot doing it, but he got seriously rich selling Bitcoin during the bubble. Now he worked as a day trader, buying and selling stock and all that shit, and last I heard he’d burned through half his Bitcoin fortune already.

“What can I do for you, man? Haven’t seen you around here in a while.”

I shrugged. “Got a job.”

“Yeah? Got a good one?” He snorted. “Jobs are overrated.”

“Says the rich guy that won the lottery.”

He grinned and tapped his head. “Smarts, man, that’s all you need.”

I resisted the urge to tell him to fuck himself. “I wanted to ask you some stuff.”

“If it’s about trading, hit me.”

“It’s not about trading.”

He looked disappointed. “Don’t know how I can help then.”

“I’m working for the Leone family right now.”

He made a face and leaned back. “I thought you didn’t get involved in all that—” He waved his hands in the air, “—big shit.”

“Normally I don’t, but the terms were good. I’m just a bodyguard to some girl.”

“Some girl, huh?”

“I need to know about the Dusters.”

“Don’t know how I can help.”

“Come on, Joey. I know you’ve been in the game ever since you hit it big.”

He looked around like someone might be listening, and I flashed back to that moment with Vincent on the couch when he admitted that he thought his house was bugged—and that he was sick.

“Don’t know what you mean.”

I leaned closer to him. “Joey,” I said. “Come on. I need to know how this little war’s going. I’ve been locked up on the inside and they don’t tell me shit.”

He relaxed a bit. “War’s been intense, I’ll tell you that.”

“How intense?”

“These Dusters, man. I thought they were some joke, you know? But the motherfuckers keep getting the drop on the Leone thugs and they’re all, like, blat blat blat. You know what I mean? Killing all those motherfuckers. It’s wild, man, never seen so much blood on these streets before.”

“The Leones are losing?”

“Probably? Hard to say. You know how big they are, though. They can lose a few guys and still keep going.”

“Are they hitting the Dusters back?”

“Sometimes, man, but I haven’t heard too much about that. I guess the Dusters are smart and move around a lot or some shit? They’re a motorcycle gang, right, so they ride around and change their spots.”

“Sounds like a problem for the Leones then.”

“Yeah, man.” He leaned toward me, his eyes excited, and I could tell he was warming to the situation. “Word is Vincent Leone’s getting soft, right? I hear he’s got cancer or some shit, so all these little gangs, they’re thinking, maybe now’s the time to do something, you know? Maybe now they can make a move and grab some of that territory the Leone family’s been taking from them for years. It’s like a fucking free-for-all out there.”

I nodded slowly. “What you’re saying is the family’s fucked?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged, leaned back. “Maybe not. Don’t know, man, don’t know.”

“Tell you what.” I pushed my chair back and stood. “Keep your ear to the ground for me. You find me something good, and I’ll pay for it.”

He frowned. “You’re trying to get me to inform for you?”

“I’m trying to get you to listen for me. I’m not a fucking cop, Joey. I’m trying to decide when to cut and run.”

“What about your girl?”

“The girl comes with me.” I nodded at him. “You listen and you tell me when shit gets bad. You know my email.”

“I got you, man.” He hesitated, opening his laptop up. “Uh, how much we talking here?”

“Depends on what you get me. So it better be good.”

“Yeah, man, right. I’ll see what I can do.”

Tags: B.B. Hamel Erotic
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