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Chapter Sixteen

Sawyer

My first stop after talking to Fitz earlier in the day was Las Vegas PD’s substation in Spring Valley, which was closest to Tumbleweed’s Durango location. I needed to talk to Chet Crane to see when the cops were going to release the dispensary as a crime scene so we could get in there and clean it up because we were losing money every day. A good ol’ boy came to the front desk and slid open the glass. “Help ya?”

“I’m here to see Officer Crane. He’s expecting me.” The guy gave me the judgmental “up and down” before closing the glass and waddling away. How the fuck could a guy as out of shape as he appeared to be police anything? It was mean of me, but seriously?

Forever later—and just before I was about to leave—Crane came to the door and opened it. “Hey, Abbott. Come on back.”

I followed him, half wishing I’d worn my cut just to piss off the assholes staring at me as I followed Crane. I was pretty sure they all knew who I was, anyway. I sauntered through a bunch of desks, some empty, some occupied, holding my head high.

Crane led me to a small interrogation room—the sign outside said conference room, but fuck if we all didn’t know what it was used for.

“Something to drink, prez?” The sarcasm was thick in the cop’s tone.

“No thanks. Where are you boys in the investigation of who robbed our dispensary? Did you figure out who that body belonged to? I have the feeling it wasn’t Boyd Townsend.”

I had to tread carefully because they’d been damn serious about us not taking things into our own hands unless we wanted trouble with law enforcement for interfering with an ongoing investigation.

We weren’t choir boys, I’ll admit. There was no need to go looking for trouble, so we’d stayed away from their investigation into our robbery and Townsend’s death. All we’d done was go out to Townsend’s house to see his old lady was gone.

Crane pointed to a chair so I sat down, pulling my phone from my shirt pocket and turning on the recording app. “You don’t mind if I record this, do you Officer Crane? Sometimes things get misconstrued in conversation. Not that I think you’d put words in my mouth or anything.”

Not surprisingly, Crane did the same thing. “It’s 2:43 on the afternoon of November second. I’m here with Sawyer Abbott, president of the Steel Cowboys Motorcycle Club. I consent to having this conversation recorded by Mr. Abbott. Do you consent in return, Mr. Abbott?”

“I consent, too. What do you know?” I turned the signet ring on my index finger while I listened to him review the shit they had so far.

“We found footage from the vehicles you picked up on the rear security cameras and were able to identify them from the plates. The pickup truck with a bed cover belonged to Melvin McFall of Las Vegas, who reported the vehicle stolen the day before the robbery. Park rangers found it smoldering near the Scenic Byway in the desert. It was burned out, but there was no trace of your product anywhere inside. My guess is they had someone pick them up out there. They weren’t going to waste all that weed.

“The other vehicle was a Ford Explorer registered to Beulah Carrey, the wife of Luther Carrey who is incarcerated in—”

I cut him off. “Lute Carrey was the president of the Mojave Scorpions. He’s in Atwater, right? Most of the old-timers are relaxing in prisons out here for the shit they were involved in that got the ATF’s notice.

“I think the guys you should be looking for are the next generation of the Mojave Scorpions, though I know a few of them are doing time in Indian Springs for that little dust up at their clubhouse after they kidnapped me. Feel free to contact Officer Marco Pacetti of Henderson PD. He can fill you in on what happened. As a courtesy between police officers.”

Crane studied me for a minute before he spoke. “I’ll do that. We don’t know much more about the robbery than that. We went out to the Carrey residence in Goldfield, but the house appeared to have been abandoned. We’ve notified the Esmeralda County Sheriff’s Office that Mrs. Carrey is a person of interest in a robbery in Clark County. We’re waiting to hear back.” Crane lifted an eyebrow, though I had no idea what he thought I had to add.

“When will you release the dispensary so we can get inside, clean it up, and reopen? We’re losing money every day it’s closed, in addition to the cash the Scorpions stole from us.” I poked the metal table to emphasize my point.

Crane smirked. “Give me a minute, and I’ll get the paperwork. Our team got everything they could from the shop, but maybe you should question your ranks to see if anyone’s heard anything more. If you find out anything, I trust you’ll let me know.”

I chuckled. “You’ll be my first call.”

He stood and went out the door of the conference room , leaving me to wonder how long they’d have kept Tumbleweeds on lockdown if I hadn’t shown up.

Crane returned a few minutes later with a paper for me to sign. “All yours. If you have any questions or anything new comes to light, give us a call, please.”

