Bull Mountain(63)

“I need a real name, Pepé.”

Pepé just sat there, holding his head. Holly tapped the barrel of his gun on the table. “Think about little Carlos,” he said.

Pepé looked up. “His name is Wilcombe. Oscar Wilcombe.”

“Who’s he?”

“I don’t know the motherf*cker,” Pepé said. “He just a rich white dude that threw me a lot of business. He was always using my girls for parties. Entertaining other rich white dudes. The dude that cut up your girl was a VIP for Wilcombe.”

“Wilcombe.” Holly let the name roll around on his tongue. “Did Wilcombe make it right?”

“What you mean, man? I told you what happened. Call your boy off my nephew.”

“I mean, did he pay you for the damage?”

“I don’t remember, homes.”

“Yes, you do. Did he pay you or not?”

“Shit, man, yeah. Yeah. He paid me twenty-five bills.”

“Twenty-five hundred dollars to write it off? You let the john skate for twenty-five hundred bucks?”

“Yeah, man. It was business. That’s all. Now call your boy. Let my nephew go.”

“I’ll ask you one more time: What was the john’s name?”

“I told you, I don’t remember.”

“No, you didn’t. You said you didn’t know who he was. Now you’re saying you don’t remember. There’s a difference.”

“What the f*ck, man. It was a long time ago. Just make the call.”

“No. Not yet. Something still doesn’t add up. If this Wilcombe only paid you two and a half grand to walk away, then there’s more to the story. That kind of money would cover one of your bottom bitches, maybe, but not someone like this.” Holly tapped the barrel of the Glock on the photo of his mother. “This one would have cleared that much in a few weeks. She was an earner, fresh off the bus. You hadn’t even begun to spin her out when some * in a motel cuts into your profits and gets to walk away for under three grand? No way. Why did you let this Englishman off so cheap?”

“You and me got different ideas about cheap, white boy.”

Holly jabbed the gun barrel in Pepé’s eye, and the Mexican shrieked in pain. “I’m not in the mood for glib, Pepé. Now, again, why so cheap?”

Pepé wiped at the streak of blood coming from his eye.

“Okay,” Holly said, “allow me. I’m just spitballing here, so you feel free to jump in and correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m thinking maybe this guy in the motel was a bigger deal than you let on, maybe too big a fish for you to fry, and this English f*ck knew it, so he gave you whatever he wanted you to have, and you were happy to get it. Is that what happened?”

Pepé sat silent.

“This is your last chance to tell me everything, Pepé, or I’m going to smash that phone, and little Carlos—”

“Burroughs,” Pepé said.

Holly repeated it slowly. “Burroughs?”

“Yeah. Some baller from up in Georgia. I didn’t even know they had ballers in Georgia. Backwoods motherf*cker. He was too well protected for my boys to get involved, so I walked. Cut my losses.”

“And his name was Burroughs?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m f*cking sure, and that’s all I know.”

The two men sat across from each other in the breakfast nook for a long minute as Holly studied the bloodied gangster for any signs that he may have more to share. “I think I believe you, Pops,” Holly finally said. Pepé closed his eyes, lowered his head, and appeared to start praying.

Holly shook his head slowly from side to side and picked up the phone. He hit redial and held it to his ear. “Take the boy back to his mother,” he said, then ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket.

“Now do it,” Pepé said without opening his eyes. He didn’t have to ask again. Holly lifted the Glock and shot him once in the chest, and again in the neck.





CHAPTER





20




OSCAR WILCOMBE

JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA

2015

1.

The office was small, smaller than Agent Holly expected it to be. Motorcycle-enthusiast magazines and paraphernalia were scattered throughout the room. The furniture was nice but not too nice. The paintings on the wall were cheap lithographs of much pricier real-deals, and the coffee at the self-serve station by the door was no better than that at any quick-stop—worse, maybe. Holly set the coffee on the waiting room table and thumbed through a copy of Cycle World, pretending not to stare at the only thing worth looking at in the room, the raven-haired beauty behind the reception desk. He pegged her to be in her mid-thirties, closer to six than four, but not a sign of road wear on her face. Huge lips, painted the color of a shiny candy apple, pouted below a sharp nose and dark, almost navy-blue eyes. He had pictures of this one in the file he was putting together on Wilcombe, but to see her in person was breathtaking.

A bald tree trunk of a man decked out in denim from head to toe walked out of the office behind Bianca Wilcombe and whispered something in her ear. They smiled politely at each other, and the man left the office, giving Holly the stink-eye all the way out the door. Holly winked at him, taking in the details. Committing the man’s face to memory.