O’Donoghue pointed his way. “Mr. Harrison? Would you mind taking a turn in the chair of doom?”
Oh, fuck. Lucky’d been afraid he’d be called on sooner or later. Later got his vote. Much later. As in never. He took a moment to
mentally prepare before taking his place front and center.
O’Donoghue started off the interrogation. “What is your name?”
“Simon Harrison,” Lucky replied without hesitation.
“What’s your favorite beer?” someone asked.
“Coors Light.”
“What’s your favorite TV show?”
“
Cops,
” Lucky replied.
Cops
still came on, right? No way in hell would he admit to an addiction to the soap opera
South Bend Springs.
“Are you in a relationship?” Johnson asked.
“No,” Lucky replied, trying not to flick his gaze to Bo.
Bo took a turn at questioning next. “What’s your favorite food?”
“Broccoli,” Lucky lied. Green stuff.
Brrr.
When at last came time for him to step down, he carefully controlled his footsteps back to his seat. Torture. A tongue-lashing from Walter. Ten minutes
trapped in a car with Keith. He’d take any of those horrors over the ordeal he’d just endured. It’d been a long time since
his last interrogation. Except for his name, he’d lied to every question except the relationship thing, which he didn’t have an answer
to at this point. And his name boiled down to perspective.
The class chorused “Truth!” for each one.
Bo’s questioning gaze met Lucky’s during the relationship question. The corner of his mouth twitched.
Next came Bo’s turn. For a time, Lucky feared the woman wouldn’t ask again, leaving him to broach the relationship issue. In the end
she asked, and Lucky offered, “How do you like your steak?” to which Bo answered, “Extremely rare.”
Not a single class member detected a lie in Bo’s answers, though he’d never once told the truth. Lucky studied the man hard, feeling
let down when Bo offered a “No” about a relationship without fidgeting. Heaviness gathered in Lucky’s heart until he
witnessed the same reaction to the question about steak.
Lucky stopped Bo in the hallway after class. “How the hell did you pull that off in there?” He hiked a thumb toward the classroom door.
“You lied through your teeth.”
“Easy,” Bo replied, adding a sheepish grin. “Before we started I told myself that for the next ten minutes my name was Dennis
Michael Schollenberger, my cousin, and I did something similar with each of the other questions. It helped that the class asked the same things every time.
Gave me time to prepare.”
Lucky wasn’t going to ask about the relationship thing. He really wasn’t. Instead he tried, “What’s this about
liking your steaks rare?”
Bo snickered. “My exact words were ‘extremely rare’ as in ‘still on the cow’.”
They shared a moment of eye contact. As Lucky turned to leave, Bo called, “Simon?”
Lucky stopped in the middle of hallway.
“When asked about a relationship, I mentally added ‘with a woman’ to the end of the question.”
Bo winked and hurried down the corridor. Lucky remained in place, mouth hanging open. “Oh, he’s good, very good.”
***
O’Donoghue entered the room for the last class, his steps somewhat hesitant. Only six people remained besides the teacher and Walter,
who’d stopped by for a visit: Lucky, Bo, Johnson, a computer geek from SNB, Landry, earmarked for the DEA, and an Atlanta PD lieutenant who
reminded Lucky of a younger version of his landlady.
“And now the moment you’ve been waiting for,” O’Donoghue quipped, “for me to shut up, get the hell out of
here, and let you folks get back to work.
“I’m happy to say that you’ve all passed, and certificates have been forwarded to your regional bureaus for inclusion in your
personnel files. In a few days you’ll get an e-mail survey of the course, and I want you to be honest with your answers. While I’d love
nothing but glowing reports, flattery won’t help us improve the curriculum. Any final questions?”
A few students took the time to complement O’Donoghue or chitchat. Walter inclined his head to speak to Lucky. “I need to see you in my
office.”
While the others milled around munching a cake Walter had brought in, Lucky made his way to his boss’s office. Walter didn’t snag a
slice of confection to go. Oh shit. Walter passing up sweets? Not good.
“I’d hoped to put this off, but we simply can’t wait any longer,” he said the moment he’d closed his
office door.
Lucky took his usual chair in front of Walter’s desk. “What’s up?” Walter wasn’t one to rush anything.
“The case I mentioned, the bath salts? Art is already in place but can’t get close to our target. We need someone else in play as soon
as possible.”
“You’ve already said I’m grounded,” Lucky groused, “so what’s this got to do with
me?”