Smirking, I stood. “Or maybe I’ll just mention it to Hobie Richards. You guys are tight, right?”

I picked up the copy of the paper he’d given me and headed out for my next appointment. In the back of my head, I knew we needed an attorney because I had a bad feeling about the minefield on the horizon if the Scorpions were involved. We were damn near legit, but this shit could set us back ten years.

I needed to get Mouse to find us a top-notch lawyer—or maybe I’d ask Fitz if he knew anyone in town. Better safe than sorry.

An hour later, I was waiting to meet with Regan Hill, the guy who owned Valley Cultivation Farm in Amargosa Valley where we bought a lot of our weed. The other part of our products came from a place outside a Native American reservation in northwestern Nevada.

There was a fancy gatehouse where I was supposed to meet with Regan, and the lady who reminded me of the receptionist at a dentist’s office had given me a bottle of ice-cold water while I waited.

Hill’s business compound could easily be mistaken for a supermax prison, and the guards around the place looked a lot like an Army special ops unit. Based on what happened to us, I was sure Hill had every reason for what could be construed as security overkill.

Hill came into the gatehouse with an armed guard following him. “Sawyer, my friend. What brings you out?” He came off as a nice guy, but I had the feeling that was a bunch of bullshit.

I stood and extended my hand. “Mr. Hill. I was hoping we could talk for a minute.”

“Step into my office.” He turned to the gorilla with him and nodded.

The guy approached me and stuck out his hands. “Arms up, please.”

I was frisked, the man feeling around the inside of my waistband and coming up with my .38. “You’ll get this back when you leave.”

I nodded and followed Hill into the office where he closed the door behind me. “Take a seat, Sawyer, and please, once again, call me Regan.”

He sat behind a big cherrywood desk that was placed in front of a large bookshelf holding a lot of fancy legal books about the laws governing cultivating and marketing cannabis. I chuckled—I had some of those same books at the Tumbleweeds’ office. I’d had to learn all that shit before we got our dispensary license.

“That’s a lot of books about growing pot.” I was being a smartass.

Regan turned around and laughed. “I’m a lawyer. I know the laws backward and forward. Those books are in case I need to educate someone else.” Short. To the point.

“Our dispensary was robbed last week. It was like a smash-and-grab. Wiped me out and tore up the place. I got the cops to release it as a crime scene so we can get inside and clean it up. I’ve got new cases on order to be delivered on Monday. I was wondering if you could bring our regular order on Tuesday. I also hoped you’d let me pay you half now and half on Tuesday.”

With all the money going out, we were a little short, but I was planning to call my father and see if I could get a loan for a couple of weeks. Dad and Mom didn’t spend money on anything, and Harry had left a nice nest egg to take care of my grandmother, so I was sure Dad would let me borrow the shortfall.

I’d pay him back after the fight, which wasn’t until the Saturday night before Thanksgiving. After we talked to TJ, I’d know which way to bet, depending on what TJ had agreed to.

Regan leaned forward with his forearms on the desk. “Sawyer, you’ve been a good customer since we started doing business. Unfortunately, I don’t know you well enough to trust you with a financial transaction of this type. If you want the delivery on Tuesday, you’ll need to bring the whole payment here on Monday. Maybe if you and I were exclusively doing business, I could make an exception, but since you’re also doing business with Clarence Speck in Middlegate, I’m afraid we don’t have the level of trust I’m comfortable with.”

Regan sat back in his fancy desk chair and crossed his arms over his chest, staring at me with a cocked eyebrow. Obviously, the man was pissed because I’d sourced weed from a competitor. This—I know how to deal with this.

“So, if I stop doing business with Clarence Speck and give all my business to you, you’ll give me a better… what?”

Regan sat forward and opened the folder he had in front of him. “Okay, Sawyer. How much weight do you buy from Speck?”

“I get the same from him that I get from you. Speck carries more varieties than you, but I gotta pay for delivery from Middlegate. What kind of deal will you give me?”

We discussed strains, price per ounce, and the discount he’d give us if we became exclusive. We argued and did the math until we finally settled on a price, after he gave me free delivery and a “friends and family” discount.

“Do we have a deal?”

Under any other circumstance, I would need to take it to the club for a vote since the price was more than what we paid Speck per ounce, but with the deal we’d struck that would give the club a healthy profit of twenty-five percent over wholesale, I made the executive decision to accept his offer.

