Have Gun, Will Travel (The Bare Bones MC #5)(25)
Wolf became combative again, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an MMA fighter warming up. “Why don’t you just go soak your head in a salad bowl? I wouldn’t want you to miss your Doctor Who convention!”
Sax and Lytton must’ve gotten fed up simultaneously. Now Lytton took his front steps two at a time while Sax shoved Wolf Glaser up against the window of the VW, a forearm across his throat. “Boys, boys,” Lytton said, steering his business manager away from the huffy Prospect. “What’s this vital piece of information you discovered, Toby?”
Tobiah looked to one side. “Oh. Yeah.” He seemed embarrassed to be discovered so far off-track from his original mission, and he went around to the passenger side of his cage. “I managed to save this—and not with the help of any gung-ho *s steaming up my keyboard—before Facebook deleted it from the cloud.” He waved a notebook. “I can’t even recover data from Facebook once it’s deleted!”
Releasing Wolf Glaser, Sax went around the trunk side of the cage. Wolf, full of disgust, went to stand by June, who was smart enough not to stick her nose into club business. Tobiah waved the slim computer in the two men’sfaces.
“Now what you’re about to see will shock you,” the computer expert said dramatically.
“I doubt it,” both Sax and Lytton replied simultaneously.
Tobiah set his expression into a mask of patience. “But seriously. This won’t be pleasant.”
“I’m used to it,” said Sax.
“I’ve seen worse,” said Lytton.
Tobiah persisted. “But this involves one of your sweetbutts. A Flagstaff sweetbutt, anyway. You’d better steel yourself for this particularly gruesome—”
“Oh my God!” Wolf Glaser exploded off the portico, apparently unable to withstand Tobiah’s drama. “Tony Tormenta posted on Facebook again! I guess his ego just couldn’t handle being out of the limelight. Well, it is gruesome. I don’t know this particular sweetbutt, but Tormenta has slashed her so horribly she’s unrecognizable, and he’s tormenting us.” Wolf stopped to chuckle, maybe at the idea that Tormenta was tormenting them.
Sax spoke through a clenched jaw. “Which sweetbutt?” It was more a statement than a question. He was just inches from grabbing the front of Wolf Glaser’s cut and shaking the information out of him. “Which f*cking sweetbutt?” He turned to the hapless Tobiah Weingarten, who was now literally trembling in his Reebok X Marvel sneakers.
He didn’t need to say it twice to the computer analyst. Tobiah’s hands shook as he pressed the notebook’s screen to retrieve the page he’d saved before it had been vaporized for all eternity by the powers that be at Facebook. “It, ah, it shows how badly he slashed this poor woman’s face, and here you can see he’s bragging about it. I know it’s Tormenta because of his new screen name. Ah…” Tobiah’s voice trailed off as though uncertain he should even risk giving voice to this. “SoccerBallHead.” He was referring to the infamous soccer ball incident with Roman Serpico’s father. His goons had photographed Tormenta kicking it around gleefully, even wearing some soccer jersey. And Mr. Serpico had been an employee of Tormenta’s. Theoretically on the same side.
Wolf roared, “And because he slashed a Flagstaff sweetbutt…again. That’s another way we can tell it’s him. Not just some stupid screen name.”
Losing patience, Sax whipped the notebook from Tobiah’s clutches. He, too, could not make head nor tail of the mashed network of hamburger that had been made of this poor woman’s face. Had she lived? Handing the computer to Lytton, he murmured, “Have you received any communications about this?”
“Not a thing,” breathed Lytton, gazing at the image.
Standing on tiptoes, Tobiah pointed at the screen. “Well, you can tell who it is by looking at Tormenta’s bragging comment. He says right there, ‘This bitch Smoky is going to need more makeup before any guy will even look at her again.’ Untrue, actually. It sure looks to me like—”
“—like she’s dead.” Lytton finished Tobiah’s sentence for him.
Smoky. Tormenta referred to Brenda Ridings, the old-timer sweetbutt who chain-smoked like there was no tomorrow.
This time Sax did grab Wolf Glaser by the front of his cut. He rattled the jerk like a dog toy. “I’m going to ask you once more. Where the f*ck is Beatrix Hellman.”
Wolf’s fingers scrabbled at Sax’s fist. “She—she—”
That wasn’t good enough for the impatient Sax, and he lifted the Prospect so that now he really was dancing on his toes. “She what.”
Tobiah had come over to gape and guffaw. “Doesn’t feel so good now, does it, Mr. Probably Was In The Marching Band in High School?”
“I played the f*cking saxophone!” Wolf found time to spit at his rival, before going back to being choked by Sax.
Tobiah slapped his knee. “Hoo boy, I knew it!”
Wolf’s fear suddenly shifted to impatience, too. “She said she was going to get her nails done!”
Sax threw the idiotic jerk away. Wolf Glaser stumbled back into a bush, while Sax thought, stroking his chin. The nail salon. She was going to do some investigative work of her own, which was triply dangerous now that Tormenta appeared to know they were on his trail. Why else would he slash—and possibly kill—Brenda Ridings, further risking pissing off Leo Saxonberg and alienating his business? No, Tormenta was on to them. He might even know about the bounty on his head. Maybe Santiago Slayer had screwed up in some way and tipped their hand. That would figure.