Walter considered Lucky for a moment, in a thoughtful way that creeped Lucky out and convinced him the boss read minds. “We’re working
in cooperation with the DEA, FDA, and the local authorities in six other states. We’ve been given jurisdiction in Georgia. And though fairly
local, this assignment could keep an agent on location six months or longer. I’m recommending Bo, if he meets the criteria.”
Six months. Bo gone for six months. And Lucky not sure where they stood right now.
“I do apologize,” Walter added. “Especially in light of the holidays. I’m afraid he’ll be leaving right
after Thanksgiving.”
Shit! Another Christmas alone. The whole Lucky dying thing kept them apart last year, and now an assignment would separate them. They couldn’t
fucking get a break.
“I’m sorry. Really I am.” Puppy dog eyes backed up Walter’s words. Not a good look for him.
Lucky bit off a “for what?” His hackles rose at Walter’s sympathy-laced regard. Oh, hell. A confession wouldn’t change a damn thing. If Walter had
something to say, he needed to come out and say it.
Heart heavy, Lucky plodded toward the door.
Chapter 8
“Here’s what we got.” O’Donoghue remained uncharacteristically quiet, allowing Walter to run the show. Now there
were two alpha males Lucky’d love to watch duke it out. For a moment, he wondered at O’Donoghue’s presence before remembering
the man’s newly formed ties to the SNB. DEA or not, he still bore watching.
The usual venue of Walter’s office wouldn’t work due to the number of people present. A conference room served instead. Landry (the
weasel) sat entirely too close to Bo, Keith (the asshole) occupied a seat in prime suck-up position to the boss, and O’Donoghue (the wild card)
occupied neutral territory midway down the rectangular table. Rounding out the group were Bo, Lucky, Walter, a few faces Lucky’d seen but
didn’t have names for, and Johnson. “Our informant is a suspect in our smuggling operation, working for us in exchange for a reduced
sentence.” In full professor mode, Walter asked, “What does that mean for us?”
“He’s a two-bit lowlife who can’t be trusted?” Keith offered with a narrow-eyed scowl at Lucky.
“He can help us get a man on the inside,” O’Donoghue countered.
“Right on both parts,” Walter replied, “though I wouldn’t put it past him to disappear if given the
opportunity.” While the rest of the group sat at the conference table, Walter marched back and forth in front of the windows. Lucky stared past
him at Stone Mountain. Not too long ago he’d stood in that very spot, holding Bo while making peace with a few inner demons. Seemed a lifetime
ago now.
He glanced down the table. The side of Bo’s mouth lifted into a half smile.
“According to him, a man arrived in Athens two years ago and took over leadership of a local motorcycle gang. He offered members jobs making
deliveries. Our guy turned him down. The man came back with force, flashing a lot of cash, and he gave in.”
“As if we haven’t heard that sob story before,” Keith cracked.
Lucky bit his tongue. The whole scenario brought to mind Victor Mangiardi’s methods of operation, except he’d thought bigger and
distributed pharmaceuticals, not illicit drugs. Victor wouldn’t have soiled either his hands or his reputation with something as low class as
bath salts. Back in his and Lucky’s day, Victor scoped out a new area and found a reputable drug distributor. Next, he moved in some contraband
to travel side by side with the legitimate supply. Against the owner’s wishes, if needed. If a bust occurred, Victor quietly bowed out, leaving
his unwitting and usually unwilling business partner to face the brunt of the trafficking charges alone. Many lives had been ruined before the Feds finally
tracked the narcotics to Victor’s door.
“Our lead suspect’s name is Mateo Reyes, and he’s president of a motorcycle gang known as the 441 Cruisers, so named for the
highway leading from I-85 to Athens.” Walter paused long enough to toss a picture onto the table. Lucky stared at the eight by ten glossy of the
back of a leather jacket, adorned with the patches that made up a gang’s distinctive “colors.” “441
Cruisers,” the letters “MC,” and “Athens, Georgia” surrounded a central image of a stylized
441
in
flames.
“He’s an illegal?” Keith asked.
“No. A naturalized citizen from Abilene, Texas. Arthur is living in Reyes’ apartment building. Unfortunately, Reyes resisted any
efforts for Art to get closer. Our informant met the man in a bar catering to motorcycle enthusiasts.”
Leave it to Walter to make a biker bar sound classy.
