Bull Mountain(65)

“You are a smart one, ain’t you? But I guess you’d have to be, to keep this racket up as long as you have without ever bringing the heat down on you. But that’s all over now.”

“I assume there’s a deal to be made?”

“Look at you. You really are a thinker, aren’t you?”

“What do you want, Agent Holly?”

Holly’s smile vanished. He pulled his wallet from his pants and opened it. He took out a tattered photograph of a young woman hiding one side of her face and sitting in the grass with a dark-haired little boy. He briefly stared at the picture, then laid it down on the desk next to his badge and ID.

Wilcombe looked at the photograph. “What is that?” he asked.

“It’s a picture.”

Wilcombe winced. “I can see that. Am I supposed to know who’s in the picture?”

“You’re supposed to, but I’m sure you don’t. People like you take a shit on so many lives, it’s probably easier to forget them than to keep track.”

Wilcombe’s face hardened as if he’d just been slapped. He wasn’t used to being the one without leverage. He didn’t look at the picture again.

“You asked me what I want,” Holly said. “That’s what I want.” He tapped a finger on the photograph. “But I’ll never get to have it back because of you and those f*cking animals you work with in the Peach State.”

Wilcombe squinted again, then removed his glasses and put them on the desk. He waited for the rest.

“I want to know everything you know about the Burroughs family. I know a lot already, but I want to compare notes. I want to know every detail about your business with them. Times. Dates. Money. All of it. I want to know which brother you have the most direct contact with, Grizzly Adams or the crooked cop. I want you to spill your guts about every little dirty deal you’ve made with them over the past forty years, and I’m not leaving until I’ve heard it all.”

“Then what do you plan to do with the information?”

“Really, am I supposed to answer your questions? You got a set of balls on you.”

Wilcombe picked up the photograph and studied it closer. His face softened. “This is personal to you.”

“Yes, it is.”

“The boy in this photo is you, yes?”

“Ain’t I cute?”

“And this woman sitting with you. She is your mother?”

“She was. She’s dead now.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. I understand the bonds of family, Agent Holly.”

“Oh, yeah? Like the bond you got with your daughter out there?” Holly pointed a thumb toward the lobby. Wilcombe looked mildly surprised. “After everything else I told you, you’re surprised about me knowing something as common knowledge as that hot piece of ass outside being your daughter?”

“I would ask that you watch how you speak of my daughter, Agent Holly.”

“I would ask that you go f*ck yourself. You’re not in the position to ask me to do anything. Maybe I should go out there and tell your darling Bianca about how her daddy dearest is a gun-peddling scumbag. I bet she’d love to find out how you pimp women to your criminal butt buddies. I wonder what kind of family bond you’d have then. No, wait.” Holly paused and scratched his head. “Doesn’t she do all your bookkeeping, too? I wonder how she could not know something was fishy after all this time. Right? She must be in on it. I wonder how that fine ass will look in an orange jumpsuit.”

“She has nothing to do with any of this. Leave her out of it.”

“That’s up to you. Do what I tell you from here on out, and she’ll be none the wiser. She’ll get to go on thinking her daddy is a sweet old man who loves motorcycles, and you can just go die of old age somewhere, holding her hand. Which, for the record, is something my mother didn’t get to do.”

“I do not know her, your mother.”

“Not directly. You gave her as a gift to Gareth Burroughs on the night you met him. You called a lowlife wetback by the name of Pepé Ramirez, who, in turn, fed her to that hillbilly. He then proceeded to rape and beat her before mutilating her face.” Holly was standing now, but Wilcombe couldn’t meet his eyes. Righteous indignation had that effect.

“I . . . did not know.”

Simon felt the sting of that lie burn the entirety of his face but didn’t show it. He wasn’t ready to play that card yet. He let Wilcombe believe he was a fool. “And that’s the reason you’re still alive. Which is more than I can say for Pepé.”

“You do know that Gareth Burroughs died several years ago?” Wilcombe said.

“And good riddance to him. I wish it could have been my bullet that killed him, but sins of the father run deep. Family bonds, right? I want them all.”

“And if I tell you everything you want to know, what happens to me?”

“You get to go home and not to a federal prison. Retire. You’re done. You’re going to sever all ties to the Burroughs clan. Nothing goes in or out. No guns. No dope. No money. Not even a Christmas card. Then you can go play shuffleboard, for all I care.”

“And that’s it?” Wilcombe began to get a little color back in his clammy, pale skin.

“Well, there is one more thing.”