“I’ll bring the money by on Monday. You’ll deliver the product on Tuesday?” If we didn’t have the product, we’d lose the business. It was as simple as that.

We shook hands, and Regan opened the top drawer and handed me a glass vial with a hefty blunt inside. “Show of good faith, Sawyer. I’ll see you on Monday.”

I nodded, took the blunt, and headed out. I needed to talk to the guys and scrape together the money I’d need for the bet if I heard good things from TJ. If not, I’d have to sell my baby, my Harley, and I’d have to figure out where else to get the rest of the money to pay for the delivery. This was our one shot.

Prez, there’s a hot guy here to see you. Says his name is Fitz. He showed up alone. What should I tell him? Arlo

Shit! I was running late because I’d taken a ride on my bike to clear my head before I got ready for my date. I’d stopped at a used car lot under the pretense of wanting to take the car for a test-drive, and I took it out to get a look at the Scorpion’s clubhouse.

It wasn’t hard to remember where it was because those motherfuckers had held me there for almost twenty-four hours, beating the fuck out of me. I’d never forget that as long as I drew breath.

They’d lied to the cartel and said the Cowboys had stolen their product when it was the Scorpions themselves. How any of them were still alive was a fucking mystery to me.

I sent Arlo a response when I got out of the shower.

Thanks, Arlo. Can you give him a beer and a snack. I’ll be about fifteen minutes. IOU.

I trimmed my beard and towel dried my hair before I twisted it into a bun on top of my head to dry. Since we were going to the house on East Adkisson before dinner, I didn’t want to be too dressed up, but I didn’t want to look like a scrub.

I went into my closet and shuffled through the clothes I had. Most of my jeans were worn and comfortable, but not exactly date-worthy. My riding leathers would give off the impression I was down to fuck—which I was—but not if the man wasn’t ready yet.

I found a pair of fancy designer jeans that my mother had told me I had to have if I was going to find the right woman. She wasn’t homophobic, and she wasn’t in denial that I was bisexual. She’d done my astrological chart and consulted with a psychic friend who told her I’d marry and would father children.

In Celine Abbott’s mind, that meant I’d marry a woman and give her grandchildren. “Fuck it.” I pulled the jeans off the hanger and pulled them on before finding a rust-colored shirt that I’d had since last Thanksgiving when I went to my parents’ place for a long weekend.

“Fuck it.” Yeah, I was repeating myself, but I was nervous.

I dressed, pulled on a pair of cowboy boots I’d wiped off earlier, and grabbed my leather jacket before heading up to The Roundup. When I opened the door, Gilly sat at the table with Fitz, the two of them talking about something on The Strip.

“You should go. It’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. There are polar bears dressed like Santa’s guards and massive reindeer in full holiday regalia.”

Gilly flipped his phone around and showed Fitz a picture, which made the man’s smile take my breath.

“Fitz, I’m sorry I’m late.” I stepped over to the table and squeezed his shoulder before I sat down next to him.

Gilly hopped up. “Can I get you something, prez?”

I glanced at the clock over the door leading to the restrooms to see it was nearly four thirty. Cowpokes opened at five, and if I wanted to talk to TJ, I needed to get there before he had a client.

“No, Gilly, but thank you.” I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and grabbed some cash, handing it to Gilly.

“Sure, prez. Thank you.” I nodded and pulled out Fitz’s chair, leading him toward the door as T-Roy, Hobie, and Spider came in.

“Guys. Hey. This is a friend of mine, Fitz Morgan. Fitz, this is Troy, Hobie, and Spider. They’re brothers of mine in the club.” My voice sounded unsure, sending heat up my neck.

“Fitz, good to meet you.” Hobie stuck out his hand, which Fitz shook.

T-Roy and Spider nodded, too, and Fitz grinned. “Nice to meet y’all.”

“Okay, uh, we need to go. We’re headed to East Adkisson to talk to TJ. Find Ricky and get him to come here on Sunday. I need to talk to him. I’ll be here at eight.”

I gave them a look that meant business, and then I escorted Fitz out. “Uh, let’s take mine,” he suggested, which made sense.

He was a good fifty miles from his house, so we could go to Cowpokes to talk to TJ, and he could drop me at the clubhouse to get my truck before we went to dinner at a barbecue place in the Red Rock Casino, which was closer to his place than mine. I didn’t want him to have to drive me back to the clubhouse, unless…

I planned to ask him to spend the night with me, but my gut told me he might say no. If he didn’t, then I was the luckiest motherfucker in the world.