Walter stopped his pacing and turned to face the table. “Here’s what we’ve learned thus far. It’s believed that the
product originated in Mexico. Cargo arrives in retrofitted trucks from Texas, to be added to Reyes’ inventory.” He paused and grabbed
the back of a chair, leaning against the padded leather as he swept his gaze up and down the table. “Couriers deliver the product to buyers in
the Southeastern area. Most ride motorcycles and are between the ages of nineteen and fifty. Many have felony convictions. The informant is already laying
the groundwork, dropping comments about a friend who’s moving into the area, a drifter in his late twenties with a few petty crimes, nothing
major.”
“Is this a real person?” Lucky asked.
“Until about two weeks ago when he overdosed in a Dallas hotel room.”
Shit. Lucky’d played plenty of characters over the years, but he’d never impersonated the recently departed. Not that’d
he’d be allowed to impersonate this one.
“For this assignment, we need a male agent in his twenties.”
What the hell? Discrimination! Lucky could play the role of a twenty-something. A
seasoned
twenty-something, but a twenty-something nonetheless.
Give someone else the rookies to look after, I wanna see some action!
“Schollenberger?” O’Donoghue finally spoke up, eyeing Bo up and down.
“Thirty-two as of September, sir.”
O’Donoghue studied Bo some more. “Don’t look a day over twenty-four to me.” He perused the rest of the room,
squint-eyed scrutiny sliding right past Lucky.
Walter had the good graces to soften the slight. “Simon is still recovering from injuries, and I have other plans for him. We’ll let
him sit this one out.” Okay, two points to the guy for recognizing Lucky’s ability to portray twenty- ish. Walter lost the points by
nodding to Keith and adding, “And we need your expertise on surveillance.”
He resumed his pacing. “Now, experienced motorcycle riders, raise your hands. Bo, age limitation aside, this includes you.”
Hah! Lucky would still have been in the group if allowed to raise his hand in the first place. Bo’d raised a hand. Bo? Bo rode a bike?
He’d never mentioned riding during Lucky’s fantasies about buying a Harley. Yet he’d ridden to Lucky’s rescue last
spring on a four-wheeler he’d handled like he’d been grafted on. A man of hidden talents. Lucky liked. A lot.
Bo, Landry, and one other guy held their hands in the air. “Reyes runs a garage,” O’Donoghue said. “Any of you work on cars and bikes, by any chance?” Bo and Landry kept their hands up. Fuckwad Landry rode a bike. Probably one of those foreign crotch
rockets, not a real bike like the Harley Davidson of Lucky’s dreams.
“You can put your hands down, gentlemen. Mr. Schollenberger, I believe you’re the more experienced of the two of you, and you also
favor the real Cyrus Cooper.”
“Cy,” Bo replied, adding gravel to his normally soft tones. “I go by Cy.” Bo’s perfect posture melted. He
slouched down in his chair, turned away from the table, and stretched his long legs out before him. As O’Donoghue had done on several occasions,
with posture, a bored expression, and a hardness around the eyes, Bo morphed from a straight-laced, by-the-book pharmacist to a man with “Born to
Raise Hell” tattooed somewhere the general public didn’t get to see. “Based on what you taught us in class, Cy will be easier
for me to work with. I’ve… I’ve used the name before.”
Walter quirked a brow, but when Bo didn’t offer more, he merely smiled. “Cy, it is. We’ll meet in my office later for the
particulars. The rest of you, some of the product has made its way here to Atlanta, as Simon found out a few weeks ago. Jameson, if you want to take it
from here?”
O’Donoghue reached under the table and pulled out a cardboard box. He handed the carton to Johnson. “Take one and pass them on.
We’re dealing with a synthetic drug that’s no stranger to most of you, I’m sure. Methylenedioxypyrovalerone.”
Heh. Try saying that three times fast.
“Known on the streets primarily as bath salts
,
it’s also called ‘plant fertilizer’ and a host of other
misleading names. Until classified as a control one substance, it was sold commercially with names such as Vanilla Sky, Ivory Wave, and Bliss. Our guys are
bolder and apparently don’t feel the need to hide behind flowery advertising.”
Walter picked up the story. “These synthetic cathinones produce hallucinogenic effects, delusions, and paranoia, and have been cited in both
violent crimes and suicides. The particular product we’re dealing with comes in crystal powder form and is often sold in packets, as seen here.
This…” he held up a tiny cellophane square, scarcely larger than his thumb, “is accurately named, for it can corrupt
normally law-abiding citizens with one dose. For some, the substance produces a euphoric high. Others hallucinate. A young man stabbed his friend to death
after seeing him sprout horns and a tail. Up until a few months ago, this…” he shook the packet. “… was
obtainable legally in convenience stores and head shops. It’s popular as a club drug and is often sold illicitly in bars or at
concerts.”